The mercury in the non-greenhouse thermometer reached 86 degrees F. yesterday.  You’d think it hit 106 the way we were carrying on around here.

I will readily, easily admit I prefer cool weather.  We didn’t get to 90 all last summer and that was quite fine by me:  canning was still a sticky endeavor (and considering I was canning food for 135 schoolchildren as well as our own needs perhaps “endeavor” is an apt term) but otherwise it was an enjoyable year.  And now, well, now our blood is still thick and our entire aspect is crabby.

Case in point:  Five hens are sitting on eggs and, when they come out for their daily water, food, dustbath and, er, bowel clearing session they create QUITE the ruckus in the yard.  They cluck mightily and pick fights (!!) with everyone, and it appears to be catching.  When not molested by broody hens, our other chickens stand droopily with heads lowered and wings out, trying to take advantage of any breeze.  But once one gets a-squawking the others remember past grudges and the feathers then fly.  This heat and humidity has caught them off guard too.

T-bell the goat stomps her feet on the milkstand.  We got actual tears yesterday when our daughter realized her kiddie pool (six year old kiddie pool) had a hole, and her mood was only lifted when I told her she could spray ME with the hose.  The dog keeps losing fur and I saw one cat wrapped around the base of a toilet at one point in the afternoon.  And who wants to cook in this kind of weather, much less garden?

I suppose if we’d been eased into it instead of thrown in the boiling pot we’d have been less upset by how hot it was.  Go ahead and laugh:  we’re complete hot-weather wimps!

I am watching snow fly upward.   We are staying home today under a blizzard watch, and I’m watching my own little blizzard right now while everyone else sleeps.

Thank you all for your thoughtful comments yesterday.  I cannot tell you how gratifying it is to me to learn there are so many other people out there with an itch to dig!  Dig, and maybe blog about it!  When I started this blog endeavor, indeed, when I started this grow-most-of-what-we-eat thing, it was a rather solitary pursuit.  It still is a solitary pursuit, come to think of it; it’s my muscle, my rather like-it-or-lump-it decisions as far as what is grown and what is cooked and what gets preserved for later.  But to know that I am part of a community, at least a virtual one, is good for me on a cold day like today.

So thank you, kind readers.

Little Edie is not happy

Did you know that Michigan, after California, has the most diverse acreage for growing things in the U.S.? It’s true.  Agricultural commodities, from elk to ginseng to cranberries to wheat to apples and our famous cherries, we do grow a lot of stuff here. Considering most folks associate Michigan with our top-of-the-bottom lists (unemployment, home mortgage failures, etc.), I think folks should also know what we do right.

Child labor: a good thing

So Saturday we actually “went retail” and visited a local U-Pick apple orchard.  (U-Pick:  isn’t that the oddest term ever.)  Of course, most places can’t *just* let you pick apples.  Nope.  You can fish, run through a corn maze, get your face painted, listen to live music or tumble in one of those moonwalk things (that is, you can if you are small), and of course go on a hayride.  Eat cinnamon donuts, or a caramel apple, or a hotdog, and of course drink lots of fresh cider.  It was all a bit much for me, including the price for picking three pecks of apples ($24).  Then I realized that was a sixth of what the Minnesota farm wanted for the same apples, so I bucked up and paid them.  The girls sure had fun picking them though.

Very busy today. Just thought I would show you something pretty.

Playing with one’s food: turkey poult

The reason I ask is I do not think I have one. I do enjoy sitting down and eating dinner, though. And right now it’s a very fine evening of complete stillness and long shadows as the sun tips away from us for the night. If anything, I think I am biased toward evening.

All the critters are out: the ducks with their insistent noises (they are ENTIRELY noisy and nervous when they leave their pen), the goslings and turkeys cutely pecking the rocks of the driveway, and all the egg chickens are at my feet here on the back deck, giving themselves and each other a preen. The slow-growing meat birds are flapping around in the chickens’ pen and venturing outside furtively: they actually like to fly, and their favorite game is to play King of the Mountain atop the feeder. This is a perfect summer evening.

