Feasts, walks and sleepovers.

What a wonderful weekend we've had. On Friday afternoon, Larry and I tootled off to Burlington to spend some precious moments with Emi and Kevin and Soe. The girls had gone to great pains to plan a birthday celebration for their old Mum, and Kevin very generously, not only provided, but also cooked, the pork chops. Soe's completely delicious Roasted Beet Crostini added a bright, unexpected sweet and sour accompaniment to the rest of the meal, which included the aforementioned pork chops, homemade applesauce, done in the oven, and Mustard Greens and Bulgur. This was all followed up by an exquisite Pineapple-Coconut Layer Birthday Cake, an extremely ambitious climax to an already supercalifragilisticexpialidocious meal. What a gift of love and generosity. How blessed we are with our daughters and their boys. I feel very priveleged and extremely well-loved. Although everything was splendid, we missed Hanushka, too far away to have been part of the evening...(The recipes can be found in the February 2008 issue of Eating Well magazine). After dinner, we took the dogs for a walk on the golf course. We didn't need headlamps, the moonlight shining on the snow was light enough. The dogs had such a romp, and we walked off a good portion of the meal. When we finally (!) made it home, we all collapsed contentedly onto our beds and slept the sleep of the satiated. I love sleepovers...I wonder why we stop having them. I used to sleep over at Cally's house and stay up all night telling ghost stories and eating jam sandwiches under the sheet tent we made. Breakfast in the morning was the sweet dessert of the fabulous sleep-over feast. She lived a stone's throw from our house, and we saw each other every day, but a sleep-over...mmm, heaven!

It's a grouse!

She certainly looked like a bird of prey with her legs all stretched out and 'talons' ready to grasp whatever it was on which she had her beady eye set. For all intents and purposes, she was a merlin. Yes, that was it! After hours of searching through my trusty bird book, I found that, though it was rare, merlins do actually winter-over all the way up to Southern Canada. I had dug her out of the fresh snowfall, wrapping her tenderly in a Russian muslin, then I brought her inside to thaw out a bit, so I could get some good pictures and spread her wings out a bit, to get a better look. I also wanted to do a pencil drawing of her. Took the pictures, studied and compared her to different hawks listed in the book, and finally came up with the afore-mentioned merlin. Larry came home for lunch, took one look at my merlin, and said, "It's a grouse!". I told him not to be silly, that surely he knows the difference between a hawk and a grouse, but he was adamant, pointing out the difference in the eye-set of the hunter and the hunted, the small chicken-sized head of the grouse, as compared to the majestic head of the hawk. The absence of long legs and huge talons of the hawk, (all the better to grasp you with, my dear!) surely must have been a clue to me that this was a humble grouse? I feel a little silly! Never-the-less, my sadness at her unfortunate demise is no less acute! May she rest in peace!

Fallen bird

Sadie found her first. All frozen and stiff and cold. She nudged her gently with her nose, urging her to try harder, but it was far too late for heroic efforts. She came to get me from where I stood watching, hoping ... So I followed after, slipping and sliding down the hill to the foot of the cedar tree where she lay. Oh where had I been when this happened? Why wasn't I watching, so I could've helped? What happened? Were you just not looking where you were flying? Did you slam into this beautiful tree? Is that why your head is all twisted askew? What kind of hawk are you? She's about the size of a large pigeon, with a defined hawk's beak and talons. Her plumage is not unlike the summer ptarmigan, but there's a feeling of grouse about her...and she's not in my National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds. I shall make a pencil drawing of her tomorrow, and find her identity by calling VINS, they'll know why a broad-winged hawk failed to make the migration. Cally and I used to collect dead birds, barn swallows, sparrows and the like. We laid them in rows up in the attic part of the stables. The only way you could get up there was to squeeze through a small trap-door opening above the middle loose-box, having climbed up onto the partition wall. To this secret place, we brought our treasures, sometimes performing gruesome operations on them with pieces of broken bottle and Mum's favourite paring knife! I remember being amazed at how big their eyes were, but I don't ever remember them smelling, and they surely must've. Dad must have known about our secret hiding place, because I was the only one in the family to whom he gave the prestigious job of cleaning the pheasants, grouse and partridge that he and my brothers brought home from shooting weekends. In retrospect, it was a bit of a Tom Sawyer thing, he, pretending that it was the best part of the feast, and I, then, wanting to join in the fun. Dad had a gift for wooing you into the thing, without you realizing it was a trick. He taught me how to bleed brakes, and in those days before the boys' legs were long enough to reach the pedals of the old Riley, he often called on me to come and help him bleed the bleeding brakes! Oh, joy! No dusting or cleaning for me today, I have to help Dad! So here we are with a mystery on our hands. Our woods will be far less rich without you, whoever you are.

