Bud and Zoë have birthdays in June and we often take a trip to celebrate. This year we visited Straw Dog Farm. What a change of landscape. We drove to the farm from St. Louis through dense forests and past bright green lawns. There were flood warnings and water everywhere. The farm was in its glory, full of flowering native plants, insects and butterflies.  

Mimi put us to work although my work involved cooking more that gardening. Zoë made a bamboo fence to protect plants from rabbits and the fierce sun. After she harvested the canes she wove the leafy bamboo past upright stakes to make a dense barrier. The leaves will wilt so she made sure the stalks were tight against each other.

We had simple, delicious meals like burritos made with Mimi’s wonderful home made flour tortillas, a spring tonic soup full of nettles, lamb’s quarters and other greens, a garden veggie stir-fry, and a chard frittata. All this prepared on the wood-burning stove on the summer kitchen.

Returning to life on Blue Mountain Road I realized how cushy our life is with a gas stove, air-conditioning, and hot running water. I’m always impressed with Mimi’s thoughtful way of life, how she doesn’t waste anything from dead tree limbs to butter wrappers and composts everything else. She takes pleasure in the small things like a rinse under the hose to cool off and a beer in the afternoon.

I always forget the heavy hot days of July. My imagined, perfect summer doesn’t include such claustrophobic days. And here we are, deep into the heat. We’re lucky to have breezes wafting down the gullies in the evening and cool temperatures in the night. With no pavement or nearby buildings, the house stays relatively cool. In the old-fashioned Colorado way, we manage the house machine, closing window and shades in the morning, opening them in the cooling evening. We got a heat pump system last year and for the first time have air-conditioning. We don’t need it until the late afternoon when it provides a welcome respite from high temperatures.

So, what to cook when it’s too hot? I have a large repertoire of salads and often use beans and grains as a palette for veggies, fruit, nuts and herbs.

Black Bean Salad

For two cups black or other beans I make a dressing with the juice of a lime – enough to make a couple tablespoons, ½ teaspoon freshly ground cumin, a big pinch of hot red pepper flakes, a clove of garlic – mashed, salt to taste and two tablespoons olive oil.

Then the palette is ready for an assortment of veggies. I like sliced cherry tomatoes, diced red onion, chunks of avocado, and a big handful of cilantro. Then depending on the contents of the fridge and my cravings I add chopped red or yellow peppers, or jicama, and my favorite, cubes of watermelon. Top with crumbled feta or goat cheese. Serve on a bed of greens with hard-boiled eggs, crusty bread or tortilla chips.

Tuna and White Bean Salad

Marinate large white beans in lemon zest, lemon juice, red pepper flakes, salt and olive oil. At serving time stir in chopped parsley and dill. Top with flaked canned tuna. Serve on a bed of greens, chopped radishes, and avocado chunks, drizzled with a little olive oil.

I make a simple green salad with lettuce and arugula, chunks of watermelon and crumbled feta to accompany grilled salmon or chicken. Dress with salt, lemon juice, black pepper and olive oil.

Quinoa Salad

Another favorite is quinoa salad. This high protein, rather plain tasting seed makes a delicious salad. I cook a cup of quinoa like pasta, in lots of boiling water, for 10 – 12 minutes, check that it’s tender, then drain in a sieve.

For a dressing, combine two tablespoons lime juice, ½ teaspoon freshly ground cumin, red pepper flakes, salt, two tablespoons olive oil, a teaspoon maple syrup, and two tablespoons dried currants. Add chopped roasted asparagus, snap peas, or diced red pepper to the dressed quinoa and top with cilantro, dill, mint, or other herbs, and toasted pepitas.

I usually have a jar of these ready to add to any salad. To toast pepitas or walnuts: Put a small heavy skillet over medium high heat. Add a cup of nuts or seeds. Sprinkle with a teaspoon sugar and toast. Watch carefully, shaking the skillet every now and then. When the sugar melts remove from the heat and dump pepitas on to a plate or board to cool.

Zoë and I shared a twenty-pound box of organic Colorado apricots. I made seven jars of jam and used the rest for desserts like this one. The recipe is the classic Marian Burros plum cake. Very tasty with apricots.

Apricot Cake

Cream together 1/2 cup butter and 1/2 cup sugar. Add two large eggs, 1/2 teaspoon vanilla. Fold in one cup unbleached flour, one teaspoon baking powder, and a pinch of salt. Spread in a buttered 9-inch springform or other cake pan. Top with 24 apricots cut in half, or as many as will fit cut side up on the batter. Sprinkle with a bit of sugar and some chopped hazelnuts or almonds. Bake at 350° for one hour. Cool on a rack.

by Mimi Hedl

A terrific thunder storm ripped through our hills early this morning. I’ve never heard such loud thunder and the lightening scared me – usually I enjoy the power. This storm had more than power, it felt violent. We gardeners plan our days by the weather. It has not been easy this spring. I’m weeks behind and may never catch up, a lament I voice every year.

We’ve had a wet, chilly season. Flowering plants bloomed early only to be cut down by late cold spells. There were few lilacs and iris, many fruit trees and even the berry bushes won’t bear fruit this year, blackberries an exception. Weeds decided to claim the earth and we’ve pulled mountains of them for our ever grateful compost piles. Gardeners have had a tough time deciding when to sow seeds and set out plants. Some plants have succumbed to the changeable weather. Farmers are as lost as we gardeners. It feels like a worldwide phenomenon as we learn how to deal with an angry earth, angry people.

There comes a time in our lives when we can’t help but ruminate, the thoughts come unbidden. The world climate, in all senses, may contribute. My age might too, as the head gardener likes to remind me. Bless her sweet, difficult heart! How could we survive without someone to bark at us and question our moves? She certainly has given me many opportunities to learn restraint. Sometimes, yes sometimes, she hits it right.

