MYSTERIES OF WOODWORKING

I am mechanically minded. I used to delight in following directions printed in tiny, obviously translated steps to put together a new tool or device. Going through each step to make sure it follows the instructions was like a jigsaw puzzle. As time went on, the written steps were not as clear, and the object did not operate as promised. The vernacular became less familiar, and a lot of time was wasted trying to determine what was intended if they had only written it in English.

Years ago we ordered a redwood picnic table which arrived in pieces. Not being one content to wait for the man of the family to put it together, I laid it out on our deck with instructions in hand and proceeded to put the screws in the holes and suddenly it became a large and handsome table. I was understandably quite proud of myself, though I’ll admit a bit miffed that the man of the house was off playing tennis with his buddies. I later learned that the other men were impressed that I had actually done the job. The frost began to form when I found that my husband had said that he had known I could do it. A great way to get out of a job I’d say.

That was forty-five years ago, and the deck was replaced with a large family room shortly afterward. The table lived for a time under a pavilion at one end of the garden, obtaining a coat of white paint at one point, and joined by eight chairs. One summer we were seduced by a metal garden set with comfortable upholstered chairs and a built-in BBQ pit in the table. Quite handsome really. But what to do with the old table? Something that large and heavy is hard to get someone else to take home. As it was lying on its side and being rolled from one end of the yard toward an exit, it came to rest between a very large 50 year old orange tree and a lovely large fig tree. It seemed to feel at home there and it may have planned the move all along. You can’t trust old things. In its current and more convenient home, it has given us pleasure for many repasts, party and pick up. I wonder if it has a memory of its humble beginnings? Last Sunday on Mother’s Day, it hosted a crab quiche, fresh berries, and a delicious shortcake made by our grandson, while we brunched in the garden overflowing with roses and hummingbirds.

DAILY DRIVEL

We are in another long heat wave. The garden seems to shrink into its cooler self, and the blossoms on the hydrangea have dried up early due to lack of enough water. The heat rises from the bricks and the corners of the garden under trees which look cool and inviting, aren’t. It’s a day to stay indoors.

Yes, those are my feet atop a stack of pillows. A side effect of the leg bypass is swelling. Knowledgeable medical practicioners smugly assure that elevating one’s legs will restore a matching pair. The reality is, it won’t work unless you elevate 24/7. If I have to do this again I will have to get a better looking pair of pajamas.

We went to the local diner this morning. You can’t miss it; the life-size figure of Elvis strumming his air guitar out in front gets you moving in the right direction, and the food is not bad either.

We have two hardware stores. One at either end of town, and both owned by nice people. If Dr. A goes missing, it’s been a fair bet that for over 55 years he could be found at Dale Hardware. It’s a guy thing, of course,and as such it needs to be visited several times a day. Much like checking your e-mail or looking at Facebook.

One way or another you become known to others by the times you show up, and Dale Hardware is no exception. On the way into the store, a young and pretty employee smiled and said “Hi Sam!” When the concierge saw us he called “Hi Trouble!” In the space of two minutes several other “Hi Sam”s were exchanged. It’s very folksy and makes you feel welcome. He didn’t buy anything. I think sometimes he just stops by to visit.

AMAZING GRAZING~~~~~~~ Cannellini Beans with Sausage

I’m not sure why I planted all these small Japanese boxwoods around the birdbath. I saw them in an English garden and thought they would lend an air of civility to my casual backyard. The only thing they added was frequent trimming to keep them round. This meant lying on the ground with clippers and scooting along on hands and knees and bottom to keep them even. Then the struggle to get back up, and of course, the cleanup. It wasn’t long before the newness wore off, and I convinced Dr. A. to replace the brick in the patio, which he had removed to plant them in the first place. When our lives become busy with many things, it’s time to simplify.

The heart warming dinner we had last night is as simple as you can get, and simply delicious. The choice of sausage is up to you. Italian sausages come in three strengths of spicy. A friend of mine bought a sausage stuffing attachment for his processor, and turns out some amazing sausages. I have been told a grandfather of mine whom I never met, was a sausage maker in Grants Pass, Oregon, where he was the only butcher. I promise myself now and then to make some of my own. Maybe I got the sausage gene.

CANNELLINI BEANS WITH SAUSAGE

Remove the skin from about three Italian sausages, crumble them and brown in large pan with about 1 Tbs. olive oil. While that is browning, wash and slice the leaves of a couple pounds of Swiss Chard and cook for about 15 minutes till tender, then drain.
Heat 1/4 cup olive oil and add 4 cloves garlic sliced thin, cook until sizzling and add one Tbs. tomato paste and a pinch of pepperoncino, or to taste, depending upon how tough your tastebuds are. Pour in one cup of crushed tomatoes (San Marzano is best, crushed with your hands). Mix in with the sausage and stir well.
Bring to a boil and spill in three cans of drained cannellini beans. Season well with salt and pepper. Add drained chard and cook rapidly over high heat. Cook for a couple of minutes to reduce the liquid, tossing over and over. As the juices thicken, drizzle a couple more tablespoons of olive oil.

