Monday Musings.

Typing with an ice pack balanced on my hand reminded me of charm school.  No kidding -- I really went to charm school.  Back in the day, I was a bonafide tomboy - rough and tumble, wouldn't wear a dress (see how much I've changed...?), had permanently dirty elbows and knees; I was heading hellbent to feral.  My mother, bless her soul, was afraid for my future prospects and decided to take matters in hand.

Every weekend, I would shuffle into class with the other assorted "problem" girls and spend hours learning how to walk, stand, sit, get into and out of a car, pour tea, make polite conversation, turn gracefully - you name it, we were put through it.  We learned how to deal with a vast assortment of spoons, forks, knives, plates, and glasses.  I was quite taken with the wine glasses and was greatly disappointed when we were served water.  Even at 12, I had gourmand sensibilities.  (Right.)  And, even though I griped and moaned and carried on something awful every weekend, I had to go.  After a while, my competitive nature took over and I ended up graduating at the top of my class.  Really, honest-to-gawd.  Even now, many (many) years later, faced with six forks to my left, I can handle them.  Fish fork?  No problem.  Cheese knife?  Let me at it.  I can pivot, with a book on my head, and sit gracefully in a chair.  Of course, there's not much call for that particular ability, and it's a little harder getting out of a chair these days. 

Seriously, those forced Saturdays of "yes, ma'ams" and "no ma'ams" did serve me well in adulthood.  I was able to carry on an intelligent conversation with the Chinese emissaries from a large trade group; I won over a formidable, anti-American French restaurant owner with good manners, a smattering of bad French and a sense of humor; I danced with a Governor at a Governor's ball.  Hooo, baby.  There was no stopping me.  But, at heart, I am still more feral than not.  It's sort of like covering a fox in fondant.  Or something like that.

I think we should send everyone in the world to charm school.  Maybe, if everyone learned good manners, we could get along better.  There seems to be a complete dearth of manners in anyone under the age of 20 now.  But there is hope!  More and more families (most especially my favorite families - youse guys) are teaching their children kindness and civility - they are being raised on love.  That's what the world needs.  A whole lotta love.

It's been an interesting week, so far...

I dart about in the mornings, weeding here and there - mostly the little, easy-to-reach stuff.  Then I scramble and get ready for work.  So, Monday morning I arrive at work with a terrifically itchy hand.  Looks like something bit me.  I think nothing of it.  Until the top of my hand swells up, cartoon-like.  Hmmm.  I do what I always do under these circumstances.  I ignore it.  By the afternoon, I have tied a little bag of ice on it, which makes typing interesting.  It actually reminded me of having to walk with a book on my head - it makes your wrists all nice and straight.  This morning, it was still swollen and itchy, so, apparently, ignoring it didn't make it go away.  (That is SUCH a surprise!)  I briefly thought of going to the nearest Urgent Care facility after my mammogram and bone density scan (it was such a delightful morning...) but I really can't take too much medical attention.  So I stopped at the drug store and picked up some Benadryl.  I've spent most of the day trying to stay awake and the swelling is ever so slightly less.  i am taking that as a good sign.

I've been canning blueberries morning and evenings.  I am finally done, with 16 pints all nice and lined up and labeled, for a change.  I had the last batch in the canner at 9P last night and when I took the lid off, one of the jars had broken and there was blueberry juice and blueberry blobs floating all over the place.  I hate it when that happens!  I fished out the good jars, slapped the lid on the pot and left it for morning.  In all my years of canning, I think that has happened twice.  When I dumped it out, the bottom of the jar had come off in one neat piece.  Amazing.

I would say that I just can't wait to see what the rest of the week has in store, but I would probably jinx myself.  Damn!  Just did!

I think I need adult supervision.

It seems as if the only thing I can count on, is the fact that I can't count on things to go as planned.  Flexibility is becoming my middle name.  As you have all heard (ad nauseum), a lot gets packed into my two "free" days a week.  This past weekend was no different - Saturday (as originally planned):  All laundry washed, hung out to dry; fast trip to feed mill to stock up 'cause prices are going through the roof; trip down to pick up the Guinea keets I finally located; oh-right, finish cleaning out the small coop for same; the regular chores; neighbor for dinner.

