North Ridge Farm

Enjoying Autumn & Pumpkin Spice Maple Syrup

In my corner of the world, autumn arrived many weeks ago and is near its righteous peak this very moment. Skies so deeply blue, catching the scent of overly ripe grapes and blackberries as I go about chores. Geese overhead in the afternoon, departing for winter, one flock at a time. Rose hips plump, sweet and frost-kissed. They are ready to be dried for a winter supply of Vitamin C, and some will be sampled fresh, too. Persimmon of the north. 

The seasons here feel like theatre to me. Every aspect elevated beyond my limited imaginings, each with its own dramatic flair. A production so grand even the finest Broadway directors could not begin to duplicate it. Here, the premium box seats are found on the edge of the garden as I watch my flock cluck and purr their way through the garden for fall cleanup; beneath a crimson maple tree as the sun dips below the western ridge; on the water, enjoying a late day paddle, listening to the chatter of loons as a bald eagle swoops down, talons extended, snatching a plump fish straight from the water’s surface for their dinner. Immediately knowing you might never bear witness to a scene like that that again. 

Inside, surfaces overflow with the fruits of the season. Herbs drying, seeds accumulating, vegetables ripening and awaiting my attention. My two hands can only do so much and this year more than any other, I think they have reached capacity. I am ready to be done with food preservation, but there is much to do still. Kale, cabbage, apples, pears, carrots, tomatoes, onions, leeks. Give the cold room shelves a fresh wipe down with vinegar and water before filling them up with the winter squash that’s been curing in the greenhouse for weeks, bushels of potatoes, onions, carrots, and garlic. Make tomato sauce. Clean out the catch-all freezer so that we have room for the chickens in a few weeks, and hopefully venison a few weeks after that. 

Last week I made a recipe for Pumpkin Spice Simple Syrup that was circulating on Instagram and it was delicious! The idea is to use it in your coffee, which I did with great autumnal pleasure. I went ahead and made a second batch this weekend and tweaked the recipe enough that it no longer resembles the original at all, so I am going to share it here in case you’d like to make some. 

 

Pumpkin Spice Maple Syrup

• 2 tbsp pumpkin puree
• 1 cup maple syrup
• 1/4 (slightly rounded) tsp pumpkin pie spice

In a small over medium-high heat, bring mixture just to a boiling point, while whisking. Turn heat down to medium-low and continue whisking for 2-3 minutes, until everything is combined. Watch carefully so it does not boil over. Store in a glass jar in the refrigerator. Shake or stir before use. Will keep for 7-10 days. Use in coffee or stir into steel cut oatmeal. 

Even though our harvest and preservation tasks continue to stretch out before us, it’ll all end soon enough. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise anyone around here if we see our first snow in a few weeks. Another summer has passed us by, and this one for the record books; I will give a proper end of season garden and harvest synopsis soon. For now, there is nesting to do and September to enjoy. 

Late Summer, Checking In

Recent mornings have been cool enough to invite the idea of starting a fire. Too soon, I tell myself. Instead, I perk the coffee extra hot and set to work in the garden. For the first time in many years of growing food, I have been consistently weighing everything that is harvested from the vegetable garden - salad greens, berries, and herbs aside. So far the garden has given us over 300 pounds of produce, with none of the heavy hitters such as tomatoes, beets, carrots, winter squash and potatoes included. Those will come later. And we’ve only been harvesting anything beyond kale for about four weeks, so it is adding up quite fast. Peas, green beans, cucumbers, summer squash, broccoli, cauliflower, a few cabbages, and kale.

On a rare departure from the ridge, during my three mile descent toward paved road, I counted five neighbors out walking. Mostly on separate excursions, only two of them walking together. They were all enjoying a gentle pace, some carried a walking stick, none seemed to have a Fitbit or specialty clothing or headphones plugged into the latest self-improvement podcast. They were simply out for a walk. An old fashioned, pointless pastime to some, a soul filling time of connection for others, My neighbors appear to be in it for the meandering dirt roads, mountain views, late summer breeze, and good company. They seem to know the comfort and pleasure of a good walk.

