Of Summer Birthdays

All the kids around here going back to school has made me think of my elementary school days, especially kindergarten with Ms. Drake and first grade with Mrs. Adams. Each one of these teachers made her students feel special and individual, but they were tough ladies who didn't mess around. Ms. Drake was particularly impressive at separating crying mothers and children from each other on the first day of school, and Mrs. Adams assigned us all lunch partners to keep the ruckus to a minimum.

Most of my early elementary teachers had a special ritual for students who celebrated birthdays during the school year. Ms. Drake made a paper crown out of shiny gold paper and the birthday boy or girl was allowed to sit in the privileged space next to her on the floor during circle time while everyone sang "Happy Birthday." Mrs. Adams gave birthday children a special reading book chosen for his or her reading ability at the time of the birthday.

I hated when those children celebrated birthdays. Having a summer birthday meant that the Ms Drakes and the Mrs. Adamses over the years did not hand me a special gift or single me out. Having a summer birthday meant that my mom did not bring cupcakes and Hi-C to school at lunchtime on my birthday. Having a summer birthday meant that my school friends were usually on vacation or had forgotten about me over the summer and did not come to birthday parties. I had serious birthday envy.

But now I love having a summer birthday. In the summer, ice cream and cake melt together more quickly. A summer birthday means I can sit out on the patio with a cold drink in the evening. I have decided that missing out on all the special-ness of the elementary school birthday celebrations means that I deserve to draw my birthday out as long as I want, even over the course of several days.

So this year, my summer birthday meant I could watch a Red Sox game at Fenway the day before my birthday, buy a too-expensive t-shirt, and drink cold beer all afternoon because Amtrak doesn't mind if you drink and ride. Baseball games don't happen in the winter.

A few days later, having a summer birthday meant I could go to the Newport Folk Festival and hear Emmylou Harris, Elvis Costello, the Carolina Chocolate Drops, the David Wax Museum, and a bunch of other performers all on the same day. The Folk Festival doesn't happen in the winter.

Baseball games and good music beat a shiny paper crown and dry cupcakes.

Spring Cleaning with Earth-friendly Products

The older I've gotten, the more sensitive to smells I've become. Perfume has always bothered me, and I swear my husband wouldn't have gotten a second date if he had been a cologne-wearer. When my sister lived with us, she was responsible for cleaning the bathrooms, and she had to give me fair warning for bathroom cleaning day. She has a love for the smell of Clorox similar to my love for, say, strawberries and fresh lettuce.

When she moved out, I put the ix-nay on any cleaning product containing bleach. I cannot stand that choky feeling and whatever it is that makes me smell bleach for days after it's been rinsed away. But even though I hate cleaning and cleaning products, I do occasionally feel required to spray the kitchen and bathroom down with something more than a little soapy water, so I found a recipe for All-Purpose Cleaning Spray.

I've adjusted it a little over the year or two that I've been making this. Here's my adjusted recipe:

Use a funnel and put 1 t. 20-Mule Team Borax and 2 T. white vinegar into a 24 oz. spray bottle (recycle one or buy a new one from Dollar General). Put the borax in first! Swirl the bottle a little, then pour in about 20 oz. of very hot purified water.

(If you purify your own water at the tap, remember that you shouldn't run hot water through your purifier. You'll have to heat it. Let it cool a little before pouring it into your solution.)

Shake the bottle a few times to make sure the borax is dissolved, then add 1/4 c. of Dr. Bronner's 18-in-1 Hemp Citrus/Orange Pure Castile Soap. Shake the bottle well, put the sprayer back on, and you're ready to clean.

Does it work as quickly and as well as other countertop sprays? Not as quickly, but definitely as well. It also costs about 23 cents for the ingredients, so even if I have to use twice as much (which I don't), I'm saving a good deal of money.

And I don't feel like I can't breathe after I've cleaned the kitchen counters.