My partial list  (look familiar, Sylvie?)

Saturday (as actually occurred):  came home Friday evening to find Scrappy listless and limping slightly.  Saturday - called vet at 6A to plead for appointment.  Took Scrappy to vet to discover he had Lyme's Disease - now I am adding medication twice a day for 30 days to our schedule.  I did get the feed and I did do my regular chores.  And I did have my neighbor over for dinner.  And the only reason I did get all the laundry done, was that I woke up at 2:30A Saturday morning and couldn't go back to sleep.

Scrappy - giving us his 'pathetic' look.

Here is where the adult supervision comes in.

So, that left Sunday.  The plan?  Go north to the blueberry farm for my annual picking day, leaving the house early - to miss both the heat, the traffic and the crowds; visit parents; get gas (in Vermont, where it's over 15 cents a gallon cheaper); clean the house; process the blueberries; iron for the week.  Have all this done by 4:30P, so I could sit down with a glass of wine and watch my Netflix movie.

The reality:  I do not want to get out of bed at 4:30A, when dogs woke me; I poke around doing everything but getting ready for the day; go out to find that everything living needed water; water same; chores; load eggs for farmers market and cooler for blueberries (and my homegrown veggies for Mom) in car; realize I have to move 150# of feed out of car and into various bins; dose Scrappy and give them both guilt chewies; leave house almost an hour later than planned.  By the time I had dropped off the eggs and driven up to the blueberry farm (usually an hour's drive, when one is NOT behind every octogenarian for six states - all going where you're going, or so it seems), it was hot and there was a crowd.  Blech.  I usually - make that always - go picking with someone else.  Normally, that is Melanie, her daughter, and Marianne.  I couldn't go with Melanie and her daughter last weekend, and Marianne is up to her lovely elbows in family stuff, so that left moi.  I planned to pick my usual 10# of berries in an hour.

Two+ hours later, in the hot sun, I had picked 22# of blueberries.  There is something about meandering around in the rows of blueberries, listening to the birds and the annoying-but-necessary birds of prey recordings, that can just make you lose track of time.  Plus, it was a fascinating chance to look into human behavior.  This is also known as practicing nosey-ness.  Lots of families out picking blueberries - with a few, it was a bonafide fun outing for the whole family.  For most, the 'fun' lasted about 5 minutes and then the full-blown whining started.  And that was just the adults (kidding!)  At one point, I kept hearing a fellow yakking away, but I didn't hear his companion's response.  So I sidled down a few rows and -- yep -- there he was on his cell phone.  I looked at him in disbelief and said, loudly, "Oh, fercryinoutloud!  Is there no place on this planet that is sacred?!"  He gave me a frightened look and moved a half-acre down.  Fine with me.  Harumph.

Needless to say, by the time I dragged my soggy, overheated self back to my car and dragged my two large buckets up for weighing, visited with my parents (briefly) - my mother almost literally ran to get me a glass of iced tea - and went home, you better believe not much else happened.  No house cleaning was done.  No ironing was done.  No dinner was cooked.  No movie was viewed.  I did manage to foist off about a half-pound of berries on my mother and another 5# to Kay.  This morning, when I opened the fridge, there it sat.  A large, broken, blue plastic bucket, filled to the brim with blueberries.  Staring balefully at me.  Is there a support group for over-pickers?

Monday Musings.

My name is Susan.  And I am a NonGlutetarian. 