As we were weeding those massive stands of Japanese brome, she commented on how easily the plants came out. How it wasn’t just one stalk of grass, but an impressive bunch of sometimes twenty-five, or even more, stalks. A simple slice under the roots and they came out, intact. “Not like before”, she opined, “when there were thousands (an exaggeration for sure) of puny stalks and you made me pull each individually.” I tried to explain to her that the reason, over these many years of working these gardens together, for pulling each stalk, is we decreased the seed reservoir in our soil by eliminating each and every seed head and as the soil improved, the seeds that did germinate, produced a vigorous growth and… “Blah, blah, blah”, she said. “I don’t care about that, I’m just happy the job isn’t so crazy fussy.” And she sure was correct about that.  I told her she hit the nail on the head. She smiled and gloated under her large hat.

When my ruminations aren’t interrupted, I marvel at how one piece of earth transforms into another. Hopefully not into a parking lot or an AI data center. This photograph shows the field that produced only fescue forty-four years ago. When I look at this, I shake my head. The slow process that allowed the field to become home to a multitude of creatures and species has become the story of a big chunk of my life. It doesn’t seem possible that changes could occur in such a short time. The other photo is of us standing by the telephone poles, braced and ready for the cement truck to come to pour concrete into the holes for the foundation of our house. You can’t see all twelve telephone poles, but each one is in a six-foot deep hole. We each dug one hole a day. It was brutal work. I was not used to doing such hard labor, coming from my cushy life in Boulder.

Now in 2026, the 1st quarter acre is no longer a garden, but rather a plot of land that is becoming a meadow. You can see redbud trees dotted here and there. The Indian pinks, a native flower, have almost finished blooming in the photo I took, so I have included a photo of them by the woodshed where they still bloom, so the reader may see how beautiful they are and imagine a large area where these are growing in the nascent meadow. The hummingbirds go wild over these blooms, as well as the now blooming wine cups. It is such a delight to watch these hummingbirds pollinating as well as sipping nectar. To see the transformation in the land has been an amazing gift.

And I like the redbuds that planted themselves in that first quarter acre. They’ve become veritable trees. And the shade is wonderful when I work there. As I think back to 1982 when Ron used the Gravely tractor to establish twelve raised beds there, I couldn’t have imagined that garden becoming a meadow. Maybe you’ve watched your landscape change in ways you didn’t imagine. You can share my excitement in working with the plants and Mother Nature to create a vision to your liking. It doesn’t always work out how you imagined and may take a few attempts. That’s part of the fun.

If I let all the redbuds stay in this young meadow, I’d have a jungle of redbuds. (Maybe I should’ve called this post “Too many redbuds”.) What’s weird about the redbuds, a legume, is that they don’t fix nitrogen. They don’t have the nodules on their roots that makes that possible. I won’t begin to explain that to the head gardener. So you think, when you plant a redbud, oh good, it’ll fix nitrogen. Then you find out they’re lazy and they reproduce like no other tree, except mimosas, and they don’t fix nitrogen. But oh my, they have such gorgeous flowers after a long winter of dullness, and it’s worth it to have as many as possible. So I’m out with my pruners, cutting down the redbuds I don’t want, hoping to slowly deplete their root supplies. I’ll continue my redbud rant another time. I do love them, just not so many!

The gardens have reached a point where they tell me what will grow where. I didn’t sow many of the seeds of plants now growing on this homestead. Each seed has its origin story, a story I’d love to hear. The usual suspects come to mind, birds, wind, mice, squirrels, soles of shoes or paws, wheelbarrow tires, and the unknowns that provide mystery. “How did this get here?” is muttered by many a gardener. I’d like to think that at least a few of the plants have germinated from seed that lay dormant and finally found conditions favorable, a reunion with the land they grew up in. As I walk into each of many micro-environments, I notice plants I’d never seen before and can’t wait for Agnes to come with her plant finder app to tell me what they are.

Some seedlings are not welcome. Maintenance becomes critical. When a redbud seedling first sprouts, or even after growing for a month, it pulls out easily. Give it more time and you need a trowel, or later on, a shovel and some good cuss words. Any other plant we love that breaks off at ground level, we can kiss goodbye as it has no starch supplies in its roots. But not a tree or weed with a massive root system. They simply reinforce their survival strategy and come back stronger and wilier, anchoring themselves in clever ways. Such as the wire grass.  I look at the roots and marvel at the way they grew to insure survival, then toss them in the wheelbarrow for the compost to reincarnate. The thousands of redbud seedlings get tossed aside. They’ll never resprout and it is an endless task to get them all out, sometimes there are a dozen seedlings in less than a square foot.

These photographs show some of the richness of our spring. The Baltimore orioles must be nesting now as they no longer bang on the window, talking to their reflection.

The grey sugar peas have a gorgeous flower and have been generous in fruiting.

Doesn’t Our Lady of the Flowers look regal in her new head and summer gowns?

It’ll get down to the low 50’s tonight. And I took the heavy quilt upstairs. I’ll have to pull something down so I don’t shiver on the summer kitchen during the night, unable to sleep. Like I said, for a gardener, everything is about the weather.

Still no rain. With each prediction of moisture, I cross my fingers and hope. We’ve had a few sprinkles to fill our rain tanks. But not enough to really wet the ground. No wildflowers, no grass greening up.

Ever hopeful that we’ll get a good downpour, we had planted grass and flower seed in the disturbed area where new culverts were installed on our three hundred foot long driveway. Zoë, Bud and I spread grama grass seed mixed with native flowers and sand across the bare dirt. We walked on a piece of cardboard in little steps across the area to insure the tiny seeds made contact with the soil. Then we watered the patch with a long hose, actually three long hoses, from the house.