I will say this about country living: You can develop feet of lead. (Or maybe, in my case, clay.) I don’t ever want to leave, so…we don’t ever really go anywhere. Surely it is wonderful having people over, entertaining and feeding friends and relations. But to get me actually off the farm and, you know, go out for an evening? It’s hard! And I blame the creatures.

My inlaws came over for dinner recently. My FIL was laughing heartily at all the critters as he couldn’t turn his head without seeing some avian drama or another, or see the new kitty Little Edie do something amazing like show up with ANOTHER huge mouse in her mouth (thanks, kitty!). My FIL is a whiz with all things electrical (he’s an electrical engineer) and dang he’s cheap: feed him, and ye shall get your electric work done! (I should here mention that I can do the electrical work too but I have a much lower threshold for wiring than he. Let’s just say to each his strenghts. I would rather weed and cook.) So I laughed when I read the news recently that there was an uptick in durable goods in the US (goods sold that last longer than 3 years) because I guess we just helped that number. The inlaws were over so my FIL could add a dedicated circuit and new outlet in the basement for our brand-spanking-new second chest freezer. They were on sale at Sears, and all our meat birds (plus the half pig and quarter beeve this fall from Providence Farm) mean we need more freezer space, for at least half the year. (The other half it will be off, a nice surface for me to, I don’t know, start my seeds or fold our laundry.)

So maybe it’s evening with me. Maybe it’s the stillness, the chance to observe, the chance to sit back and reflect. And you?

Until I feel up to a real post, here’s a few Wyoming wildflowers Tom snapped for me on one of his hikes. Enjoy.

Where are you, El?

I’m going to take a few days off.  Have a great weekend, everyone.

Please excuse the poor photo quality, as it was taken through a window.

The typical scene.  What you are not hearing is me doing the mothering harangue.  “Honey, don’t squeeze them.  No, you should put that baby down.   Honey, he’s cheeping, he’s scared, please set him down.”

Chick complete with egg tooth

Ducklings on 11 June

and one baby on 27 June, with tree sap on his belly.

This is the time of year the above two devices get found in the junk drawer, washed off, and used.

Marital aides? Child behavior modification tools? Nope. These are a cherry pitter and a strawberry huller.

It’s funny: we went to three stores before we found the cherry pitter. It was in a local hardware store, and had a pricetag on it from the 1980s. The thing was rusty so they just gave it to me. Of course and as a joke Tom now buys me every cherry pitter he can find: notice the next picture. Lovely German engineering.

It is not fully cherry season, so I haven’t busted out the cool pitter. We’re in the earlies now, with the more tart and bigger ones coming around the beginning of July. But wow, is it strawberry season! We’re filling ourselves, and now I am filling jam jars too. Last night I made a lovely clafoutis of cherries and strawberries, befitting my adoration of the egg and All Things Custard.

Note: slapdash clafouti recipe is now in the comments!

Tell me this, though: why is it that every time I begin to can stuff I feel the urgent need to also dirty every dish, pan, bowl and pot and practically every dishtowel we own? I really need an adjustment period. Hopefully it takes me only one day’s worth of canning madness (but that is unlikely). It’s just wild to think I do some form of food preservation every night until mid-September. Tonight, it took too long. Tomorrow? I guess we shall see. It’s like anything, I guess. It takes the time it takes, and with a bit of practice, less time will be needed.

But inevitably I always forget how darned fussy jam-making can be. Luckily, the payoff is tay-steee.

Hum a bum buzz buzz

Holy Crap!

Just walked into my potting shed (also known as Shed of Dreams, like, I better get this x farm implement for future use and store it in said shed) and I’ve got bees!

I stopped (backtracked, blocked traffic) a couple years back to grab a super I saw on the side of the road. This was before all my research that says things like “don’t reuse old hive equipment ever,” etc. So I have it, in my shed, and overnight (literally) there are now bees in the super. And in the shed. And chasing me all over the place should I go near the door.