Tip #2: Straight club soda makes great window cleaner, even after it goes flat. It may take a cleaning or two to get rid of the residue from the ammonia-based cleaners, and you may have to work a little harder, but your mirrors will sparkle.

Another Design

I usually knit garments and accessories using purchased or free patterns designed by other knitters. Because all patterns are copyrighted, I cannot sell items made from their patterns unless I have express permission, and express permission is rarely given. Knitting designers make very little money in relation to the number of people who may be knitting their patterns at any given time, and knitters are often unaware that swapping patterns with each other takes money from the pocket of the designer. Because I have such an overdeveloped sense of justice, I feel guilty sometimes just giving the knitted item away. Crazy, I know, but there it is.

I have entered into a tentative agreement with a sheep farmer whose sheep produce luxury fleece (and therefore, wool, of course). She's a local farmer, so this idea fits right into my "shop local" attempts, and her spun fleece is lovely and cashmere-like. Our idea is that I will knit items that she can display and sell when she attends fiber festivals. (Yes, all you non-knitters out there, these exist and are quite popular.) I buy the wool from her; she sells my items. Helps her; helps me. And I'm going to be knitting anyway.

The only problem, of course, is that I usually knit items from designers' patterns, and I cannot sell these items. Solution: design my own.

I am especially proud of my second design: the River of Leaves Wrap. Knitted in DK weight cormo (Corriedale/Merino), this wrap is whisper-light but warm and snuggly, and at 11.5 inches wide and 65 inches long, can be worn a variety of ways. As soon as it is dry, I'll post photos of some ways to wear this accessory.

Until then, here is a photo as it is drying. Any one want one? $72 and I'll ship it for free. You can choose the color. This one is hand-dyed in Spruce.

Tomayto-Tomahto

Campus closed for snow and ice, so I'm spending some of my morning picking this year's tomato varieties.


It's hard to choose tomatoes. While the varieties I can buy at Lowe's or Kroger are so hybridized that I can't do much wrong, the heirloom and older varieties are a little more sensitive. For example, I love Black Krims, but they just don't do well in my garden. It's too much work to baby along four or five plants for 10 or 12 tomatoes.

It's also hard to choose because all the varieties look so beautiful in the catalog. It's easy to order too many and end up with 200 tomato plants like we did last year. Who in the world can take care of 200 tomato plants and grow broccoli, too? Not me.

I need some tomatoes for canning. How about Santa Clara Canners? Tomato Growers Catalog describes this tomato as very juicy yet solid, with fruit that weighs 8 to 10 ounces. Perfect for canning. Until I grew Santa Claras, I thought that you were supposed to can the tomatoes that were just not good enough to eat or sell. I highly recommend them. They are kind of picky, though.

When I had to run to the grocery to buy three cans of tomatoes for spaghetti sauce last week, I sorely missed those canned tomatoes gleaming in the pantry. Better not settle for the Santa Claras alone. I think I'll try Bradley, which are described as pink, smooth, blemish free and produce fruits over a concentrated time period. I guess this means I'll have Bradleys overflowing the kitchen sink but only for a little while. These catalog writers must have been trained by the J. Peterman crew.

What else? Paste tomatoes to thicken my sauces: Grandma Mary's Paste, Opalka, Italian Red Pear, Mama Leone, and Howard German. And I can't forget the Polish Linguisas. See what I mean? Six varieties already and I haven't chosen slicers and salad tomatoes yet.

Plenty of choices to make on a cold winter day. I haven't even begun to think of peppers and onions yet.

A Bird in the Hand

Regardless of how much I would like to raise chickens and have "farm-fresh" eggs at the ready, I know there are limits on how much I can do in a day. Having chickens requires having someone at home to watch over them during the day--and this can't be the dog--and someone to put them up in the evening.

Not only are the foxes around here brave enough to venture onto our patio, the neighbors do not seem the sort exactly open to the idea of wayward poultry scratching in their yards. I would have to worry about them--the chickens, the foxes, and the neighbors--all the time. I don't have the energy for that.

