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?!

Zoë and Bud have June birthdays a day apart so we often celebrate with an excursion. This year we went farther afield than usual, heading to Silver City in southern New Mexico. I love a road trip especially driving through some favorite Colorado and New Mexico territory. We took I25 south and stopped for lunch at the new state park – Fisher’s Peak – where we had a picnic and short walk.

We spent the night in Santa Fe and were lucky to have an invitation from Rodney and Renee Carswell for dinner. They made a wonderful New Mexican meal of chicken enchiladas with all the fixings. We talked and talked, always finding another subject to discuss. What great old friends.

We wanted to visit the Bosque del Apache on our way to Silver City, do some bird watching and have our picnic lunch. We hadn’t planned for the very hot weather we encountered so we had an abbreviated visit to this wonderful bird paradise. Then west over the mountains to Silver City. We had stayed at the Bear Mountain Lodge years ago when it was a Nature Conservancy inn and were excited to return. Our four days were busy with trips to the Gila Cliff Dwellings, the Catwalk, City of Rocks and the fabulous Mimbres pot collection at the university museum. It was very hot and few places had air-conditioning but we hiked and saw new things.

One of the best parts of travel is coming home. Fritillary butterflies welcomed us as they flitted about the lavender blooming along the front steps.

I’ve been making simple meals, mostly salads. A favorite pairs watermelon chunks, lettuce and spicy greens like arugula and radicchio, feta crumbles, and a simple olive oil and lemon dressing.

I was out of lettuce so I made a chopped salad from the bits of veggies in the fridge. A few stalks of asparagus, some snap peas from the garden, cherry tomatoes, avocado, radicchio, feta.

Every summer I make apricot jam. Zoë has followed my example and makes and shares various kinds of jam and fruit butters – peach, strawberry, raspberry and rhubarb. We have a plethora of jam. I remember my friend Maggie who also made this annual treat. I teased her when she was reluctant to smash the seed to get the kernel that gives the jam its particular flavor.

Our diet has changed and except for a peanut butter and jam sandwich or toast and jam to accompany scrambled eggs we eat very little of the delectable spread. I love home made apricot jam, redolent of the tart fruit – the scent and taste of summer so I’ve been looking for ways to use it in other ways. I remembered a recipe in one of my Italian cookbooks for a jam tart. I made one and we enjoyed it but it was a bit sweet for my taste. These bars are made with a shortbread crust and a thinner layer of jam. Just right!

Jam Bars

Preheat the oven to 350°.

Line an 8 – 9 inch square pan with parchment in each direction leaving an overhang for easy removal of the bars. Butter the parchment. Using a Cuisinart, mixer or a wooden spoon combine one cup (two sticks) room temperature unsalted butter and 1/2 cup plus two tablespoons sugar. Add a large egg, ½ teaspoon vanilla, and one teaspoon kosher salt. Stir in 2 ½ cups unbleached flour to make a soft dough. Put one cup aside for the topping then spread the remainder in an even layer in the prepared pan. Bake at 350° for thirty minutes until lightly brown along the edges, about 30 minutes. Let cool slightly then spread 3/4 – 1 cup of your favorite jam over the crust. Add the zest of a lemon. Top with crumbles of the remaining dough and sprinkle with two tablespoons sliced almonds. Bake for an additional 35 minutes. Let cool completely. Slice into four strips then into 6 long bars. Makes 24.

by Mimi Hedl

It’s the 5^th of June, another rainy spring early morning. All the windows and doors are closed. Too wet to go out to the gardens. Feels chilly in the house so I made a pot of lemon balm tea to soothe my weary mind. Gregorian chants play on Columbia’s free form radio station, another calming remedy in these uncertain times. The weather mimics this moment in history. In forty three years I do not remember such a rainy spring. Yesterday we had a deluge. “The sky is crying” I say to myself, as I hear Gary B. B. Coleman belt out a bluesy song. In trying moments I go to primitive emotions, superstitions and see omens where none probably exist. Sometimes we feel lost. This morning I remembered my history with stinging nettles.

For some unknown reason, stinging nettle seedlings have appeared in all our container planters, in the garden beds, in the compost, in the plots with native grasses and forbs. I longed to find stinging nettles last year when I had some strange reaction to heaven knows what in late summer. What little I could find had gone to seed, no leaves available to make tea. (Did you know that nettles have a natural antihistamine? I didn’t either when we first came here to build Strawdog.)

Six years after we’d built our house, the woodshed and barn, I drew up a rough sketch of the quarter acre piece of earth that would become The Park. This Park would be an homage to all the plants I loved, organized by their uses. Because this project would sit far from the hydrant, it would be impossible to water so we had to create a humus-rich soil that could support plant life without additional water.

We soon discovered that many folks had barns filled with old straw and hay. They were only too happy to get rid of the mouse and rat poop-filled material. Ron and I just had to move it out. Ron built sideboards for our International Harvester pick-up, ‘Ol Red. We’d drive to a barn early in the morning, position ‘Ol Red under the hayloft door, and begin pushing and carrying bales and dusty straw to the edge. One of us would go down below to pile the straw so we could fit more on ‘Ol Red. We’d drive home, unload the straw on the quarter acre future Park and go back for another load.