(This is also very good without the sausage if you would like to make it vegetarian.

LET’S EAT!!

COWS AND CROWS

Cows and crows are great judges of genius; you can take my word for it. I have sat under trees scribbling my nonsense, and in the middle of open fields attempting to place in paint the indescribable beauties of nature. Ever alert, the eyes of cows and/or crows have often sat in judgement.

We all have a sense of personality; a lingering feeling about a person, though not specific. Often you remember that they were either good or bad, but can’t remember why. What sensory perception triggers memory? Is it sound, sight, smell, or perhaps the waft of a soft afternoon breeze. The afternoon breeze puts me comfortingly back into the bed of a much loved aunt while taking an after-lunch nap together. Do the cows and crows depend upon the same sense of perception?

When entering my garden while Henry and his pals are testing out the birdbath, do they know my face? In walking past the open field, when several cows look up in unison from their eternal munching, is it the sound of my boots on the gravel, or the motion of my passing that attracts them? I find it endlessly fascinating to believe these creatures of Nature recognize and accept me for what I am, as I accept and appreciate their attention.

I often wonder if the thin veil between the animal world and us will ever be shorn. Meanwhile, we anthropomorphize our relationships with these amazing creatures, which pleases us no end.

Who can explain the thrill of discovery we feel when a small yellow horse in a corral containing several others, looks up at the sound of his name being called?

“My Beau” original watercolor painting by kayti sweetland rasmussen

The thing about moments–once they are gone, they’re gone forever.

SPC 50, A HAT & SUNGLASSES

I won’t say that Dr. Advice is thrifty, but he does like a bargain. One of his most recent finds was a lovely pair of sunglasses which were tucked into a bin at a Thrift Store, much like candy bars at the check out counter at the grocery store. Through the years he has gone through many pairs of sunglasses which mysteriously disappear occasionally after a day in the garden. Now and then a lost pair will surface after a rain, having been buried under leaves, bark or soil during a garden transformation. However, since our relentless days of summer sun seem to have implanted themselves indefinitely, he is again in need of sunshades. As I waited in line at the Thrift store a few weeks ago to pay for my $.75 copy of a defunct Gourmet magazine with a gorgeous cake on its cover, he gleefully brandished his purchase while announcing that he had only paid $.99 for them! “Yes, I agreed, a grand bargain indeed, but they are GIRL’S glasses—they have diamonds on the sides!” “So what,” he replied, “they only cost 99 Cents!”

A few days later, the gaudy glasses disappeared, and a deep funk supplanted Dr. Advice’s usually cheery attitude. The search was on, and we circulated throughout the house each looking in likely spots without success. Discouraged, my dear one went to take the garden bins to the curb for garbage collection. As he checked the contents of the bin, he spied a glimmer of light flickering from between the leaves of grass and weeds. Deciding that it could be emanating from something of possible importance, he tossed the leaves aside and there to his surprise lay his sunglasses. Happiness reigned supreme once more.

Our daughter looked at the sunglasses and informed him that “Dad! They’re GIRL’S glasses!” She got the same reply “But they only cost me 99 cents!”

Today he sat on them and broke the frame, so I went to the hardware store and paid $7.99 for glue to mend them. A grand bargain.

CRICKETS AND COYOTES

The cheerful sound of cricket song beckons me outdoors in the lingering warmth of late summer evenings and I plop myself down under a fig tree to soak it all in; apples ripening on their trees, and figs already sharing their deliciousness. The hydrangea blossoms are packing it in for the year, but in their dry state they will fill autumn vases for a month or so. Across the yard, the large orange tree has been warning me to harvest the fruit unless I want to pick it up off the brick patio. Raymundo promised to come and pick some Friday, but he never showed up. There will be more.

Reluctantly I return to the quiet house, loyal Charlie at my heels, ready for bed and wondering what I find so engaging in the nighttime garden.

The night grows deeper and Dr. Advice slumbers on. The crickets have gone to sleep and the only sound is the primeval yipping of coyotes conversing somewhere outside the garden enclosure. It is late in the year for pupping, but with the drought having depleted water supplies, maybe they are just thirsty. Though the sound is annoying, and I am happy to have Charlie safely indoors, it does not stir a flight response in me as the long mournful howl of a wolf would surely bring.