I mentioned my love of homegrown eggs in my night class last semester: rich scrambled eggs, yellow cakes that are really yellow. One of the students came up to me after class and said she could bring me all the fresh eggs I could eat. Her father sells organically raised chickens and their eggs, and they keep the smallest eggs for themselves. "I cannot eat four dozen eggs a week," she said. "You're welcome to at least half of them for as long as you want them."

Last Thursday, she brought me two dozen of the sweetest little eggs. They are barely the size of my cupped palm, and I have small hands. Making scrambled eggs for the three of us took an entire dozen, but they are the richest eggs I have ever eaten. When I made the white cake yesterday, I compared the store-bought eggs to the farm eggs, and the color of the yolks is the difference between the color of lemons and oranges.

I am thankful for students who enjoy sharing their abundance with me. I should not be so amazed at the number of good people I know, but I often forget how many there are.

Seven Minute Frosting

Granny really couldn't cook very well. I'm sure she was a product of her time, but boiling green beans with ham for two or three days before they were eaten really didn't leave much bean to enjoy. And they were mighty salty. I can't even talk about the mincemeat pie, for which she fancied herself famous. Perhaps she was.

I haven't eaten meat in years, but every now and then I want to taste those beans and choke down a bite of mincemeat pie. (For some reason, I was usually allowed--or was it forced?--to eat only a bite. My memory fails me on this one.)

In the summer, she made us "Snow Joes" with ice we crushed by hand using a heavy, metal contraption. For the flavoring, she used a little sugar, a little water, and half a bottle of pure extract: lemon, peppermint, or rum. But what exactly is the difference between Pure Rum Extract and rum? By the time we went to bed or Mom picked us up, we were tipsy from those kid-version mint juleps.

Every birthday cake that I remember Granny making me was iced with Seven Minute Frosting, one of the only things that she made well every single time. In fact, I don't remember even a holiday-related cake that did not have this frosting; it was a family specialty that Granny, Aunt LaVerne, and their mother, myGrandma Mayme, all made.

Until today, I had never tried to make this frosting. I usually end up making a butter and sugar based "cold" frosting. I was feeling a little homesick for Granny's house today, and I pulled out my recipe box to look for the recipe that I must have copied down from her at some point. I could not find the Seven Minute Frosting recipe in any of the cookbooks I own, so I know it must be hers.

Making Seven Minute Frosting is a lot like making candy. Eggs, cream of tartar, sugar, corn syrup, and water cooked over a hot double boiler for seven minutes or until the mixture forms stiff peaks. I made two batches today, and the first one took twelve minutes and the second one took nine.

When it's finished, it looks like melty marshmallow, even when it turns hard on the cake. I could have cried when I tasted that cake and frosting mixture. It was like being home at Granny's again.

Strange and lovely

With two full days to get through waiting for my son and husband to do other things, I went to a yarn shop in Knoxville. Even though the sign indicated the shop would open at 10, I know knitting shops. I have seen those signs on doors of shops that didn't open all day. It has been a running joke with us as we have traveled out of our way in cities to arrive at shops that are not keeping their posted schedules.

I have also had mixed receptions at yarn shops: one shopkeeper acted as if I were trespassing when I touched her sample knits; one shopkeeper snorted when I said my fair isle techniques were not as neat as hers (this was a long, long time ago); some keepers keep out of my way; some are friendly.

I arrived too early, went to get coffee, played with the iPad a while, then returned to the shop. OPEN! Score.

I wasn't planning to buy much, but I so infreqently get to touch and see finished garments that finding a good shop is always a treat even if I am not buying much and even if the shop is not friendly. This shop (Loopville) is a great in-between shop. Not too much attention, but plenty when I asked for it: an invitation to peruse their magazines and books, an invitation to use their shop computer to look at my Ravelry queue.