I’d love to deep-dive into a seasonal update, and let you know all that has been going on since we last spoke, but I think I need to quickly gloss over that and just pick up where things are now. In short, like many of you are probably experiencing, this summer has been restful and laborious and lonely and abundant. Weather wise, it has been exceptionally hot and dry. We put everything we had and then some into our garden this year, and now we are being rewarded tenfold. June and July were all about planting, weeding, maintaining; August and September are for harvesting and processing. I will give a true and thorough garden report at the end of the season. For now, we are grateful for and overwhelmed by the harvests we’ve received. 

I miss my mother and sister and wonder when I will see them again (this has been the longest span of time not seeing them in my life). I think about them living in a densely populated area of Florida. Adam will miss his mother’s 75th birthday. She is in a state that he would be required to quarantine upon returning from for 14 days, and that is not an option for his profession. We are saddened by the cancellation of Adam’s uncle’s special visit (whom we bought this house from). Life during a pandemic, you understand. I am thinking of the families who are forced with the task of maintaining a livelihood while also needing to school children at home. What a difficult scenario, especially for those with employment outside of the home. I think of families with special needs children who thrive and depend on the resources of their school district, who may now be without. It’s just hard. My inner Pollyanna-survivalist wants to tell you all that we can do this, that we are designed for challenge, for discernment, that things could be so much harder than this... bootstraps and all that. But I also know that as a collective we are so far removed from true hardship and discomfort, that some will experience debilitating stress and hardship in the months ahead. While the mind can do a fair job of deciphering, categorizing, and managing various degrees of stress, the body less so. I guess I just want you to know that I am rooting for you. Keep taking steps forward as best you can.

Mid-summer garden, 2020.

I have carved out time for writing once again, so I will be back soon and often. I just wanted to pop in today and break the silence. I’ve missed being here, but I have so enjoyed this summer, even if it is not looking exactly the way I thought it would. I wonder if you are feeling the same... could be better, could be worse. So much to be grateful for and revel in. 

As for Quiet Me?

As promised, winter ended less than three weeks ago and now we are fully into summer. I’ve been visiting this northern spot for the entire length of my quarter century marriage, but until living here, I could not quite grasp the uniqueness of how quickly winter changes over to summer. This year, after a mere seven days of spring. And now, we’ll spend the next ten weeks doing our best not to blink for fear of missing a moment of these perfect summer days.

Everything is green and lush, conifers showing exceptional new growth this year, which makes up for the modest apple blossom display (it’s okay, last year was such a banner apple year most people put up enough for two years). The days are laborious, fueled by quart after quart of water and just enough food to keep it all going. There isn’t much time to make a big fuss out of mealtime. The gardener’s waltz of dashing rain storms and black flies has begun. There is no planting by the moon here, there is only plant-whenever-you-can because the season is too short to depend on perfect planting conditions during a single moon cycle. The garden is humming along, receiving hundreds of plants as weather allows. 

We have enjoyed the return of songbirds, the peepers are symphonic, wild edibles poke through the forest floor. In the early springtime evenings, on the way to lock up the chicken coop, we are treated to the unusual sounds and acrobatic displays of our resident woodcock. He is such an entertainer, that many evenings find us at the picnic table, pausing to listen to his distinct sound and watch his spiral flight path against the evening sky. He shows impressive effort when it comes to wooing the ladies, almost rivaling the dedicated strut of Tom turkeys. 

Occasionally we venture out for a drive, always encountering wildlife which feels like an undeserved bonus to the purple-orange sunsets over verdant mountains: moose, bear, rabbit, turkey. Such riches! It feels garish to observe such perfection from the confines of a clunky automobile, but it cannot be helped, it is just the nature of taking a drive for ice cream around here. 

Our daughter has graduated from college. Despite there being no ceremony, no family gatherings, no celebrations with her friends, no fanfare whatsoever, we are incredibly proud of her achievements. It is part of our family culture to raise our children to adulthood, including college or vocational training of some kind. Our only request of her was that she milk every available drop of opportunity out of the overpriced system, and she did. Most of the time we never knew which courses she was taking, they seemed secondary to her debate teaching and competing travels around the world, her study abroad, her published work, her honors thesis, her work with and advocacy for imprisoned women, her political campaign work and subsequent senatorial internship. Even with all of that, my favorite part of her college experience has been watching the incredible relationships she has formed along the way. I cannot imagine collecting a more wonderful group of friends (including professors who are now friends) than she has over these last four years. Overall, she leaves college with a collection of experiences and riches that transcend the limited potential of a textbook. 