Our water comes from a slow well so the lack of winter and spring moisture has made me anxious about the coming months conserving water. I had had the garden fences repaired in March in preparation for planting the spring veggies but soon realized that it was not practical to have a big garden in this dry year.  We repurposed a leaking stock tank in to a garden bed and installed it behind the house, near the kitchen door. Evoking the spirit of my sister Mimi I contrived an assortment of bamboo sticks, clothespins, and fabric row cover into a funky protection from the tenacious rock squirrel. It’s my garden ship.

On the culinary side I’ve been waiting for spring veggies to appear at the farmer’s market. So far only salad greens, radishes. parsley and asparagus. My favorite preparation for asparagus is roasting. I use my toaster oven and line the tray with parchment, then roll the asparagus in a bit of olive oil and a touch of salt. Bake at 375° for 5 – 8 minutes depending on the thickness of
the asparagus. Watch so it doesn’t overcook.

 Roseanne brought us a wonderful present from her trip to France – a hunk of Comte. We devoured some with Moxie bread and then I rediscovered a recipe for Quiche Lorraine. The Comte was perfect for my version.

The crust is my favorite from Patricia Wells. Combine a scant cup of unbleached flour with four tablespoons wheat germ and a 1/2 teaspoon salt. Stir in ¼ cup olive oil and ¼ cup water. Press this dough into your baking dish/tart pan. Prick and prebake at 375° for 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, chop half an onion and cook in a tablespoon of butter until translucent. Add three or four slices of ham (2 – 4 ounces) cut into one-inch pieces and cook for a minute. Stir in a handful of Italian parsley, chopped. Spread in the bottom of the shell, then add 3 – 4 ounces of diced Comte or Gruyere cheese.

In a bowl, combine one cup of milk or half and half with three large eggs and ½ cup of grated parmesan. Pour this over the cheese and ham. Bake at 375° for 40 minutes until just set. Let rest for ten minutes before cutting into servings.

Our friend Larry has an April birthday and I made him a cake in celebration. I remembered a recipe from my ancient Betty Crocker cookbook for a perfect old-fashioned chocolate cake.

Black Midnight Cake

Heat oven to 350°. Butter and flour two 9 -inch layer pans or a  9 x 13 inch pan.

In a mixer cream together ¾ cup butter or dairy-free margarine with1 2/3 cups sugar and 3 large eggs. Beat for five minutes on high speed. In a separate bowl combine 2 ¼ cups of cake flour, 2/3 cup unsweetened cocoa, ¼ teaspoon baking powder, 1 ¼ teaspoons baking soda and 1 teaspoon salt.

Using low speed on the mixer, alternately add dry ingredients with 1 1/3 cups
water and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Pour into pans and bake layers for 35 minutes and
an oblong for 40-45 minutes. Test with a skewer. Cool on a rack.

I made a quick frosting – 
Combine 6 ounces bitter sweet chocolate chips, 2 tablespoons butter and 3 tablespoons milk in a saucepan. Stir over low heat until chocolate is just melted. Remove from heat and stir in 1 cup sifted powdered sugar. Beat until glossy and smooth and easy to spread.

We celebrated our fifty-sixth anniversary and Zoë sent this bouquet made by Living Arts in Lyons. Hard to believe we’ve spent so many years together and then I think of all we have seen and done together. Happy Spring.

by Mimi Hedl

We arrived in Belle in early March, forty-four years ago, a few days before we signed the contract for our eighty acres in Osage County. March was cold then, cold enough to burst the pipes in the trailer we found to rent while we built our lives. The wind blew fiercely that March 9^th as we met the Marquart’s to sign our contract. Most March’s in the first thirty-five years mimicked that one.

This March we’ve had 80° days and warm nights, warm enough to seduce the peach trees and redbuds into bloom. Today it’s 18° with snow flurries. I want to stay close to the fire in the Jøtol.  No peaches on Strawdog this year, though the redbuds may survive the freezes. The weather, once again, mimics the sad state of our world.

This land, now Strawdog, once had a huge open field the Marquart’s used for hay. Fescue grew in the field. Nothing else. Ron and I fenced in those twenty acres to raise a few cattle, a milk cow, run donkeys that we fell in love with. I fondly remember the hours we spent stretching wire, putting in fence posts. I saw my first cardinal then and felt the wind, the birds, the spring sunshine and the utter peace.

A week ago, that field burst into flames. The big and little bluestem and other grasses plus forbs provided the fuel for the fireworks. Korey, a professional who has done controlled burns for at least fifteen years, was in charge. He came an hour before he and Logan would conduct the burn. We leaned on the back of his pick-up truck, the trailer behind with one four-wheeler and a fancy golf cart, visiting about this that and everything. I can’t explain the magic that happens when you visit that way but somehow, the combination of being outside, usually in grubby clothes, unhurried, relaxed, creates memorable moments of just feeling good. The one line that sticks with me was when I commented about Korey having to wash his sweatshirt, covered in ash. “Wash this?! This never gets washed. It hangs outside in a shed. You can never get the smell of smoke out of your clothes.”

An hour later, Logan showed up from Fulton. It was six o’clock, still not dark, but Logan was ready to get out into the field to see what their operating theater looked like. I watched them tooling around like two teen-aged kids. They scoped out the entire field, something Korey did a week before when he was deciding if it was too dry, too windy to burn. Then they settled in the northeast corner near our woods and close to our neighbor to the east. They lit that corner against the wind coming from the south. It didn’t want to burn but finally after many lights with their canister filled with gasoline and a torch-like nozzle, they succeeded.