Good conversation, too. I shared my thoughts on yarn with one of the workers, and we hit it off. Similar tastes in patterns, yarns, eco-friendliness. She was very helpful, and the more we talked the more we had in common. I have just started a new career journey, and she was just ending a career in the same field; she has just started working in a yarn shop, and I long to be able to do that someday when I have taught all I can stand to teach.

I left the shop with a bag of yarn--not too much and not too expensive--and a feeling that even though I am not prone to finding new friends, I am capable of it. Given the time and opportunity and pool of people, I can do it.

That experience gave me something to compare to my experience back at the baseball camp where I sat for hours waiting for my son. No one there had anything to say to me, even though many of the people sitting around know me and my kid. I was, in fact, being ignored (probably because I am a shy person perceived as being a snob and probably because I am indeed a snob about books, cheese, knitting, and pretenders).

I know that the shopworker wanted to make a sale--it IS her job, of course--but she wasn't faking her genuine conversation. I prefer that. I can make small talk if I have to, but I'm perfectly happy waiting for good conversations to happen organically. If I can have good conversation once every few years with a fellow knitter, book lover, and composition instructor, I'll wait for it.

Designing Woman

On Christmas morning, I woke up remembering that my friend Donna (who NEVER forgets my birthday) would be home for her birthday this year.

Having a birthday the day after Christmas must have been pretty hard when she was a kid. I can imagine all her presents wrapped up in shiny Santa paper and nestled in very wrinkly recycled tissue. That probably isn't what happened, but I've always felt that the two friends I have with birthdays the day after Christmas missed out on anticipating their next birthday. If all the presents come in a two-day span, that makes for a long year with nothing in between.

I'm basing all this from the point of view of someone who had a perfectly mid-summer birthday herself. No Santa wrapping for my presents. Well, not usually.

Anyway, Donna never forgets my birthday, and I sometimes forget hers. But not this year. This year she's getting something designed just for her: an asymmetrical neckwarmer.

I have had these two hanks of Noro Cashmel in the stash for a few years now. I made myself a February Lady Sweater from the rest of it, and I had knit this yarn into several small items that never seemed to be finished. Two hanks isn't much, and not everyone deserves cashmere. A few weeks ago, I raveled those small items, washed and straightened the fiber, and hung it to dry. This neckwarmer was designed to fit inside the collar of an open blouse or slipped over a t-shirt neckline to keep the drafts away. The cashmere is soft and not itchy and the fabric is densely knit.

It was just waiting to become Donna's birthday gift. I hope she loves it.

Giving

For many years, I worked with a colleague whom I admired. Tough, smart, quick-witted: attributes that are necessary when working with students and teachers. Admirable and necessary until they were turned on me.

At least twice a year, she would find some way to hurt my feelings. I say "find" because I believe that she did indeed look for ways to cut me--an ugly word, a rolled eye, a comment to students about me or my abilities--all "uncalled-for," as my mother would say. For a long time, I tried to stay out of her way, but as I became more confident in my abilities, I decided not to care so much about it.

If she were cordial, fine.

If not, fine.

I can change no one but myself, right? I have so much trouble trusting people, and even more difficulty finding people with whom I have something (enough?) in common, but I have usually been able to find such friends among my colleagues. What is so odd is that she and I had more in common than anyone else I worked with, but she always made it clear that she did not intend us to be friends, and since we had to be colleagues, she could make that miserable, too.

But as I said, I stopped worrying so much about it. This is the point in the story that most narrators would say, ". . . and once I stopped caring and worrying, our relationship became magically wonderful." It didn't.

We carried on working together, sometimes with common goals, but more often without them. By the time I was ready to move on to another position, our dissatisfaction with our jobs was one thing we did have in common. I asked her for a recommendation, and she agreed to give it.

Now that I have moved on, I have received notes and a phone call from her. I'm not sure what to do about that. I know she is very unhappy in her position; I have deep sympathy for her. I have been where she is.