She is now settling into this new chapter of life during a global pandemic, working virtually from northern Vermont for an institute located in Washington DC. This arrangement is not exactly what she envisioned for herself, but I am selfishly enjoying the geographic change of plans. 

The world is hard right now. No, that's not right. It’s always hard for many, it is just being filmed now for all to see. I am witnessing things that my skin color prevents me from experiencing. I don’t know how to fix it, how to make the oppression stop. I don’t know what to say that hasn’t already been said by a thousand memes. Social media saviors have indicated we’re all saying the wrong things anyway. They also say it is wrong to say nothing. No matter what you do, no matter what you say, it’s wrong. It would be a mistake to view the five minutes I spend posting on social media each day as an indication of my remaining 1,435 minutes. I have not raged publicly, but in silence I donate money and applaud establishments brave enough to sever contracts with those who perpetrate brutality and murder. I know exactly who the real looters in this country are. I check in on friends with black and brown skin. I get up at 2 am to write because honestly, who can sleep right now? 

If you know someone who still does not understand why specifically Black Lives Matter, please show them this four minute clip.  

As for quiet me?

I donate. I check in. I feed my family. I wash the dishes. I light the fire. I check in. I donate. 

Critical Medicine of Our Times

On Friday we awoke to snow with more on the way. Nothing that sticks very long once the strengthening sun arcs across the sky, but enough to reduce morale, if only temporarily. Despite this, the greenhouse quickly warms to 80 degrees, and once inside, the loamy scent of spring welcomes the days work. But I have decided to take two full days of no work, something that feels strange but much needed, so I simply uncover the brassicas and head out for a slow walk to camp and back. 

I am grateful to be of a certain age that does not include feeling guilty for recognizing the need for rest, and acting on it. I do not travel, I spend zero time at the spa or salon, there is hardly a speck of dining out or shopping or any other similar activity our culture tells women we need in order to feel good and worthy. I just wanted to rest in my home and on this land. Two full days of reading and knitting and hot showers and feet up and herbal infusions and not cooking or cleaning yet still enjoying the most amazing food thanks to my family. It felt medicinal, and today I am restored and ready to (slowly) begin anew. 

Years ago, a friend fifteen years my senior who happens to be a mother of four, shared with me how exhausting family vacations were for her. I was a young mother at the time, doe-eyed and optimistic about the prospect of picture perfect family moments, so I couldn’t quite relate to the workload of parents while traveling with children. But my friend assured me that lost shoes, belly aches, constant hunger, disrupted sleep, and soothing the moods of weary overstimulated travelers ruled her "leisure" time.

Many years have passed and it turns out and Adam and I have never been much for traveling. We tend to like the idea of travel, but not so much the execution. So when I need a break, I just take one free of charge with no additional carbon footprint. What better place to rest deeply than my own nest, with my own coffee, in my own bed, surrounded by my own pleasurable projects to tinker with if the mood strikes. 

Even though most of us are planted firmly at home these days, are we really taking the time to rest and restore our weary body and spirit? Many of us are working harder domestically than we ever have due to extra family members being home all the time. It might not feel like restoration is needed when life remains relatively easy for most of us. After all, there is still Netflix and whipped coffee and Tiger King, but the undercurrent of global stress prevails. I needed to take a day or two of deep rest. No expectations, no guilt. Just rest. A critical medicine of our times. 

As it turns out, you don’t have to be a middle aged woman with adult children to pull this off (though it is a quieter version, for sure). This can absolutely  be made into a family affair. Leading up to your day or two of rest, go ahead and tidy the house, clean the bathroom, make a few meals, snacks, and a big jug of herbal iced tea to carry your family through. Create a mellow playlist of music. Plan to dim the lights and light some candles. Gather some aromatics to simmer in water on the stove. Let it be known that a day or two of Time Off is coming up and how exciting that is. You’d be amazed how receptive children are to this idea; it’s as if they still possess the innate wisdom of caring for one’s self, something that our species tends to lose sight of as we age and the consumer world makes its impression on us. Moral of the story: Self care does not need to cost money and it is high value medicine. Also, children have immense capacity to grasp this idea. 

Today, I feel ready to begin again. 

You're Sitting on a Gold Mine

It has been snowing since Saturday afternoon; soft, fluttery flakes gently accumulating in the most patient way. There seems to be no rush, no urgency with this band of moisture.  A comforting kind of snow that invites exploration, not overwhelm.