As an omnivore, coyotes have adapted to food sources all over the world, some food choices to our benefit.
To many Native American cultures, coyotes were powerful mythological figures venerated for their intelligence and mischievous nature. The Aztec name for the coyote was “coyotyl” which translates to “trickster”. The Navajo sheep and goat herders referred to the coyote as “God’s Dog”. I like that name better.

It’s the push and pull of the life force–cricket song inviting our participation, and coyote song pushing us into our own safe dens, allowing them to rule the night.

BOY WITH A COOKIE

Standing in the sunlit garden, this small last progeny, munches happily on his giant chocolate chip cookie, bright beams of radiance bouncing off hair in pleasant need of a barber.

Who has not stood barefoot, awaiting his turn for a shower from the garden hose, then bolting quickly through the icy cold spray, thinking to stay as dry as possible, but secretly hoping not to?

Childhood memories of a bygone age, refreshed periodically by other children no less dear, fill my heart as I watch, entranced by this youngest sprite repeating the age-old summer activity.

When did it all go?

EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY

You know how we all love our pets, coddling them and mostly trying to make them into four-legged humans. A neighbor lady, Mrs Godfrey, was no exception with her charming chubby Chihuahua Cappucino, who was as devoted to Belgian chocolates as his owner. The local vet was a frequent visitor and regularly put Cappucino on a strict diet, but Mrs. Godfrey just couldn’t help herself, a delicious bit of cake or something wonderful off her dinner plate somehow found its way into Cappucino’s mouth as well as her own. The wise veterinarian also prescribed a regular walking schedule, which Mrs. Godfrey followed by having her gardener carry Cappucino around the garden several times a day. It was great exercise for the gardener, but little Cappy gained little from it, except more weight.

When Mrs. Godfrey finally allowed Cappucino to walk on his own, he developed a new ailment she called “flopbot”, which simply meant he sat down wherever he was and refused to walk another step. The dear lady became frantic, positive that the dog was not long for this world, and what on earth would she do without her sweet companion? So the patient vet came again and soothed Mrs. Godfrey while reiterating his advice on caring for the pup. Finally on one visit he suggested she get a companion dog for Cappucino, which would give him more exercise as they ran around her extensive grounds.

A month went by before the vet paid another call on Mrs. Godfrey, and it turned out not to be about Cappucino, but about Cedric, the new dog she had bought to be a companion dog for Cappucino. She had apparently spent most of the month finding just the right friend for Cappy. A perfect pedigree, photos were exchanged, a luncheon date set up, and Cedric filled the bill, so she brought him home. But Cedric had one fault, and it was a big one. It took some time for her to explain the problem, not being one to discuss such embarrassing episodes. Cedric suffered from an excessive amount of flatulence. Poor Mrs. Godfrey was in a state of sobbing distress even mentioning to the vet.

“When does he do this Mrs. Godfrey”, asked the vet. “Only when he gets excited,” she said. “And that’s all the time”.

The vet changed his diet and gave him some digestive pills, and assumed all would be well. however no one estimated the amount of bacterial fermentation going on in Cedric’s body, and each approach by Cedric was accompanied by an aura of unpleasant odor. The vet finally told Mrs. Godfrey that she must get rid of the dog. Thinking he meant sending Cedric back to his Maker, Mrs. Godfrey went into another siege of sobbing. “You could give him to someone else”, the vet suggested. In the meantime Cedric was banished to a garden shed, away from any excitement, until the vet found another home for him.

The following week Mrs. Godfrey was having her annual morning coffee party for the local hospital board, with many prominent people in attendance. It was a lovely morning, and the door to the house was opened to allow people to come and go. Meanwhile, Cedric became bored in the garden shed all alone with nothing to do but tip over pots and tear open bags of compost, so he pushed open the door to see what was going on over at the main house.

Silently Cedric entered the house amid the festivities, and as he moved through the room, happily passing gas as he went, the faces of the guests registered disgust and suspicion as they stepped away from conversations throughout the room. He was soon spotted by Mrs. Godfrey, who shrieked in embarrassment, and threw Cedric out of the house while shouting apologies to her guests.

“Who would want a dog that flatulates all over the place?” she cried to the vet. “Cappucino will be heartbroken, but I cannot keep him”.

When the vet came to collect Cedric, he saw a new part time gardener pruning Mrs. Godfrey’s roses. In answer to his praise of the delightful fragrance, the new gardener said “That may be but I haven’t smelled anything for thirty years!” “You mean you can’t smell ANYTHING?’ asked the vet. “Not a thing”, answered the gardener. ” Say, that’s a real nice dog you got there, always wanted one of them boxers.”

With apologies to James Harriot fo this great story. We are lovers of his wonderful stories “All Creatures Great and Small”.”