Do I reach out to her? Do I answer her notes with notes of my own? Doing so would be painful if she reacts in the way she has reacted in the past. Does it matter?

She has a birthday soon, and I woke up this morning thinking of her latest card. My sleepy brain began working through small gift possibilities that could be left on her doorstep. I'm going to spend some time today thinking about what to do.

Going Nowhere Fast

I've been spending a lot of (too much?) time knitting lately, and my skills have really improved. My pattern reading, shaping, innovating, and modifying are much better than before. While I focused on small items that could be given as gifts (in a pinch) instead of complete garments, I spent hours finding the perfect projects for those small amounts of yarn that have been gathering dust up there on the second floor. Each item is nearly perfectly knitted and finished because I was working hard on my presentation skills. I don't want someone to see that the items are obviously hand knitted. It's that whole "homemade" vs. "handmade" dilemma.

I have three new scarves (gold mohair, red cashmere, and chartreuse leafy lace), a new vest, and a new hat. I donated hats, scarves, and neckerchiefs to the charity auction at work. My brother was given a hat; my nieces and sister-in-law received hand warmers to wear over their gloves; my mom has a new lap robe to use in her new car while she and Dad travel this winter.

But the stash reduction--my original goal--is not proceeding quickly enough. How can it multiply in this way? No matter how much I knit, I cannot catch up with it. The baskets and bins do not look much different. And I've been pretty strict about buying no new yarn. I even occasionally test myself by stopping into a shop or browsing Etsy yarn sellers.

I have allowed myself to buy new knitting tools and a few magazines, but no new yarn unless it is needed to finish a project begun with stash yarn. (Yesterday, I bought two hanks of yarn from fellow Ravelry users so I could finish a scarf made from yarn I bought five years ago. Sad. I know.) So why can't I catch up? It makes me angry at myself for being so out of control with my purchases. Hundreds of dollars worth of yarn. Can I really wear this many items? Can I ever convince anyone else that these items cost much more in both fiber and labor than one purchased from a store, and they, therefore, should be loved and cherished?

Probably not.

So, for now, I'm plowing on through, resigned to the knowledge that I'm going nowhere fast.

Redemption

Remember when I fell off the wagon and bought that lovely turquoise silk/cotton? I felt really guilty about buying that yarn, even though I knew that buying such an item helps someone who is running her own business. I have so much yarn and succumbing to the temptation is sometimes a little embarrassing.

Especially when I buy it on a whim and then it sits in the stash for years.

Not this time. This time, I left the box on the stairs and looked in on it occasionally and when the Yarn Harlot decided to head up the Knitting Olympics again this year, I was ready. The sweater or item we choose for the Olympics is supposed to be a challenge. Since I hate knitting sleeves and bobbles, this was the sweater for me.

After 17 days of some serious knitting, I now have a lovely sweater that was cast on during the Opening Ceremonies and finished by the time of the Closing Ceremony. I don't know what I would have done if school hadn't been canceled two days in a row, but I consider that time a gift and I won't look it in the mouth.

Here it is: the Debbie Bliss Yoke Detail Pullover. Well, darn. Crappy photo. I'll take another when I wear it tomorrow. It really is truly lovely--and I'm just so darn proud of myself. I think I'll have a beer and a cigar.

Some Housecleaning

Just a trick. I never really clean house. My stash, however, is out of control. Yesterday, my loving husband asked me how many hiding spots I have full of yarn stash, and I couldn't answer. I didn't want to answer, either.

But Friday, with a day off work, I decided to spend some time going through the mess and getting my stuff in order. I was inspired by Stephanie Pearl-McPhee's stash-busting project kits, and I decided to do something similar. While she made herself a sock-of-the-month club out of her current stash, I made myself a small-project-of-the-month club. The first of each month, I'll pick something at (sort of) random and complete it before the end of the month. I started by thinking about all the patterns that I want to use, then pulled them out and made copies. I checked to make sure I had the yarn I needed for the project, then wound it into hanks if necessary, and bagged it up with the pattern. By the end of the day, I had 13 kits for myself.