One recent evening, we’d just finished a hearty dinner of Shepherd’s Pie, made with turkey I’d squirreled away in the freezer after Thanksgiving. This humble casserole is one of my favorite meals to make, as it showcases so colorfully the abundance of stored homegrown vegetables, homemade bone broth turned into gravy, and local, wild, or homegrown meat. A tasty, colorful, frugal meal, and, it is total comfort food. Simple fare with tremendous attributes.

After washing up the dishes, Emily settled in with her book, I with my knitting, and Adam mentioned taking a walk with Scout. He asked if I’d like to go, and having just put my feet up for the first time that day, staying put was the more appealing option. He took off and I knit a few rounds. Soon after, a text, which surprised me as he does not usually keep his phone on or near him when he’s home. “I’m up at Birdy watching shooting stars. It’s amazing out here, you should come up.” Not one to resist an invitation like that, back to the basket my knitting went; I could put my feet up another time. The stars were calling.

He was right. The sky darker and clearer than seemed possible, stars shining warmer and brighter than any of the hundreds of twinkle lights I string all over the house, attempting to mimick the same. Magnificent is not enough of a word. Leaning back in the Adirondack chair, head tilted skyward, every little thing in the world made some kind of sense. Maybe not agreeable sense, but for a moment, I understood. The ease, the imbalance, the beauty and the pain. We stayed there for a while, not saying much, just looking up.

Eventually we made our way back down the camp road, and for no particular reason, at one point I looked over my shoulder, upward at the sprawling night sky we’d found such comfort in a moment ago. And there it was: beyond the leafless trees, beyond the stratosphere and beyond all atmospheric layers, traveling across the dark glittering sky, a shooting star for my very own eyes. Not the rarest of sightings, but soul soothing every time, whether you are seven or forty-seven. We continued on, not a human sound to be heard other than that of our own presence. Such vast darkness, land, sky, quiet. One of us mentioned, you can’t get this in Connecticut. And the other agreed. No. No you can’t.

We don’t spend a lot of time comparing this life to our former one, but things are generally new here still, and with Adam continuing to work several days a week down there, our arrangement is unconventional and with that, comes frequent assessment and discussion. We need these reminders as to why we are here. It’s not that it’s difficult to remember, it’s just that it’s easy to forget. This life we have set up is not simple nor is it common; we’ve described it as an experiment from day one, and I’d still say that’s pretty accurate. 2019 was the year my husband and I slept apart more than together. This is by choice, but only a temporary choice. A necessary, difficult step in fulfilling this crazy dream. A separateness that we would not have chosen in our family raising years, but felt it was okay to give it a shot now.  At times we've felt discouraged by the challenges of making a house in need of work feel like a home when our all-hands-on-deck time is so limited, but we must remember that we aren’t here for the house; we are here for the vast darkness, for the land, for the sky, and for the quiet. And we have all of that in spades. We feel fortunate to enjoy a certain peace of mind, that in our experience, can only be found on the land.

Our slow walk continued, until this warm dwelling of ours came into sight: candles in the windows and gentle wisps of smoke rising from the chimney to welcome us.

A few days later we rung in the new year in the mellowest of ways. I am entering this new Gregorian year with vision and ambition that I have not experienced in several. The details are private, but I can share that I am grateful to feel so much clarity right now. Finally. The last several years have felt like survival followed by heartbreak followed by grief followed by remarkable change followed by loneliness followed by slow and steady healing. There hasn’t been room for much else, until now. I am ready and armed with plans, goals, and energy that has been absent for too long. My enthusiasm is wisely tempered by realism, as these first few days of 2020 have reminded me: all those best laid plans are subject to change without notice. Life has a way of getting impossibly hard real quick, emergencies and tragedy are always unplanned. I won’t delude myself into believing the best-year-yet hype. But I will take this feeling of drive and creativity into the months ahead, as best as I can, both for myself and for those around me.

I wish you the very best in your own pursuits this year, I hope you know good health, and you feel deeply that if you’ve got love, then you're sitting on a gold mine.