January

I always feel this way in January. Some have what is known as 'cabin fever'. But this isn't that! I take an inward look, and think 'My Lord, Miss A., but you're boring!' The thing is, I'm perfectly happy with that conclusion, which is slightly worrying. Could it be that I don't really believe it? Or maybe I understand that it's only temporary, and, like the wind, will be gone. Possibly, but highly unlikely, we're supposed to slow down in January, take an inward look, make plans for spring, by the way, where are my seed catalogues? Used to be that, come January, our mail box would be stuffed with seed catalogues. Haven't seen one in years. Last year, around about this time, I spoke to Papa Roger, his birthday was January 24th. It was a lovely conversation, and after a few minutes I told him I loved him, and he replied, "I love you, too, sweetheart." They were to be his very last words to me. How perfectly lovely. Last January, I was looking forward to Sophie and the kids coming, hoping and praying for snow, before they came on the Saturday after Valentine's! Last January, I turned 60. Last January, my Mum was still alive, and Papa Roger, and Caleb. Sometimes, but only in January, I wish I was an old bear, then I could just skip January, and wake up in the spring to start digging in the garden. How lovely and boring that would be!

Gypsies

Was it so long ago? Have places, times and things changed so dramatically, that it beggars the imagination to even bring it to mind? When I was eight years old, our family moved back to the misty-moisty-mornings of the English countryside, having spent what, to me, was a lifetime on the island of Malta, which sits in the Mediterranean Sea, mid-way between the foot of Italy and North Africa. My brothers and sister, (Sophie wasn't even a twinkle in my father's eye yet!), were brown as autumn berries and could all swim like fish. We were all fluent in Maltese, since Joycie, our Nanny, spoke no English. My parents did their best at teaching her the basics, but it was so much easier for us to learn her language, since we were with her most of the time. Maltese is a strange mix of Arabic and Italian! Mummy was in the kitchen conjuring up some delicious Mediterranean feast, and Joycie, just arriving for the day, went into the kitchen, following the exquisite aromas, to proclaim in her very best English, "Oh, Madam, I am smelling!" We've never forgotten it. And back in England, my parents did a splendid job of raising their ever-growing brood in a marvellous laissez-faire fashion. There were few rules, one of these was that when we heard the cow-bell, a huge great Swiss thing on a fat leather strap, we were to drop everything and run home as fast as we could muster. The cow-bell rang for lunch and tea-time and bed-time, or if there was a crisis (it never happened!) Every now and again, at least once a week, Mummy would plonk a shilling down on the table, and tell me I could go riding with Cally, my mostest friend. We'd ride our bikes the 2 miles to Downhead Farm, crossing the A303 with a fleeting left and right glance. (The A303 was the main road from London to Cornwall in those days). Mrs. Neimeier and her husband (who I was madly in love with!) owned the farm and all 'our' precious horses. We'd 'yahoo' into the kitchen, to let her know that we were taking Betsy and Bendix out, and could we use the loo before we went. There were always cookies and 'cow-cake', lumps of goodness-knows-what that we fed to the horses instead of sugar lumps. So off we'd trek, the two of us, up onto the hill and into the woods where the gypsies made camp when they were round about. I remember their ponies. They were piebald and skewbalds and wild as the wind, like their children. It really was an adventure, and very brave of us to go up there. Everyone knows that gypsies steal little children, and sell them in Africa! We liked to play with the children, all muddy-faced and raw. They showed us how to catch rabbits and things, and the grandmother told our fortunes if we had a few extra pennies in our pockets. The promise of marrying at 21 a dark-eyed prince of a fellow, with the resultant eight children was enough for me! After a while, we'd get on our horses and wend our way back through the woods, into the quarry and down the hill to the farm. Riding our bikes home to arrive in time for a delicious tea-time, nobody could have convinced us that the old woman made it all up, every stinking word!

The Continuing Saga...