Some of the kits will take just a few hours to complete. For example, the Ostrich Feather Kerchief takes about eight hours from beginning to end, and it's pretty. It will use up about one hank of the light chartreuse cashmere I've had hiding for awhile. I will also attempt knitting with beads, using up some seed beads that have been in the craft drawer for about 10 years. (Yes, it's true--at least 10 years.) Other kits will require some attention, like the patterned socks, but many of them will be easy knitting, and I will have some nice items for myself or emergency gifts.

My February project is a silk tank top that is supposed to take about a weekend to complete. I don't really believe that, but it's a small doable project that is kind of mindless up to the armscyes. I hope I have enough of the silk to finish it; if not, I'll wait until my niece grows out of the top I made her from the same yarn.

The stash is now breathing a bit, but I didn't put much of a dent into it. My next big project is to do the same kit making with some larger projects.

Off the Wagon

On Saturday, I found a sweater's worth of lovely bluebird colored tweed fingering weight yarn on etsy.com. It was being sold at a terrific price, and it took a great deal of willpower not to click on the button.

But I didn't. I even confessed my sin to the pre-teen son, and he shared the near miss with my husband, usually a surefire method to help prevent these nasty slips with my yarn addiction.

On Sunday, with both of them out of the house, I ran a quick check on etsy just to see if the yarn was still available. If all the skeins were still there, I would consider that my message from God, and I would be compelled to buy it as soon as I saw it.

It was gone. All six skeins. Whew.

But I had a long, stressful day today, so when I came in this afternoon, I checked etsy's knitting offerings, narrowing my search to recycled or reclaimed yarns. And I fell off the wagon, folks. Not just a whoops-I-nearly-lost-my-balance slip of a single skein of sock weight wool. This was an all-out effort that took clicking on seven--yes, I am snubbing as I type it--seven separate skeins of turquoise silk/cotton at a much cheaper price than I planned on paying for silk yarn later in the spring. I practically shook when I saw it.

I am knitting like mad to finish the strawberry beret, the striped raglan, and the perfect cardigan before I start the Buttercup top that Frogginette is also knitting. I am not as adventurous as she is; I will probably follow the pattern slavishly.

Anyway, I was doing so well, cleaning out those bags of yarn, knitting them up into nice little items for myself and others. I wonder if I'll be able to avoid another hiccup in the diet. I made it 25 days.

Stash Reduction Continues

January continues to be cold and rainy, so the Stash Reduction Project is working out well. It isn't as if I have nothing else to do. With all the changes in my work schedule, the graduate course I am taking and the college course I am teaching, I have plenty to think about. But thinking about my knitting gets me through my work day.

Since I began the SRP, I have had to be a bit more creative, and that forces me to think about color combinations and pattern adjustments. For example, I am knitting a sweater from some Harrisville Highland tweed. I didn't have enough of that color to make an entire sweater, so I began pulling strands from the yarn stash. The sweater is turning out quite well. I am nearly finished with the body, and even though I have had to ravel a knitted vest to reclaim most of that Harrisville Highland, I can live with that.

Last week, I knitted a beret from hand dyed chunky weight wool--very blueberry. I have enough wool to make another just like it. Actually, I have enough purple hand-dyed wool to make two purple ones just like it, and I am knitting a red one using half hand-dyed recycled merino wool and half solid red. This hat style is not exactly flattering on me, so I'm taking them to work to see if I can sell them for $10 each.

But with a little extra cash in my pocket, I might be tempted to buy some more yarn.

Stash Reduction in Progress

This winter I have tried to go on a yarn diet. My husband would probably say that a yarn diet--at least for me--is never a cold turkey diet. You know the diets where you deprive yourself of every good thing you can imagine--butter, dessert, butter, chocolate, and butter?