I was flummoxed while reading a magazine article wherein the featured reality show panelist declared herself a Pescatarian.  This, I learned upon further reading, is a person who eats plants, dairy, eggs, and fish.  Goodgollymissmolly.  What would we do without labels?  Can we just have a limited diet? Ooooh, nooooooooooo.  We must label it.  Vegetarian.  Vegan.  Omnivore. Herbivore. Localvore.  Dinosaur.  Now Pescatarian??  Of course, this ludicrous thought got me going on how 'they' label fish.  What would you rather eat (especially if you are a sensitive, caring Pescatarian)?  Mozambique Mouth-brooder or Tilapia (which, by the way, is considered an exotic pest in Queensland)?  Antarctic Cod or Patagonian Toothfish?  Whilst rummaging through the frozen seafood section of a local food emporium, I was amazed at all of the 'new' fish available.  It is taking me three times as long, by the way, to do any shopping for seafood (not that I do much - as I am a Borderline Pescatarian) between farm raised, wild caught, endangered species, illegal fishing methods, country of origin with horrendous human rights violations, or some hideous Asian eating (sex aid) craze.  Maybe I should become a Insectatarian.  Heaven only knows, they are gluten-free and I could free range on my garden right now and not have to touch the plant life other than foraging for my creepy-crawly dinner.  Eating is becoming so trendy, it's making me all prickly.  Or maybe that's the humidity.  It's like being in line for a cup of coffee and the guy in front of me, pressed khaki pants pulled up to his armpits, roguish hair cut - tousled just so - raps off his coffee order and it takes over five minutes to get it out.  I swear, I would have liked to have given him a wedgie.  It MUST be the humidity.

Crankypants aside, I am getting better at accepting 'veggies'.  Even if I do still have to say it through slightly-clenched teeth.  I will always have trouble with 'baby' vegetables.  Baby carrots are, most of the time, large carrots that have been cut, ground, trimmed and rounded to appear baby-like.  We used to call them carrot sticks.  That's what we got in our lunches.  In grade school, my lunch was legendary. It consisted of at least four components, all neatly wrapped in waxed paper, always including carrot sticks, placed in a brown paper bag with my name on it.  While most mothers were over the moon with HoHos, Twinkies, and a host of other prepackaged, imitation foods pumped full of processed ingredients, my mother baked her own cookies, baked her own bread, and packed a very balanced lunch.  If I ended up with a meatloaf sandwich, I could trade that baby for a Cadillac, had I been old enough to drive in third grade.  And, I'm sorry to report, I was only too happy to hand over half of my homemade brownie for half of a Twinkie.  Just tell a kid she can't have something, and that's all she wants.  Sigh.  I wish that kid would go away.  She's been hanging around for ages and I can't seem to lose her.

Phrenetic Phriday Phrasings.

I have no idea what that means - it was just fun say three times phast!  We will wrap up our week with Phrenetic Phriday Phrasings (you can tell I've been hanging out with medical types = "we"):

After trapping over 22 rats and being the cause of many more rat deaths (Lord, I hope), I was appalled to hear that my neighbor, Lithuanian Lawn Guy, is now trapping them!  I doubt if they are "mine", as we are about a mile apart, with a major road between us.  He believes it is the Year of the Rat.  I know it is the Year of the Dragon - so we can count our blessings, because I would bet Dragons are a lot tougher to trap.

This weather stinks.  I know I am singing to the chorus here, but it can't be said enough.  Stinks!  Stinks!  Stinks!  Speaking of stinks, and referencing the afore-mentioned rodent problem, there is something decomposing under my deck.  And I don't care.  It's not like I have a social life and people come over and sit on my deck in the evening drinking cocktails.  (sniffle)

My daily commute is getting worse by the week.  Every bridge/road/over/underpass is under construction.  What type of sadist decides to take four lanes of highway down to one in less than a half-mile?

I am cheering on my zucchini plants - someone remind me I did this in a week or two.  I was thinking about running garden totals on my side bar like some of you 'real' gardeners, but what a ludicrous thought!  How about I run a Trapped Rat Tally and Dunked Japanese Beetle Totals?  I bet I could outstrip even Erin!  Do you know that - many, many years ago - upon seeing my first Japanese beetle, I thought it was a thing of beauty?  Ignorance is bliss.

I made it through my annual physical unscathed - except for a blistering headache on my way home last night.  I think it was a combination of:  14 hour fast + no coffee + too little sleep + too little food + stress.  Do you think so?  I forced the goaties into early lock-up and went to bed before 9P.  It was easier than usual because I had the nurse-practitioner, Alan.  I can boss him around and say I don't want an EKG and get away with it.  I can also make him laugh.  Not so, with Dr.B; she's one tough cookie.