This bird-seed wreath thing has become an obsession! Really. I shall make a promise right now that I will not mention them again after this entry! I mean, life must go on. So let me tell you what has happened today, and be done with it. Still in my trusty plaid flannel nightie, I decorated my wreath, still heady with a decidedly beefy flavour, with a bundle of wheat sheaths and a few pine-cones, all tied up with strips of coordinating home-spun fabric in browns and soft rose-pinks(!), one floral and the other plaid for goodness sake, and attached it to the side of the wreath with a nice chunky bow. It was a sight for sore eyes. Wishing that I wasn't such a dunce with the digital camera, I never-the-less pulled on my sister Sophie's cold-weather boots and my heavy down squall jacket (hey, it was -2 degrees Fahrenheit!) and tromped out to the garden to hang the precious gift-offering onto a chosen tree where we could watch contentedly as our little birds would enjoy their treat. I also hung up the raisin icicles that my dear friend had made - 4 of them. I was pleased, however, that nobody was around to take a photograph of the vicar's wife in her nightie and winter boots out in the garden! That was 9 a.m. I left for school, and returned at about 1:30 p.m. only to find that one of the icicles had been very carefully removed, no string, no ribbons were to be found. Clever little bird! Wait, who's that hugging the wreath. Little red squirrel, that's who! He's claimed it. It's his! I looked for the sign that would read 'No birds allowed!' but he, like a good little squirrel, was using his words! No bird in its right mind would dare to come against this chattering conquistador! The days of the bird-seed wreath are surely numbered. Enough already!

If they only knew...

I'm not exactly sure how the progression went, but I'll try to give an accurate account of the progression of things: My dear friend, who I love dearly, couldn't find what she needed locally, so she went online and ordered some 10" straw wreaths. (Actually, she wanted 6" ones, but this is what arrived.) Great. Now down to business. She drove to Price Chopper, to buy some pre-shredded suet (what have we come to?!), some peanut butter, cornmeal, and a bag of song-bird food. From somewhere she procured some beautiful wheat ears, pinecones and a bag of brightly coloured ribbons. So we made a plan, and spent the afternoon together today making these exquisite wreaths to hang outside in the trees for our little feathered friends. While the suet slowly, carefully melted, we chatted about this and that, a wonderful, companionable visit between friends who hadn't enjoyed each others company for months. The kitchen began to swell with the heavy odour of Mr. Rideout's butcher shop in Marston Magna. He's been dead now for at least 20 years, but for the years we lived in the village, his shop, on the Queen Camel road was a daily destination. "2 lb. of your best sausages, please, Mr. Rideout. Oh, and we'd better have a leg of lamb for the Sunday joint. And have you made any faggots today? We'll need a dozen. (Faggots, for you American readers, are delicious meatballs made up of all kinds of unmentionables and stuffed into intestine skins...completely scrumptious!) How's Mrs. Rideout? And Sally? Is she enjoying Australia? You must miss her most dreadfully." And so it went. Everybody in the village knew all about everybody. What a heavenly place to grow up. We were all born in the guest room of the Manor House, a lovely Jacobean house which stood on the village green, flanked by the Church of St Mary the Virgin on one side and the farmhouse labourers cottages on the other. Roland Guppy had climbed up the yew tree in the graveyard on the afternoon of my birth, some 61 years ago, to get a better look. He called down to his mate at the foot of the tree:"I can see the doctor in his white nightie!" This, according to my beloved father, who had taken himself off across the fields, to get away from the drama of awaiting the arrival of his second daughter, both blue and breach! Where was I? Oh yes, in Derby, Vermont making bird seed wreaths! The pot was too small for the 10" wreaths so we held them up, taking turns to pour this amazing mixture of melted suet, peanut butter and cornmeal onto the wreaths until they were covered, but it was all going extremely well. My dear friend had dutifully placed a couple of pork chops on a plate to defrost for dinner that evening, and they seemed safe enough, sitting there on the kitchen counter...so at one point, I was patting a sodden wreath with birdseed, just a little tricky, as the birdseed was now all mixed with the suet, and it wasn't sticking too well. And then my friend, who I love dearly,decided to take things into her own hands, took the plate of birdseed to the pot, and lifting the wreath onto the plate proceeded to scatter birdseed from one end of the kitchen to the other! What a mess! What fun we were having. I really love my friend! There was a little of the suet mixture remaining in the pot, so she ran off and came back with a bundle of pinecones. Now that was fun! While we sat and chatted after this enormous effort, she tied red ribbons on some raisin icicles she had made for my birds. It seemed to take a long time, and she was most particular about her bows. They are truly beautiful. I shall hang them in the morning, along with the wreath and pinecones in one of the trees left standing after last week's storm. If those darling little birds only knew to what lengths we went to give them such a nourishing treat! Would they care? I doubt it! But I care, and I'm sure my sweet friend cares. We made a moment...So. What did you do today? How were the pork chops, dear friend?!