The burn began slowly. At first I thought they’d abandon their plans. I could see there weren’t many tall grasses there. Jeremy had mowed a fifteen foot perimeter around the entire field, cutting down the tinder, protecting the surrounding land. They persevered and eventually a slow but steady burn proceeded. Then each of the men went around the southern border of the field torching the grasses every ten feet, barely bending over on their four wheeler to light the grasses. (I thought of how I do our burns, with a box of matches. I’ve never burned more than 1/6th of an acre by myself.)

By dusk the flames looked pretty, gentle but increasing as the flames hit the tall big bluestem. I stood outside the fence and watched. Logan came around to the west side where I was and with the large water tank sprayed water near the perimeter after the fire had burned in that area. It was becoming more exciting as darkness descended. Once the perimeters had burned, it seemed like chaos broke out. Huge flames erupted in the entire field. I know the scary way fire works when it hits a large dry area with tall fuel. It’s like a wave, cresting, then falling into itself. I watched that scenario repeat itself over and over. I took several videos to send to my grandsons, Brady and Logan, and those videos freaked out everyone I sent them to. The constant comment: ”Did you call the fire department?!”

Korey took special care to go around the electric poles, spraying water to ensure no disaster occurred. He has some special tool to blow at the flames to tell them to go the other way. He may have used that tool where the field met the homestead as the next day I saw how close the fire came to the fence line, crossing over a tiny bit into the homestead.

When the wind picked up a bit it began to burn like a wild fire. Indeed some neighbors, near and far, saw the flames and wondered what the heck was going on. Jeremy, further up the road, saw the fire and was frantic, thinking another neighbor near the southern tip of our field had started it because he could see Mitch was burning trash. He raced down to find Korey who assured him all was well. Our other neighbors said it was the best show in town. They loved it.

Thanks to the expertise and the many fires Korey has managed, all went well and we had a successful burn. The birds have gone wild in the field finding seed as the hawks have a far easier time hunting. In short order the grasses will take over and the field will be painted emerald green. In no time it will become impossible to walk through as the grasses grow thickly and only trails the deer make provide a way to get through the heavy growth.

When a burn occurs, built up thatch burns so mice and voles and rabbits have an easier time racing around. Of course they are the food source for the hawks and buzzards. The grasses grow better, more seed can germinate. Woody tree seedlings get set back as do pests like multi-flora rose, our native cedars, persimmons and others.

The bad part about burning – there’s always a yin and a yang – is that burning increases the germination of our latest bad-guy-on-the-block, sericea lespedeza. This invasive from eastern Asia was introduced in the 1890s for erosion control and now this dratted plant has taken our fields. It’s frightening to see it move in. One acre can produce four hundred pounds or more of seed. So far, the only, and I mean the one and only, control is poison. I wrestled with this fact for years and then gave in. I may regret it. My reputation as an organic is shot! Jeremy threatens to take a photograph of me with a poison can in my hand. Anyway, it’s a brutal paradox that in order to have prairie, you have to use poison. It’s not the same world of our original prairies when the Native Americans burned regularly and kept balance. Our presence and the way we live has changed that order.

So….the daffodils bloom. Louise d’Coligny, my favorite, has a fragrance that makes me swoon. Our Lady of the Flowers likes her new head with the circlet of Alabama supplejack. (Supplejack is a wonderful vine and I have fun playing with it, making odd sculptures.)

I’ve made Leopold benches out of old oak and have cut pieces for three more benches. The first black snake showed up like an old friend.

Kwan Nin still hears the cries of the world and maybe somehow we’ll find our way in the world’s turmoil. I look around at the field Strawdog once was and smile, plotting new adventures in our sanctuary.

I’ve been feeling a mid-winter ennui and finding it hard to get motivated to do much. Mimi says winter is a time of rest, contemplation, hunkering down. Our winter has played with all the usual feelings of cozy nights and crisp snowy days. It feels like spring in February. Is this our new weather pattern or simply ’weather’? So I give in to this time for remembering, a time for assessing the past and planning for the future.

For my birthday Zoë orchestrated a book of photos and comments from artists, friends and family. Great memories. I decided to add to the memories with a lunch for twelve. Preparing a meal for friends always cheers me up. I grilled salmon, made a lentil dish, a green salad with fennel and apple and a focaccia. My sister Susan brought two lovely cheesecakes for dessert. There is nothing like cooking for dear friends and celebrating around our table to assuage the winter blues.

Lentils with roasted tomatoes (from an Ottolenghi recipe)

First roast the tomatoes. They are easy to make and a great condiment to have on hand. 

Halve a box of cherry tomatoes or a pound of small Romas and place, cut side up, on a baking sheet lined with parchment.  I do this in the toaster oven. Drizzle with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, some crushed, chopped garlic and a bit of salt.  Bake at 275° for an hour and a half until collapsed but still juicy. Store in a jar in the fridge, covered in a layer of olive oil.

Thinly slice 1/2 a small, red onion and place in a bowl with a big pinch of salt and a tablespoon of red wine vinegar.  Let it marinate while you cook a cup of black or French green lentils, about twenty minutes. I used Rancho Gordo black caviar lentils – superb. Drain. Then, while lentils are warm, toss with two tablespoons of olive oil, salt and pepper to taste, the onions and vinegar. When cool, stir in lots of chopped parsley, dill and chives.

On a platter or individual plates, layer the lentils and onions with roasted tomatoes and  two-three ounces of crumbled blue cheese. I like mild Amish blue here but the original recipe calls for gorgonzola.