That's not my style for food dieting and it isn't my style for yarn dieting, either. However, I recognized the need for some stash reduction back in the fall, so I engaged in some early Christmas gift knitting. I knit a hat for Sarah, a top for Kay, and a few scarves to put back for last-minute gifts. All these items were knit from the stash, but they were small items that didn't really put a big dent in the current holdings. It seems that the more I pull out and go through, the more yarn I have. I believe that like-species find each other in the bins and bags and shelves and find ways to multiply.

So, to lighten the yarn load that must be weighing on the floor joists in my "yarn area" (as if I have only one area!), I knit two items from Way-Back Stash: the Mayer sweater knit from 15 skeins of Aran wool I purchased at a sweater shop in Killarney a few years ago and the End of May Hat (knit from three small hanks of wool I bought in a tiny English village.

The Mayer sweater project was knit almost entirely while watching Days 1-6 of 24. Easy knitting: I made only one mistake that required tinking back. The End of May hat, however, was a white-knuckler most of the time. I'm pretty sure I was what you could describe as surly while that hat was going on, but it was only about three days of knitting, and three days of surly is pretty normal for me.

My reward for the SRPs (Stash Reduction Projects) will be a nice purchase for myself later on. Perhaps it will be some silk or some silky bamboo. I have a nice gift certificate to start with. But, if I shake all the stash yarn out and make it look pretty maybe I could trick myself into believing that all of that yarn is somehow new.

If you have any requests for gifts, now is the time to make them.

My Apologies to William Carlos Williams and My Husband

This Is Just to Say: an apology composed in the garden

I have eaten
the strawberries
that were in
the garden

and which
you were probably
thinking
I would not see.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so warm.


This is what happens when English majors grow their own food.

Blowing in the Wind

5 Reasons to Hang Out Your Laundry

1. It's free; all it takes is a little extra time.
2. Your clothes smell nice. I mean, Bounce smells good as long as you aren't thinking of all the chemicals used to make that smell.
3. Sunlight is a natural bleach. (Which is good for white clothes, but not necessarily for dark, black, or red)
4. Your clothes are easier to iron after they have had a good blow in the breeze. It's true. Try it.
5. Hanging out your naughties on Sunday morning gives the neighbors and the congregants at the church next door something to talk about.

It's Too Dark to Read

It's hard to believe that it's been over a month since my last entry. We've planted all the onions--300 sweet and 400 storage onions--more potatoes, radishes, golden beets, tomatoes, and cabbages. We should be weeding and mulching with compost, but it started raining several days ago, and it hasn't stopped long enough to allow the soil to dry out so that we can get back in there. In the meantime, the weeds are growing as fast as the desirable plants and they like the compost just as much, too.

Fortunately, the spinach and lettuce are growing in raised beds behind the house. They tend to dry out faster, and they are not surrounded by soupy mud that sucks my shoes off. We've been eating fresh spinach for several days, and I picked the first bunch of mesclun lettuce to sell at work.

The easiest way to use up that spinach is to eat it in a salad with homemade balsamic vinegar dressing. A friend at work gave me pecans for Christmas, and I chop those and toss on sometimes or add some parmesan cheese--or both--sometimes. At Easter, I added some fig goat cheese and cranberries to the spinach, and I must say it was quite tasty. I also make a beans and spinach dish that tastes much better than it sounds. I saute a red onion, open three cans of cannelini beans, drain and rinse them, then add them to the onion. A half cube of Knorr veggie bouillon and a cup of water goes in and I simmer that for about 20 minutes before adding four big handfuls of prepared spinach. Once the spinach has wilted, I stir it into down into the beans, add some salt and pepper, and we have a simple, hearty dinner.