Farmers would contact us, “Would you like some old straw?” The answer was always, YES. By the second year of collecting this mulch, I started to sneeze and get stuffy. I didn’t put one and one together for a few more years when my obvious allergy to dust screamed at me. Anyone with an allergy knows how miserable you feel when you can’t stop sneezing, your eyes water, and you can’t sleep. I felt like my body was rejecting me.

So I hit my herb books. In short order I discovered stinging nettles’, urtica dioica, magical power with its natural antihistamine. I began hunting down nettles in the fields and fence rows. I’d read the ditty, ”Nettles in, dock out, dock takes the nettles out” in English herbals and knew where the dock, rumex crispus, grew, just in case. Believe me, I’ve used this remedy many a time and felt grateful to avoid the blisters I’d get from the barbs on nettles. I carefully picked leaves with gloved hands every morning to make a bitter tea I’d drink morning and evening. I cut back the nettles so I’d have leaves all spring, summer and into the autumn. After six months of this treatment, with no expectation of miracles, I no longer sneezed or felt stuffed up. (This must sound like a testimonial. Well, I guess it is, though I’d like to think of it as an ode to stinging nettles, a love song of sorts.) Needless to say, I became a believer.

Since that discovery and cure, I’ve retold my story to countless people with allergies. Everyone says it takes too much time, or they don’t have nettles growing in their yard. That stops me. I realize our richness, here on Strawdog, always rested in having time to do what we wanted. Father Hunkins, a Catholic priest who befriended us because he liked Ron’s argumentative ways, once sent parishioners to us with boxes of canned food. He thought we were poor because we didn’t have anything fancy or modern. We lived with that illusion and I continue to. People don’t realize how lucky I feel. Now with my new 2013 Honda CR-V, I feel like a fraud because it’s not broken down or rough-looking, has no mechanical issues, and makes me seem like a normal consumer. I don’t know how I’ll adjust, though it will be a relief to not walk out to the vehicle every time and wonder if she’ll start.

And that’s what people the world over want, dependability, to live their lives knowing their basic needs will be provided. As I gathered the stinging nettles from the planter to put in a potato soup, some for ravioli and calzones,  amazed at the quantity of seedlings everywhere, I realized how much I learn from native people who’ve had to deal with difficult lives and make do in any number of remarkable ways. Those are the people I celebrate, along with the humble nettles, on this chilly spring morning as the skies darken with more rain.

With the unfurling pale yellow-green leaves and the powderpuffs of pink and white blossoms on the fruit trees, spring is springing up here in the foothills of the Rockies. Over a lattice of branches, a pale green haze of new leaves shimmers against the blue, blue Colorado sky. On our hillside sand lilies nestle in the grasses emerging from beneath the dried stalks of last year.

A few weeks ago two bull elk strolled up the driveway followed later by a herd of fifteen mule deer. Everyone is on the move. We occasionally have a grey fox and a skunk visit the bird feeders to scavenge for dropped seed. Two beautiful creatures. Soon we’ll have to retire the feeders as bears may be tempted by the easy food. We’ll miss the songbirds arriving on their way north and only catch glimpses of the usual residents – chickadees, finches, woodpeckers, juncos, jays and nuthatches.

And spring inhabits my kitchen where asparagus plays a central role in many meals. I add the steamed or roasted stalks to salads with endive, garlicky croutons and orange slices. We eat orzo tossed with asparagus and shrimp and asparagus tart. (Recipe at https://howilearnedtocookanartistslife.blog/2024/05/09/spring/)

I look forward to harvesting the newly planted lettuces but in the meantime use gorgeous heads of lettuce from the farmer’s market and store-bought radicchio for our daily salads.

With the lengthening days my cooking routine changes. We eat later and lighter, often having a salad or grilled salmon for dinner.  Dessert is saved for special occasions. While searching for a cake to serve to a friend who is gluten intolerant I rediscovered this in a stack of saved recipes. A lovely dessert for a dinner with friends. Adapted from Melissa Clark, The New York Times.

Lemon/Almond Cake

¼ cup olive oil plus some for the pan

2/3 cup sugar, divided

1 cup + 1 tablespoon almond meal (95 grams – I’ve taken to weighing some ingredients for accuracy)

1/3 cup quinoa flour (30 grams. I grind quinoa seeds finely in my dedicated spice grinder.)

4 large eggs, separated

2 tablespoons lemon zest and 2 tablespoons lemon juice

¼ teaspoon salt

Preheat the oven to 350°. Line the bottom of a 8 – 9 inch springform pan with parchment and brush paper and sides with oil. Combine a third of the sugar, almond flour, and quinoa flour and set aside. In another bowl combine the egg yolks and another third of the sugar and beat until thick and pale yellow – five minutes. Stir in ¼ cup olive oil, the lemon zest and juice. Fold in dry ingredients. Use an electric mixer or whisk to beat the four egg whites and salt until frothy. Add remaining sugar and beat until stiff peaks form, 2-5 minutes. Stir a third of the egg whites into batter. Gently fold in remaining whites. Pour into pan and bake for 30 – 35 minutes until a toothpick or skewer comes out clean. Cool for 10 minutes then unmold. Serve with berries, pineapple or mango, or a fruit sorbet.