Contented as Could Be

The windows beside our bed are sized in a way that allows a person lying down to see not just the starry sky, but the ground of open field one story below. This is how I noticed the biggest bear I’ve ever seen one morning not too long ago, just as I’d opened my eyes. There he was in my garden, hoping to find corn, disappointed to discover only kale remained. It was with half-slumbered, prone ease that we were able to see four fat and happy deer surrounding the old apple tree just below us, one recent early morning when Scout’s howling alerted the ridge that there was something wonderful to see. Oddly, his loud siren did not cause the deer to budge one bit. I suppose they are used to him by now and were probably thinking, Hey Scout, you can go back to bed now, we’re just going to have a few of these drops and we’ll be on our way.

It was still dark, probably around 4am, the moon nearly full and the ground covered with snow. There was a brightness to the landscape that aided our viewing. To watch four ample deer from our spot of rest was such a feeling of full body joy. Almost in the same way reading a cozy bedtime story is. All safe and tucked in, with senses delighted in the best of ways. Of course Adam’s mind was thinking of tracking them, which would be easy to do once daylight arrived, given the couple inches of snow on the ground.

Our property has two driveways, one leading to our house, and the other much longer, leading to our camp in the woods. They are separated on the road by one hundred yards or so. What was discovered upon tracking the four apple-loving deer, was that those little buggers walked straight up the road from Billymead, turned onto our land via the camp road, walked across the front field toward the apple tree, partied there for a bit, then exited through the herb field in the front of our house to polish off my remaining comfrey and calendula, then they departed through driveway number two. Not exactly the kind of tracking a hunter is hoping for! He spent some time later in the day tracking in the woods to come up empty. Apparently they prefer the ease of road travel.

Since then we’ve had more snow, and later today we’ll have even more. And all of next week has snow in the forecast. One of the things I like about living here is that when winter shows up, there is nothing tentative about it, she is loud and proud and here to stay for the long haul. If we’re going to have winter, let's at least have a good honest winter.

We picked up six laying hens last weekend and they’ve settled in nicely. Already accustomed to routine, they’re practically demanding warm oats in the morning and a nightcap of plain full-fat homemade yogurt before bed. Daytime is peppered with plenty of black oil sunflower seeds, and their water is spiked with a small amount of herbal infusion, and apple cider vinegar. This is not for cuteness sake, or to spoil them with human food for no good reason, I do it because yes it makes them feel good and happy and I am after that for sure, but also because I’m (selfishly) crafting my own eggs. With no access to insects and grass and all manner of outdoor goodies for the next five months, their little bodies (and eggs) would otherwise be lacking, so I bring the buffet to them. I’ll pick up some mealworms, too.

I make the oats by placing a couple handfuls of quick-cooking oats in a bowl, to which I add a scoop of lard, a small handful of raisins, a glug of applesauce, and a touch of molasses. Then I pour boiling water over and stir. The lard melts into the mixture and the raisins get nice and soft.

It’s been a productive week but I feel lacking with food prep going into the weekend. Thankfully we have lots of easy vegetables to roast, potatoes to bake, and ham steaks to fry. I’ll make a quiche to get us through the weekend as well. Normally I’d have a big pot of soup or stew on hand, but am out of broth so I need to get a batch of that going, which takes two days to complete (no instant pot here).

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It’s been a couple of days since I finished this post, but I was unable to sit down and publish it. This Sunday morning is a good time to do so with Adam out hunting. While setting up his tree stand for the year, he was testing out his sight-lines before things were strapped in and secure. He’d already tried another tree prior to this one, and determined it was not suitable. I asked if he thought this tree would work, and he said, “Your Dad taught me something: You’re never going to be able to see the whole forest, so just pick a good spot.” Terribly simple and effective advice for my husband (probably given over twenty years ago), who is the kind of guy prone to overanalyzing, even though he is remarkably capable of going with the flow... oh, the duality of Gemini's. My Dad was more of a straight shooter, infamous for using the phrase, “It is what it is.” And he had a reputation for fruitful placement of tree stands. They were a good balance for each other. I think Adam’s intellectual tendencies humored my father, but also provided confidence in having him as a partner. And Dad’s no nonsense student of life approach to things reminded Adam that it’s okay to jump in; there is no such thing as a perfect plan. I think one of the most compatible aspects of their relationship was their ability to drive for full days in the northern Maine woods in practical silence. Hardly a word uttered between them, save for moose sightings, a grumble regarding sustenance, or a telling of hunting/fishing stories, that let’s be honest, had probably been told between them a dozen times before. But mostly, they would drive in companionable silence, contented as could be.