I am overjoyed, of course. I planned to get a nuc last year but CCD killed my bee guy’s hives. I am overjoyed likewise that bees are so numerous here that they’re finding an old super squirreled away in an old shed. It’s great news, mostly…

Well, folks: but how do I get my tools out of there now? What do I do? Especially since I have a load of new chicks coming!! help! move the super outside at night? what? buzz buzz

Here’s to the end of a very trying week. Amongst other woes, I got a new laptop, as my six year old model is slowly giving up the ghost. Unlike a new car these things magically don’t just, you know, start working on their own. Considering I have the patience of a gnat regarding technical glitches, its arrival, and our daughter’s continued slow recovery from getting her tonsils out, have made this a week I will be glad to get behind us!

So…here’s hoping there’s a happy weekend ahead for us all.

Here’s a perfect example of how behind I am: I haven’t had time yet to make the new greenhouse beds. Most of the leeks are destined for it, as you can see the difference between outdoor

and indoor leeks. The babies from seed were getting leggy and needed to get in the ground. Ding! it occurs to me that they can be transfered later (unlike onions they don’t hate being moved) so they’re now doing time, temporarily, crowded together in a corner of a lettuce bed.

It’s been cool lately, which has been something of a gift as far as the garden and greenhouse are concerned. Every day I spend about two hours outside doing various growth-related tasks: seeding, transplanting, mulching, weeding (which I realize doesn’t help the growth of the weed, but you know what I mean). I spend an hour before work, an hour after. And I am still behind. So the cool weather has bought me some time in terms of moving things out of the greenhouse. They get to stay in there longer until it completely warms up outside.

The cool weather has been a bad thing as far as the chicks are concerned. They are still indoors in the mini-coop and not outside in their tractor. (Today is Tractor Day: I will post about it soon.) I think I got them too early. They’re fully feathered out at four weeks. I have noticed their chests (breasts) don’t have a lot of feathers on them yet, so I worry about sticking them outside. They spend most of their times lying on those big chests of theirs, and, well, it’s been so cool so I am sure that’d chill them. So next year? I will not be in such a rush to get them.

Two hours of garden work a day sure sounds like a lot of time, I am sure, to many of you out there. The time to the task at hand is a constant thing. I have a lot of work ahead of me, but those two hours aren’t doing a great job of knocking down that mountain of work! Of course I am the only person to blame for this work… Either way, I think I need to take a day or two off of my job just to feel like I am pulling even.

And then, I will come up with another scheme, and then I will be back where I started….

2. Braised in a huge dutch oven for 2 hours at 375* on a bed of leeks, dried/fresh herbs, white wine and veg stock; he was still kind of tough; lots of breast meat

3. I am not that good at plucking. Then again, I hate shelling peas and beans too: I think it’s the time required, not the task at hand

4. Tom wanted nothing to do with it but the eating. At one time he yelled down from his upstairs window: “Is it safe yet?”

5. The guineas can still count. The three hens are bemoaning the loss of their leader and are still calling despondently.  I hope their small brains can forget

6. The other chickens, however, are very happy!

7.  I don’t think I have ever worked so hard for a meal

As it is now, I jump up at any guinea squawk, dog at my side, weapon in hand, to rush forth and defend the Chicken Homeland. If you know anything about guineas, they put Chicken Little to shame as far as their anxiety level. They are alarmists in the extreme. That said, when they do get to hollering, there usually is a cause. The dog who killed Bonnie has come back at least twice so we are right to worry.

For a household of three egg eaters, three to four chickens is more than enough to keep us happily in eggs all year. Chickens are highly social animals who psychologically need at least one but preferably two feathered friends living with them. Three chickens, also, won’t completely trash a garden. Three then would be our magic number for contained, non free-range hens. We have six chickens, and four guineas. I won’t be thinning out the chicken ranks, as these girls are our pets. The guineas, though, are not pets, and, if I will be locking the chickens up, the reason for having them (i.e., free-ranging chicken watchdogs) is gone. Sigh. Poor guineas. They’ve just begun to lay again their odd pointy thick-shelled eggs.

I am really sad to have to lock our girls up permanently. Poor chookies. (I keep thinking about prison jokes and parole humor here: dang, I’m sorry: I am always whistling past the graveyard. You should see me at a funeral.) The chickens will get let out often enough, I suppose, when I am outside, but…there really are too many threats out there.

In the immortal words of H.I. McDunnough, “Sometimes it’s a hard world for small things.”