The rest of my cooking is half making do with what’s in the fridge, half being inspired to try new dishes. A favorite dish made when I truly have no meal inspiration is scrambled eggs. I often make them with cheese and top with  pico de gallo. Just right for a weary cook

 I recently had a taste memory of crepes with a creamy chicken filling, something I made many years ago. Where was the recipe? I couldn’t find it or any hint on the internet so I winged it. First I made a bechamel to which I added some Gruyere. I had poached chicken left over from another dish so I sauteed chopped onion in olive oil, added the shredded chicken and deglazed the pan with white wine. Yes, that’s the taste I remembered. I didn’t want to fuss with crepes so I cooked orecchiette for a fancy mac and cheese. Topped with panko and parmesan the dish satisfied my search for those tastes.

With half of February gone I like to make a cheery Valentine’s Day treat. I have two heart-shaped cake pans for a layer cake and heart cookie cutters to shape shortbread or sugar cookies. I write a monthly column for the local paper and this is the February recipe presented in my heart-shaped tin. It’s one I clipped from Gourmet magazine many years ago and has become a favorite especially pleasing to gluten sensitive family and friends.

Chocolate Walnut Delights

Grind two cups of walnuts in the Cuisinart or blender. Be careful not to turn them into walnut butter, just pulse until finely chopped.

Combine them with 2 ½ cups powdered sugar, seven tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder, two extra large egg whites, ¼ teaspoon vanilla, and 1/8 teaspoon salt. This makes a stiff batter. I use the Cuisinart to mix it.

Drop tablespoonsful a few inches apart onto a parchment lined cookie sheet. Using the bottom of a glass, gently press each cookie into a disk. If the batter sticks to the glass, wet the bottom lightly before pressing.

Bake at 350° for fifteen minutes. Cool on a rack. The cookies will be crisp around the edges and a bit soft and chewy in the center.  Makes about 24.

I shared these chocolate cookies with a dance class Bud and I are enjoying so I made another heart shaped treat to give to friends on Valentine’s Day.

Ginger Hearts

(from China Moon Cookbook by Barbara Tropp)

In the Cuisinart combine ½ cup unsalted butter, ½  cup brown sugar, ½ teaspoon vanilla. Add one cup plus two tablespoons unbleached flour, ¼ teaspoon baking soda, a pinch of salt, one tablespoon finely chopped fresh ginger and one tablespoon ground ginger. Form into a rectangle then roll between sheets of parchment paper to ¼ inch thick. Chill in the fridge for an hour. Cut dough into desired shapes and press a thin slice of candied ginger onto the cookie. Bake at 350° for 10-12 minutes until lightly golden. Cool on a rack. Makes about 24.

The sun is setting in a blast of color and our deer friends are visiting. How can I be blue? Another beautiful day on Blue Mountain Road.

by Mimi Hedl

What an odd year 2025 has been. Such chaos and mean-spirited language coming out of the People’s House. Then to begin this year, a young friend, a fellow homesteader, her partner and dog, have decided to move back to the west coast. She wrote me this morning and it felt like a bombshell. She is one of the few people I can speak openly with in our community of 1,545. That has never bothered me, people are people though it does feel good to speak unbridled now and then.

As life constantly surprises us, another new, even younger friend has come into my life so perhaps I should celebrate for Elizabeth and Cody and not mourn their loss. As I wrote Elizabeth, when Ron and I left Colorado forty-four years ago many people experienced that same bombshell, including my daughter, too young to understand. Change seems to come out of the blue, shocking us at the moment, but if we pay attention, we know everything is constantly moving. It’s just our stubbornness that tries to cling to the old and to our fears of what the future might hold.

 My new friend Lilly, the woman from the Research Station who came with Gen to tag monarchs in October, has come back to visit several times most recently on New Year’s Day. She brought shortbread and a winter bouquet along with her sweetheart, as she called Jack. In the Scottish Hogmanay tradition they were the first feet to cross the threshold and indeed they portend good fortune.

Jack, a professor of computer science at Missouri S & T, had eyes wide-open at this humble place we call Strawdog. He has the most penetrating blue eyes, and I watched those eyes track everything in the house, including the ladder stairway that mesmerized him. When he climbed up the stairs and looked in Hilary’s old bedroom, he smiled big at the ceiling plastered with maps Hilary had put up years ago, now in the state of partial disintegration.

He didn’t say much as he looked. He didn’t need to. His eyes said it all. I’m not used to someone reacting with such interest and admiration. When Jack and Lilly left, Jack said, “Thank you for the gift.” I was stunned and knew I’d met another kindred spirit. Pretty nice when you live in the middle of nowhere. The gift felt like mine.

As far as the gardens, the head gardener and I have pushed onward with our winter chores. The warm, dry weather has made it possible to mow up the leaves collecting in the paths. If we don’t deal with them, they become a potential fire hazard when we begin burning the quadrants we don’t mow in the warm months. Plus the gardens in the Park beg for mulch. A foot of leaves over any of the beds means the latent weeds lying in wait will be slowed down or sidelined and thus gardening work in the spring will be easier. “We gardeners are like military commanders” I said to the head gardener, “strategizing before the enemy strikes.”  The head gardener scoffs at me and pushes the wheelbarrow out of her way. I ignore her and smile at my cleverness. If I don’t, who will?!

The lettuce continues to survive, even thrive, in the cold frames. This German winter lettuce seed came many years ago from Edna Rieke, a stern German woman. In the early years of Strawdog, the old timers were still around. I was attracted to any and all of them as they had gardening in their bones and could teach me something, share seed with me. Now, I’m one of the few old timers who still gardens and almost no one but me is home during the day. Everyone works. No one has time to visit. It’s a new world. I feel lucky to have a handful of young people who come to Strawdog and want to learn, help, visit.