Just the Way Autumn Should Be

Rain barreled down as lightening struck the barn late the other night. It’s the second time that’s happened this year, only last time it struck the house and wound up being an expensive hit. After the initial flash subsided, I discovered electrical to the building was fried. Not just out, but fried. Inside the house I comforted an anxiety riddled pup, swaddled in his Thundershirt, listening to the soothing sounds of Don Williams; a combination that is about as good a thunderstorm remedy as I know of.

It was late, and the one thing that felt on my side at the moment was the fact that the temperature was abnormally warm for this time of year, and would continue to rise nearly ten degrees overnight. The dozens of three week old chickens out in the barn would be fine. The three freezers we maintain out there would also be fine. I decided to take my freshly showered self, my dog, and a replay of Don Williams, and go to bed. The rest could wait until morning.

There has been a revolving door of family and neighbors here this week. Tom stopped by to inquire about us signing a community petition to prohibit the passing of law that would allow four-wheelers access on our road; Jessie stopped by to return a couple of dishes that belong to me; Carmen and Mo visited a couple times, once to share a flyer Carmen had picked up for me at the library with information about a “Farming and Foraging in Vermont” lecture taking place on Thursday night. I really wanted to attend, had planned on it since her invitation, but then when Thursday came I couldn’t wrap up the day’s work in time to get there. Too busy foraging and farming!

First round pf apples have been picked, both here and at a neighbor's house, forty jars of apples processed, a few bushels of carrots harvested and prepared for cold storage, dozens of chickens kept alive and thriving. In case you missed the news shared elsewhere, the hatchery mistakenly shipped our order twice, so we have eighty meat birds instead of forty. It’s a lot. We will be sharing the extras with neighbors, but they will all be raised here. Quite an undertaking considering my meat bird experience up to this point is zero. 

The air is perfect right now. Cool and raw and a little bit miserable, just the way autumn should be. Tomorrow promises a bit more sunshine, but I don’t mind the grey skies. It’s hard to feel melancholy this time of year, maybe that’s why the weather can get away with such a gloomy display without anyone minding too much. We’re all just happy to put on some wool and work without breaking a sweat.

Speaking of wool, I found this handknit wool sweater at the thrift store this morning and thought I’d share it here. Wool sweaters are my favorite thing to look for while thrifting, because if a sweater looks good used, it’s likely going to stay looking good with continued use and washing. You don’t get that kind of promise with a brand new sweater. Also picked up a Japanese pottery mug, which is my second favorite thing to look for. There were two actually, but the cashier broke one while ringing me up, so only one came home. I felt a genuine sadness about it, poor thing has travelled around for fifty years and the day it crosses my path, kaput.

The final big task in the garden is to dig the remaining potatoes. It wasn’t the greatest potato year for us, but I think we should have enough to get us through just the same. Hopefully enough for next year's seed, too. I blame gardener error on this one: I’m so used to potatoes being a completely hands-off crop for us, so I kind of ignored the patch for many weeks while I tended to other areas of planting. Then one day we happened to be walking through the potatoes and saw that they were FULL of potato beetles. Pretty awful. We handpicked beetles, eggs, and larvae for days, then handpicked some more, but severe damage had already been done. The plants were quite damaged right at their peak of production, resulting in a noticeable decline in yield. We plant so many potatoes to begin with that we’ll hopefully still manage a fair harvest, but not as much as if we'd noticed the problem sooner. Different region, different challenges. Over the next couple of years as our soil improves I expect we’ll see less of them, but at least now I know to pay better attention. Potatoes are life around here. Gotta have ‘em.

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I hope you have a wonderful autumn weekend in your corner of the world. This weekend will be peak foliage for us here, I'll do my best to take some pictures. Thanks for stopping in for a visit, I truly appreciate you taking the time. xo

The Most Important Task

This will probably be a quick check-in for the week as I don’t feel there’s much to report.  And yet, the week was full and satisfying. I’ve been in one of those delightful nesting, quiet, introspective autumnal moods, and my work here at home reflects that. Digging potatoes, moving squash, onions, and garlic down to the cold room, packing jars with sauerkraut. Did some furniture rearranging which is my favorite way to deep clean a room. It felt like a week of ceremonious domestic rituals as we close one season and welcome another. Transitions can be difficult in life, stifling even, but to me there is something about seasonal transition that is life-giving, clarifying. There is still more to do before winter sets in, but it feels good to check a few things off the list. Especially things that happen to result in a cleaner, tidier house. Peace of mind.