I've been quite busy with yet another endeavor. Our sweet little Junie B dog was so sad that, after much research and discussion, we decided to adopt a dog from Kentucky Lab Rescue. We came home from Winchester two weeks ago with a surprise for Junie, and I'm thinking she might wish she hadn't acted so depressed!

Trudy is a handful, to say the least. She's two years old and little more than a giant puppy. We've started obedience training, and I'm not sure whether I'm being trained or she is. She's just about gotten me whipped into shape. Sometimes I think perhaps I made a mistake in taking on yet another project--I counted my unfinished knitting projects last night, and the ones downstairs alone numbered twelve!--but eventually she'll settle down, I hope, and be a good companion for me and I'll be able to rest my feet on her while I read.

I need her near me, because as Groucho Marx says, "Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend; inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."

There Is a Season

A compost bin just out the backdoor is handy; it keeps most of our food waste from going down the drain or into the landfill. It would be even more useful if I could get into the habit of taking the food bits straight outside instead of letting them "settle" in the lidded tub we leave in the sink to collect them. Taking potato peels to the bin is much more pleasant when done immediately. But I'm lazy when it comes to compost. I never forget to put the scraps in the kitchen bin; I just forget to transfer them to the big bin outdoors.

I forget to turn the compost, too. Some gardeners claim that there is a science of sorts to keeping a good compost pile or bin. 43% green matter, plus 51% brown matter, or some such formula. I can't ever get it right, but I do know that if I would simply turn the whole mess pretty occasionally my compost would be helped along and I would have my very own fertilizer to add to the garden.

A few weeks ago, I peered into the compost bin, wondering if even the bottom layer could be used in the raised beds. (The bin I have is something like this one, only a bit bigger.) I slid the door up, and the bits from two years ago were still sitting there looking pretty much the way they looked when I threw them in. I felt kind of like an archeologist must feel when digging through old refuse piles. Hey, there are those corn cobs from the roasting ears we made for Mom's birthday party! And the cherry pits from the cherries I preserved! And that was just in the top layer.

Something had to be done. That mess had to be turned, and I am not tall enough and the bin is not wide enough to do it with regular tools--say, a hoe or a pitchfork or even a shovel. So I ordered this compost aerator. I like gadgets, and the price was reasonable. It arrived this afternoon, and it works great. It chops the compost as I push it down, and it turns the compost on the way back up. It wasn't really easy--probably because the compost was old and wet and really packed down--but now that I've done it once, it should be easier next time.

And now that I have a new gadget, I can turn, turn, turn.

Gang aft a-gley

A few weeks ago, I planted broccoli and cabbage plants with the intention of planting more successively over four weeks. It immediately turned cold, snowed, rained, and stayed chilly since then. I was complaining to the boy about my bad timing: "the best laid plans of mice and men." He reminded me that "this isn't the Burns unit." (If you haven't heard that joke, then I guess it's not as funny.) 

As if the weather weren't enough, rabbits ate half of the broccoli. My dad pointed out the rabbit-friendly brush pile near the garden and I couldn't even think of an excuse. They're cute when they aren't munching my plants. We covered the beds with Agribon row covers. It seems to have helped.

I tried to catch up this weekend. After my favorite dad ran the tiller through the big garden for me--half of the adults in the house have injured backs--we planted 16 pounds of Red La Soda potatoes and the first 6 pounds of Yukon Golds. I planted more lettuce and filled in the spinach-free spots in the open-for-now cold frame. Thirty-six more broccoli plants went in, and the other bundle of cabbage--now missing a few plants healthy enough to plant--was planted next to them.

Our Texas Super Sweet onions from Burpee arrived last week, so I prepped the beds for those and stuck them in. I planted three pounds or so of onion sets, too, and more will follow, Weather willing. The 25 strawberry plants (Honeoye--how do you pronounce that?) that went in this week will, I hope, yield some nice berries in few years and make a nice addition to the rhubarb unfurling now.

That's about it. I'm tired and sore, but it's a good kind of labor.