As if donating precious chicken feed to rats, crows, sparrows, starlings, and chipmunks isn't bad enough, I now have a red squirrel that apparently spends the day hanging from his toes, head in the feed, gorging himself.  I've caught the little bugger at it twice.  Next time, I'm bringing Scrappy.  He has a 'thing' for squirrels.

I'm going to stock up as much as possible on feed - the drought and loss of corn crops is going to hit us hard and soon.  I'm also going to go pick my annual 10# of blueberries early Sunday morning.  This year, I'm going to can the leftovers instead of freezing them.  I have GOT to focus more on stores that won't be lost due to power outages.

I was going to give you my list of "to-dos" but it is laughable.  I prefer to steep myself in denial and think I will get them all done.  So there.

Have a great weekend - and rain to all who need it!

Two heads are better than one.

Especially when one is a frizzy-frazzled head.  Last Saturday, on a day around 90+ degrees with about 99 percent humidity, I was doing some blitzkrieg weeding - five minutes of frantic weeding, followed by 20 minutes of cooling off inside - when I had the feeling I was being watched.  Closely watched.  I turned my head and there was...Chickie.  Apparently, since I was weeding the bean plants, he thought he should help.  Sage was a safe distance behind him.  She's still leery of me.  At least I've learned not to go into a total panic when they're loose.  I just slowly stood up and pulled the ever-present bag of goat treats out of my pocket.  Just that faint rustle of zip-locked plastic is enough to get their full attention.  We slowly walked back to their area and I put them back inside and re-bungeed the gate.  I went back to finish weeding the beans and....there's Chickie and his shy sidekick, right back by my side.  We went through the routine again and I checked the fence more closely.  Dagnabbit (not what I said, exactly...)!  Chickie had pushed, rubbed, pushed and rubbed some more until he had forced the fencing to release from its welds and had pushed a big hole through it!  May I state the obvious?  Goats are not easy.

Back they went, and this time I locked them in their barn.  And turned a deaf ear to the protests.  The barn is cooler than the outside, has plenty of ventilation, food and water.  They just take issue with not being in the center of the action (or BEING the center of the action).  I left them there for the night, as I was not up to fence repair in that oppressive atmosphere.

The next morning, bright and early and before the worst of the humidity, I dragged out every bit of my fencing supplies and created a major fence sandwich.  I wired chicken wire on the inside, then put heavy sheep/goat fencing on the outside and fastened the lot together.  But would it hold?  As I whined on the phone to my friend/neighbor, Kay, she said, "Why don't you just zip-tie some PVC pipe on the outside of the fence so they can't stretch it?"  Oh.  What a brilliant idea!  So that is what I did.  So far, it works beautifully and it has completely flummoxed the goats.  I may not be featured in Martha Stewart Living for my picture-perfect homestead, but the goats are enclosed!

A little night harvest.

It's been so bloody hot and humid, that I can't get much done until it cools down.  Which leaves me grasping in the gloam for my dinner.  But, my dinner is getting more exciting!  Last night I picked some Swiss chard, some green beans and a couple of wax beans, pulled half of my carrot crop (6) and robbed the taters.  I also sucked it up and pulled up a garlic bulb.  With all of the drought and disappointment, I was hoping that they'd somehow grow into big, fat bulbs if I ignored them.  I was pleasantly surprised (you will note that the 'gloam' applies to the interior of the house as well - too hot for lights!) at the size of this particular head.  Of course, there are plenty more out there, so who knows what I'll find.  But they are dying back very early this year, so I am going to harvest them this weekend and hang them in the goat barn to season.  It adds a delightful garlicky atmosphere to the barn - and I don't care if the goats don't like it.  I'm mad at them at the moment.



Quarter for comparison. 



Carrots, chard, green/wax beans, Yukon Gold taters.

Of course, I just read Erin's blog and I'm feeling puny and insignificant in the face of her spectacular harvest...