I didn’t leave the ridge this week aside from a single trip to the feed store, which is about forty minutes away. Three miles from here there is an abandoned building with a sign shingled above the front door that reads: Feed Store, but their days of providing feed and other sundries to this remote community passed long ago.

Autumn is the most challenging time of year for me to write. I’m not exactly sure why, maybe I’m rendered speechless by the beauty of it all, especially October. Every attempt feels like a fumbling mortal contribution, a meek offering of words describing something indescribable. But I keep plugging along, writing for twenty minutes each weekday, sometimes more, never less. At the end of the week, one of those twenty minute sessions might find its way here.

We have a solid workday planned for tomorrow, then on Sunday, we’ll pack a thermos of herbal tea and some oatmeal raisin cookies, lace up our hiking boots, strap the canoe into the truck bed, and see where the perfectly sunny 65º near-peak foliage day in northern Vermont takes us. Autumn is here, and the most important task before us right now, is to not let it pass us by unnoticed.

Glad to Stick Around

It’s not every day you stop at a farmstand and have a chance to speak with the farmer who grew the food that sustains you. Usually it’s a quiet, self-serve affair. This week, while walking back to my truck after visiting one of the cutest farmstands in my area, the farmer pulled up, his truck bed filled with late season varieties to replenish the stand. It caught my eye as a mid-eighties model Ford, the same kind of truck Adam had when we started dating. The farmer’s truck was the prettiest robin’s egg blue with a hint of green.

Once parked, he hopped out and called over to me, “Hey! I want to give you something!” He approached with a funky looking gourd type thing in his hand and asked if I knew what it was. I did not, but threw out a few guesses, including a cross-pollinated mishap, a gourd, or an unusual winter squash variety... he told me it was true cantaloupe! An old variety known as Prescott Fond Blanc from Fedco. He thought I’d like to try it.

He was a tall, slender man with long greying blonde hair woven into a braid, his face half covered by a grey beard nearly as long. Our conversation trailed in a hundred directions for the next thirty minutes. I needed to get home, but he was friendly and interesting and had much to share. I don’t see as many people as I did in my former life, so I was all ears for anything this human felt like sharing.

daily mushroom hunting :: plowing, discing, then planting 50 pound bags of black oil sunflower seed every year (his farmstand is famous for their bouquets) :: raising his kids on Lake Willoughby :: the amount of traffic on his once quiet road due to the busier than ever Kingdom Trails :: passing mountain bikers on the trail with a high-powered rifle slung over his shoulder while bear hunting, and the looks he receives :: the number of ambulances he sees drive by to help the injured on the trails; "they don't talk about that much, but I see it!" :: the amount of deer now raising their families in the valley where his farm sits because their habitat has been compromised due to bike activity on the ridge :: his girlfriend owns a cafe in town and he works there - double shifts as a cook :: canning about 500 jars of jams, jellies, fruit butters, and salsa every year, sometimes working until 2am on many nights to get it all done :: hand-drawing every single label that goes on those jars - how he uses brown paper grocery bags, and fine point sharpie markers (which are “too inky” upon purchase so he rigged up a way to “wear them out a bit” on a record player for about twenty minutes before they are prime) :: the scoop on every single business and their owners in East Burke; "the guy who opened the smoothie place owns a bunch of strip clubs in Florida, which people have a lot to say about, but I think he's a good guy." :: how he doesn’t like going outside much in the winter anymore, but he put a woodstove in his barn this year so maybe he will tinker around in there :: turkeys are almost ready for him to butcher, after that he’ll only have chickens to tend over the winter; "not too bad" ::  he’s not preparing for the end of the world, but to him it makes sense to always have two years worth of seed on hand, and a bit more to share :: he’s lost a lot of weight recently and is now "skin and bones" :: how certain old time seed companies have become prohibitively expensive to buy seeds from :: the ins and outs of making crab apple jelly... and on and on.

Mostly I listened. He was full of energy and a good talker.