LISTEN TO THE DAY

“Starting from nothing to where we are, Is farther that the farthest star. And farther than the farthest star is where we are going from where we are.” Eyvind Earle

Today my mind is a fallow field. Outside, the world is sun-drenched and burning. Sunday morning is slow, easy and drifting. My book was open, but I did not read. I knew there were things which needed to be done, but my mind was stuck in auto-reverse.

I must have closed my eyes because behind my eyelids I began planning our Sunday supper. I know that sounds silly in the greater scheme of things, but we do need to eat.

Dr. Advice loves an applesauce pie that his mother used to make, so when I can move from my chair I’ll make it! Isn’t it wonderful that we always remember something our mothers used to make from our childhood? Years ago I overheard several friends of my daughter discussing favorites from their childhood for which their mothers were justly famous. My daughter liked my tuna salad sandwiches. I have always tried unsuccessfully to imitate my mother’s potato salad, however my father produced a suitable one after she died.

I am cheating today with the applesauce pie, as I bought a ready-made graham cracker crust. That shows how lazy someone can get. In it I will put applesauce up to the top, and cover the whole thing with whipped cream. How simple can you get? Dr. Advice could even make it himself if he could rouse the energy today. Chilled for a few hours, it cuts and holds together nicely.

As for the rest of the meal, I’m making a Southern corn pudding with the fresh white corn from the Farmer’s Market this morning. I remember many years ago, in Grants Pass, Oregon where my parents lived, going to a farm to pick corn. My mother thought corn should go from the stalk to the pot of boiling water immediately. Well, it didn’t get in that fast, but we came home with a ton of corn to husk, and then popped it in the pot while the butter was softening and we got out bibs for everyone. Then as my father used to say “The heck with the rest of the dinner, let’s just eat the corn.” And we did.

Why are we always in such a rush, what could be more important than just lingering?

SOUTHERN CORN PUDDING

3 eggs beaten well
1 c. milk
1 c. cream
3-4 Tbs. flour
2 tsp. salt
1 Tbs. sugar
1 Tbs. melted butter
3 ears fresh corn cut from cobs. Grind half in processor.
dash of pepper

Add all ingredients to beaten eggs. Mix well. Pour into well buttered casserole and bake at 350 degrees until firm, approximately 40-45 min.

OUTWITTING HENRY

I knew life was going all too smoothly around here. When the last invasion of feathered rats departed, I thought life would return to normal. We again claimed the garden as our own; a peaceful co-existence with the birds and the bees. And then Henry appeared out of nowhere.

He came silently, treading gently on the red brick patio, gazing unhurriedly from front and then side to side as he made his way to the bird bath which is centered amongst pink pelargoniums just reaching full summer bloom.

I had to admit that his glossy black feathers looked like someone had polished him up with some carnauba wax, and he was making the most of it. He actually strutted across the yard with a smug and arrogant look on his face. When he had assured himself that all was safe and he was alone, he flew up and jumped into the bird bath. He drank and bathed and generally looked pretty cute. So I named him Henry. It seemed fitting. Rather like Henry VII; he wanted it so he took it.

****************************************************************************************************************

The next day while watering the pots, I began to fill the bird bath, only to see it all slimy and fogged up. When I called Dr. Advice to take a look, he told me that Henry washes his food in it. Well, that’s OK I thought. In fact it’s rather nice to know that we have such a persnickety visitor, as long as he gets his food elsewhere.

That was Monday. By Tuesday he was bringing large hunks of bread over to wash, and I could see this might be the ruination of my cute little bird bath. On Wednesday I discovered several small offerings he had brought me submerged in the murky depths. There were several small pieces of walnut shell, a marble, and a large shiny screw. On Thursday, he decided to throw a party, and several of the black freeloaders showed up for dinner. Well, you know how fast a party can get out of hand when the parents aren’t at home.

***************************************************************************************************************

Up until this time Charlie, our Jack Russell Terrorist, had not roused himself enough to notice the new visitors. However, when they all landed up on the roof and began a loud drumming session, Charlie went berserk. There are not too many things louder or more insistent than a Jack Russell in full pursuit of prey. The sound and the fury is unimaginable. The crow population was in grave danger.

Temptations of dog cookies will do no good in a case like this. Threats of kennel imprisonment are neither heard nor obeyed when the hunt is on.

Again Dr. Advice calmly came to our rescue, solving the situation quickly and without the angst Charlie and I were putting into it. He simply went out and emptied the bird bath. Problem solved, and Henry and his loud partying pals have moved on for the time being.

Charlie has resumed his usual position, stretched out in relaxed comfort on an old Indian blanket, head on pillow, but eyes open, ever alert for trouble.