Santa Claus brought me this new chopping block. The old one, still standing but somewhat of a challenge to find a level spot for a block of wood, served me well for many years. It came from an ash tree Josh’s dad had cut down, due to borers. It took all our efforts to get it off his truck and into position. It was my first chopping block. Before that, the earth held the wood we split and it could be difficult to keep the wood steady. I celebrated this change.

One recent sixty degree, sunny day, I went out to the site of St. Fiacre’s downed shrine. Ron built this out of admiration for rough shrines we saw along dirt roads in New Mexico where we first looked for land. The shrines were dedicated to different saints. The affection the people gave to these shrines made them sacred. Canned food, flowers, knickknacks, letters and other oddities were left on or near the shrines. Sometimes we’d stop, other times we’d slow down and admire. We loved New Mexico but the land was expensive and water was scarce.

This shrine stood for over thirty-five years. I wrote about the winds that took it down in 2023. I had rescued St. Fiacre then, but the bulk of the shrine remained laying on the earth. Now, three years after the downing,  I hauled the heavy oak lumber back in the wheelbarrow. Pulling the nails out of the old wood was a chore.  Three pieces of wood that made this shrine were worth keeping. The rest had done its duty and would finish its usefulness by cooking many meals, once cut and split into cook wood.

I’d promised Brother Cadfael to put the shrine in his garden and I still intend to. Jeremy took out the huge mimosa tree in his new garden and opened up a potential site for the shrine. As an unskilled carpenter, I’ll have to think long and ask many questions before I can put it together with a more stable base, the moss and lichen pieces part of the new shrine.

I try not to mourn the loss of friends in the many ways this happens, especially in our vintage years. We seem overwhelmed much of the time and we lose track of each other. Several friends have told me they keep up with me via these posts and feel a bit guilty, as if they’re voyeurs. I laugh. We do the best we can and let memories fill in the gaps. Now I can text with my grandsons and that’s priceless and a fair trade for the old ways. Come on 2026. We’re ready for a new course! I feel change coming through the chaos of 2025.

This has been a  stressful year full of home repairs and upgrades, not to mention the state of our country. My cooking has suffered as I am often too tired to conjure up an artful meal. That means dinner is scrambled egg tacos, grilled cheese sandwiches, grilled salmon or other ‘I can make this in my sleep’ dishes. I’m looking forward to a supper of ricotta pancakes.

 Our meals are simple, but I want them to look and taste appealing so our bison chili is garnished with grated cheese, cilantro and crumbled corn chips. Sandwiches come with a salad of arugula, lettuce, pears and walnuts. Or sometimes simply with carrot sticks and a pickle. Occasionally I’m appalled that I’ve made a beige dinner, i.e. sauteed chicken with roasted potatoes and cauliflower. Oh well.

I’ve taken a tip from Zoë and make a larger than usual quantity of a dish like green chilé so we can have instant meals when the going gets crazy. I try to have several containers of cooked Rancho Gordo beans in the freezer for quick tostadas or a roasted sweet potato stuffed with beans, cheese and pico de gallo.

In all the chaos I can still get inspired by a sudden desire for apples or a half-remembered recipe for cranberry muffins so I’m encouraged that I haven’t lost my cooking mojo. I look forward to our annual Christmas Eve dinner with friends and to my sister Susan’s Christmas feast. Hopefully our household woes will be over in the new year. Onward!

With our cold nights and bright chilly days my tastes turn to foods of the fall. Tart apples, squashes, grains and warm spices. I’ve been dipping into my many cookbooks revisiting recipes I’d forgotten. I use the New York Times for new recipes but there are treasures in all those books. And I find pleasure in reading  notes in the margins from past experiments and recipe revisions. Sometimes I had written for whom I had made a particular dish and that sends me into memories of evenings around our table with friends.

This recipe is somewhat adapted from The Breakfast Book by Marion Cunningham of Fannie Farmer fame. I love her down to earth comments, as here, where she suggests using your hands to mix the stiff batter. Try these with whole wheat flour. You’ll hardly notice and will be adding to the nutritional value. I used golden wheat flour, a whole grain. For apples, I diced unpeeled Cosmic Crisps. Makes sixteen – eighteen muffins. The recipe is easily cut in half.

Apple Muffins

Combine two cups golden wheat, whole wheat, or unbleached flour, 3/4 cup brown sugar, two teaspoons baking soda, two teaspoons cinnamon, one teaspoon salt. Stir in two large eggs, beaten slightly, ½ cup safflower or other vegetable oil, two teaspoons vanilla. This makes a thick batter.

Add four cups diced apples (about 3 largish), one cup walnuts, and one cup raisins. Use your hands to mix well to distribute the fruit and nuts.  Spoon into sixteen greased muffin cups, filling them almost full.

Bake at 325° for 25 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean. 

by Mimi Hedl

Much time has passed since I’ve talked with you. We’ve gone from a drought-filled summer to a monarch migration, the last of the monarchs passing through in early November. Luckily we still had nectar plants for their journey, thanks to the tithonia, (Mexican sunflower) African tuturu, white cosmos and the beloved zinnias. Usually many species of the native asters provide fuel for the monarchs, but our severe drought reduced their brilliance and many of them bloomed later than usual.

After we dig the garlic in early July, we have sixty empty square feet. In years past, we’d sow bean seed and late cucumbers and zucchini. Now with different needs, supplying beauty and nectar becomes a priority. No doubt this beloved earth of ours gave the monarch, buckeye, sulphur, blues, pipe vine swallowtail and many other butterflies the energy they needed to carry on. The head gardener and I stood by in amazement as these flower seeds germinated and prospered, with no help from irrigation, just that underground river I speak of with respect and appreciation.