I glanced over at his homestead and noticed the turkey pen, the acres of sunflowers, the impeccably stacked supply of wood ready to heat his home for at least a year, maybe two. He was one of those people that you think surely has thirty hours in their day or something. How can I get in on that? I felt astounded by all this farmer/cook/hunter/artist/father/partner/forager/midnight-canner tends to in his days. I found myself hoping some of that energy was bottled up in my jar of crab apple jelly.

Through all of this, the one thing he did not talk about was the fact that he only had one arm. Not a single peep about the compromises, modifications, or limits he must face because of it. In fact, he seemed unfazed by it. Maybe it’s grit, maybe it’s lack of choice in the matter, maybe it’s deep acceptance. He seemed like the kind of guy that maybe wasn't thinking, "I only have one arm," that maybe he was thinking, "I have an arm!" I don't really know, but I was glad to stick around and get to know the man who foraged the apples, made the jelly, drew the label, and grew funky melons to share with a random passerby.  

The Way to a Food Preserver's Heart

Recent birthday celebration, and the return of puzzle season. 

There is chatter about the warm weather that has returned to Vermont this week. I’m not sure 72º constitutes warm, but that’s what the locals tell me. To me, autumn is here and has been for a couple of weeks. Not a drop of summer left to our days.

Life is moving at a quick pace with winter preparations underway; the limitless days of summer have been replaced with the get-it-all-done-now days of autumn. Here is what I know: it won’t all get done. We’ll have firewood, we’ll have plenty of chicken in the freezer, we’ll have freezers and a cold room filled to the brim with food that we’ve grown and also a bunch grown by others, and hopefully in November, there will be venison.

It’s a lot harder to hunt deer here than it is in Connecticut; the population is lower and the landscape vast in comparison. In Connecticut, it was a rare year that Dad and Adam did not both bring home at least one deer, usually more than one. Actually, I can’t think of a year neither of them got a deer. It’s a different story up here. We’ll see how it goes.

Forty meat birds arrived this week. Kept all their things close together for the first few hours after their arrival, then spread it out a bit once they settled in. Now they are running all about, being expert chickens. 

One of the projects that needs finishing is the addition on the pole barn. The existing structure is a dirt floored three-sided building that was built 35 years ago as a “five year barn.” It is the only shelter we have aside from our house, and if you are like us, you understand that house square footage does not matter much (well, except for mudrooms and proper pantries... those matter!), but outbuilding square footage does. We’re trying to create a little more space out there. I should also mention that the open side of the barn faces the road, and our driveway is not long, so any random objects we have kicking around in there are visible. Granted, it’s a dead end road that sees little traffic, but I care about these things. It looks messy all the time, even when things are neatly arranged on shelves. The stuff of life on display: gas cans, potting supplies, building supplies, folded up tarps waiting for their next important job, stacks of five gallon buckets, etc. It adds up to a lot of visual clutter and the new addition will hide much of that, in theory at least.

A few weeks back, as Adam began work on this project, Uncle Kurt stopped by for a visit. I was inside making relish and salsa that day and noticed his truck pull in. Once I got to a good stopping point I took a break to bring him a gallon of green beans that I’d picked that morning. For the first time in many years he and his wife did not put a garden in, so I figured they would enjoy them. His face lit up as I handed him the bag, then he told me he had a jar of mine to return, the one that was filled with strawberry sauce I’d recently sent over. I was thrilled it was already gone! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve given canned goods or maple syrup to friends and family only to see them still on their pantry shelf a year later. Have you experienced this? Maybe most of us have been indoctrinated by the FDA to feel skeptical of anything without their seal of approval on it. Not Uncle Kurt! On another Saturday visit in the early weeks of summer, as we chatted in the kitchen, he inquired about the ruby red jars lined up on the counter across the room. He asked if they were beets, to which I replied that no, they are strawberry sauce. Would you like a jar? “Sure!”

We told him how we best enjoy it: over vanilla ice cream or over yogurt. I admit to thinking that like so many gifted jars of the past, it might be placed in the cabinet and forgotten about. So you can imagine my delight when just a few weeks later he reported every last drop was gone and the jar was washed and ready to return.

I could tell Adam was a little surprised, too. Really, it’s gone already? That’s great! How’d you like it? “It was excellent! I had it over ice cream every night until the jar was empty!” Now that’s the way to a food preserver’s heart, and a way to guarantee many filled jars and offerings from the garden in your future.