We added more straw to these flowers as they grew, hoping to fortify them against the drought, an extra layer of protection, like a down vest in the winter. We couldn’t see what went on underneath the surface of the soil but my imagination certainly painted pictures of an underground world maintaining order for the plants above ground. The head gardener only rolled her eyes when I waxed poetically, which is my nature, but not appreciated by many except me!

Of course not everything prospered as the drought dragged on and on. The tomato plants tried to leverage their losses by abscissing the bottom leaves, a fancy botanical word for dropping leaves. It was sad to see all the dried up leaves but encouraging to see tomatoes still forming, ripening, and peppers simply going crazy. We’ve never had such a pepper crop! They can survive dry conditions and obviously thrive too.

The drought allowed us time to observe how everything dealt with this summer. We didn’t have much to process in the kitchen. Drying peppers, herbs, tuturu flowers became easier because of the intense heat. These lessons will come in handy as the climate continues to change and we need to adapt. Letting the plants adjust to the water shortage showed me each variety’s strengths and weaknesses. I cataloged those  points.

The sweet potatoes have never been more beautiful or prolific. Because they were grown in the container garden, in a wooden box, one foot wide by two feet long and one foot high, the voles didn’t dig their way through the soil, spoiling the potatoes as they usually do in the regular garden. These boxes have no bottom to them, so they roots can go as deeply as they need to for the roots to pump up water and nourishment.

The highlight of the season came in early autumn, when a friend brought Lilly, a researcher and part of Missouri Prairie Foundation, to Strawdog to tag monarchs. My friend, Gen, has been here during other migrations and has seen the scores and scores of monarchs hanging from the trees as they bedded down. On that mid-October day the monarchs were plentiful enough for the three of us to tag thirty in short order.

It was such fun to watch Gen and Lilly both go after the flitting monarchs. They’d throw their net over the monarch, then flip the net to prevent an escape. They’d come over to me, sitting in the shade, with clipboard and spreadsheet. They’d carefully reach into the net. With their first and second fingers they’d clasp the butterfly with wings upright, around its thorax. Carefully pull them out of the net while I had a tag with number on the tip of my finger to hand off so they could place it on the ‘mitten’ shaped scale on the left side  of the outer wing. Phew!!! A lot of explaining, a picture would make it easier, but we were so excited to be doing it all we didn’t take time to take photographs until the last tagging.

Before they released the butterfly, they’d again, carefully open up the wings so we could see if it was a male or female. (The two black dots on the lower inside wings say it’s a male.) I’d record the sex and we’d cheer as the butterfly was released. It was such a success Lilly said she’d like to bring some entomologists here next year and could she come back to visit? How delightful to meet a new friend, in tune with what I do here on Strawdog.

With a high today of 36° and a ‘feels like’ 18°, it’s time to take down the screen on the front door. It’ll be easier to haul in wood and a sure sign we’ve entered another season. I look forward to bedding down the gardens, feeding the birds, and watching the deer lope through the fields. Winter naps are another favorite with dreams of what next spring may bring.

I’ve been waiting for Mimi to send her essay and finally asked her if she had written anything. “But Barbara, it’s your turn.” Uh-oh. I guess I imagined I wrote a post. I write a monthly column for our local paper, The Redstone Review, and assumed I’d done a blog post. Oh well, here I am on a beautiful fall day ready to write to you.

We’ve had lovely weather with warm days and cool nights. The clear, raking light reveals every detail of the ponderosas and the rocky hills across the way. Like we’ve had our eyes washed. This is my favorite season. I treasure the languor of these fall days. We enjoyed a wonderful rainy day last week. The grass is turning green again. The chamisa is putting on a show too.

We have ventured to the mountains for glorious golden hikes in the high country aspens. We have gone to the Caribou open space trails near Nederland and after hiking had lunch at a local bakery. We ate a Southwestern Quiche made with a corn tortilla crust. I had to try this in my kitchen.

For the crust:

Lightly oil a comal or heavy skillet and soften 6 – 7 corn tortillas. Line a pie dish with them – one in the center, then overlapping others around the edge.

 Roast 2 – 4 poblanos or other chiles like Anaheims. (I do this right on the gas burner. Or use a grill or the broiler.) Peel and deseed and cut into one-inch pieces. Sauté a medium sized red onion, chopped, in a tablespoon olive oil or butter until softened and translucent. Add a ½ teaspoon salt.

Make the quiche mixture: In a measuring cup combine three large eggs and enough milk or half and half to make 1 ½ cups. Whisk in a bowl until well combined and lightened. Add half a cup grated Monterey Jack, cheddar or gruyere. (3-4 ounces.)

Spread the onions and chiles in the tortilla shell. Pour over the egg/cheese/milk mixture.

Bake at 350° for 40 minutes or until the center is just barely jiggly. Cool for ten minutes before slicing. Garnish with chopped cilantro.

We have done some household maintenance having a heat pump furnace installed, buying a new washing machine and new tires for the Honda. Yikes. How come all these necessary repairs come at once?

I’ve been relishing the last of the summer veggies making ratatouille, (go to Summer Treasures in the Search bar on the right for a recipe), and salads with the last of the eggplant, peppers, green beans, cukes, tomatoes, and zucchini from the farmer’s market. My tomato plants are slow to ripen their fruit. And I’ve discovered the remains of partially eaten  tomatoes stolen by a rock squirrel. I hope to still get a few before the weather turns cold. Meanwhile I’ll bask in the golden glow of a Colorado fall.

by Mimi Hedl

In these dog days, the garden scenes change daily. The once ever-present gray-headed cone flowers have become seed for the finches; the tiger lilies in their brilliant orange, drop petals. As I survey the landscape in quiet moments, I lift my head to the sky, the clouds, watch the turkey buzzards soar high above, see the cardinals flit towards shade in the shrubs and feel grateful I was asked to care take of this piece of earth. I take this responsibility seriously, as we do when we raise a child. Over 43 years I’ve watched it change from a hay field to three acres with more biodiversity than imaginable.

Since I can’t keep up with housekeeping chores inside I go with the motto: “My house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy”. I don’t pretend to have control over the garden chores either.  I drive to and fro on these hot July days and notice other gardens. Many look abandoned, unloved. Weeds grow tall, plants have died, and no gardener’s in sight. Only the most dedicated keep up. I say the names of the weeds growing and calculate how much seed each one will produce, how easy it would be to cut them down. Then I realize my observation is unfair. Who knows what kept the hopeful gardeners from carrying on the work, what other passions claimed their time, or any multitude of reasons. I can’t claim innocence in this department. Just this summer I began tackling a problem I should have addressed years ago – rogue garlic.

We grew 1000’s of heads of garlic in our early years. We rotated crops, so garlic grew everywhere. There’d always be those few heads we missed and if we remembered, we’d dig those too, bonus heads, we’d call them. I’d plant garlic around each new fruit tree, near the berry bushes and who knows where else. Well, I do now, because suddenly I started noticing where they were reproducing. Like I said, EVERYWHERE.

Why is it that when we finally notice something we’ve ignored we become compulsive and have to act, immediately?  If the garlic hadn’t produced seed heads, they’d still be happily reproducing, as it’s the seed heads that announced the rogue garlic to my distressed eyes. If you’re not acquainted with the life cycle of garlic, here’s a short explanation. Each clove of garlic will make a head of cloves. If you leave that head in the earth, each one of the cloves making the head will try to make another head. So if the head has 8 cloves, 8 heads of garlic could grow in that space. Talk about the miracle of the loaves and fishes, this one a big coup for garlic.

If that wasn’t enough to ensure garlic immortality, most garlic varieties will produce a seed head. Sitting on top of the garlic stalk you’ll see a fat, round, ball with small seeds, each seed about 1/3 the size of one kernel of unpopped corn. And you wonder how many seeds are up there? Oh, anywhere from 20 to 50, sometimes even more. The attentive gardener won’t allow this seed head to live. Once the head begins to form, the enlightened gardener nips it off and uses this garlic scape in summer cooking, the power of garlic to control the world averted.

Once Ron developed Parkinson’s and wasn’t able to mow, I had to figure out a way to manage our homestead. I stopped mowing large areas and made paths through the three acre homestead. Of course this meant that anything that wanted to grow, could. We used to joke about mowing being Missourians favorite sport because so many folks religiously mounted their riding mowers and mowed acres and acres of grass. This hobby has one benefit – nothing but grass can grow in those areas.

I dealt with one emergency at a time. Always something trying to take control, be it wisteria, tansy, mints of all varieties, bamboo, fire on the mountain – I’ve battled them all. Some took years, like bamboo. Others required a watchful eye over the summer and into the autumn.

I had congratulated myself this spring because I had no aggressive-plant-emergency and could concentrate on the equivalent of sweeping and dusting. How foolish, foolish of me. As my daughter would say, I cursed myself. That period of pruning and lovingly weeding seems like a dream, as soon thereafter, I noticed the rogue garlic. Not in one spot, not in two or three spots, but in so many spots I felt dizzy. I tried to calculate how many plants I could dig in one session before I’d even put a fork in the ground.

Because I was impatient, I tried pulling out the heads. We’d had lots of spring rains and the heads came out easily. About 20 heads into the project, I noticed there were tear-shaped garlic “heads” next to the small head of garlic. I know this is way too much info for the non-gardener, but this is another sneaky way for the garlic to insure its survival. If I hadn’t paid attention, I wouldn’t have seen these other garlics, they would’ve remained in the soil, and next year I would feel crazy because there’d be just as many rogue heads of garlic as this year.

This slowed down my work. I had to dig out each head, slowly looking for the garlic tear drops, with no stalk, only shriveled leaves and the tear the same color as the soil. I started my routine at about 5:30 am and worked for an hour each morning. I had a carpenter’s apron around my waist so I could drop the tears into the pocket. Each garlic head with stalk and topset went into a pile. I tried not to look at how much I had to do, but I did find myself counting, with some dread, bordering on panic. “I’ll never finish the job!” I’d say in my teenage voice.

I kept up this routine for several weeks, storing all I’d dug in the woodshed for later attention. Then, with my sharp pruners, a shady spot under the sweet gum, the radio playing Democracy Now! I’d cut 100 or so seed heads, then turn the garlic the other way and cut off the garlic head, small though it was. You can see what I ended up with. Did I feel foolish? No, not a bit. If next year just as many would appear, I’ll probably scream, then get to work. It can’t go on forever.  Can it?

I’ve boiled some of the seed heads in water just for a drill and made an insect deterrent for the squash plants and eggplants. It’s pungent and I may have stumbled on a positive side to this fiasco. My plan is to boil all the heads when I have a good fire going this fall, give some to other gardeners, or let them freeze over the winter, possibly a combination of them all. Then the spent garlic can safely go to the compost pile. Without destroying the garlic’s ability to reproduce, all my work would be pointless.

Each one of us gardeners has our demon, or demons. Paying attention seems critical. Not letting plants make seed is the most effective way to control how much housekeeping we’ll have to do. I much prefer daily maintenance and not these emergencies, but the emergencies seem to come with the territory. Two steps forward, one step back.

Once I’d put in my hour in the early morning, the rest of the day had me engaged with other sights, other problems, like keeping the rabbits out of the late summer beans, or admiring the tomatillos and the salsa verde they’d provide. Will the figs mature before a frost? The pollinators always keep me entertained. How does that big fat bee get into the American bellflower?!