Exuberant May

by Mimi Hedl

Glorious ninebark

Spring has simply exploded. The scenes change more quickly than my eyes can absorb. I feel like a mother with quintuplets trying to keep up with the essentials of feeding and changing, though in my case, it’s weeding and more weeding. The compost bins hungrily gobble up all the greenery we haul in wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow. After a winter’s diet of dried stalks and meager contributions from the compost bucket, all this green stuff makes the changing of straw into gold a reality. The compost pile feels eager for the task at hand.

 A day finally arrived when the forecast didn’t include any below 50° temps for a solid ten nights.  OK tomatoes, let’s rock and roll!  And that’s just what we did, from 8 am to 5 pm, with civilized breaks and naps for this less than youthful gardener. By the end of a lovely Friday, 22 tomato plants found their new home in the earth, planted up to their necks, with bamboo tops to disguise their presence.

Protected tomato

You’ll remember the head gardener and I fight critters of every sort, including each other. The cutest, tiniest bunnies run around now. I mean, they are as adorable as any baby ever could be. When I see their sweet noses twitch, I melt. Of course the head gardener scowls at me. She knows what these little monsters, (her words, not mine), can do to the plants we set out. In order to avoid a serious quarrel, I came up with strategies, similar to my teepeenies that worked well for the cabbages and early lettuces. I showed her my plans and she grunted but didn’t quite approve.

 I always feel nervous when I think I’ve come up with a solution for someone who lives in the same world I do, but with different values. I recognize these creatures have 24 hours of every day to do as they please. I accept that raccoons harvest each ear of corn as it reaches its sweetest. We don’t plant corn any more. This year we’re using potato boxes to grow both Irish and sweet potatoes because we can’t control the voles underground. How can you control something you can’t see? There’s no vaccine for vole control. No doubt more data, and maybe tears, will become available when potato harvest arrives…

Cabbages with bamboo barriers

 However, we can protect above ground plants. It may seem tedious. We went from the teepeenies to these bamboo barriers for the cabbages. Deer can’t get in and rabbits haven’t squeezed under. Granted, it may not look like a photo shoot for a fancy gardening magazine, but then neither does leaving lots of weeds to disguise the presence of choice plants. ‘Confuse them with abundance’ has become our new mantra. Who cares what the garden looks like if it produces delicious food – for you!

 And that’s partially what the bamboo tips do, confuse. With all these fluttering dried bamboo leaves bending down over the tomato plant, surely nothing could be hidden there? The shovel you see with the bamboo is called a sharp shooter. Because the tomatoes had grown 16” tall, it would take a regular shovel to dig the initial hole, and then the sharp shooter to go the extra few inches so the tomato would have its entire stem in the earth where roots will grow in all directions, securing the tomato from winds and enabling the plant to find trace minerals down under.

Sharpshooter and bamboo leaves

 This tomato planting day was possible because my friend Agnes had come the day before. She teaches physics at the university and gave her last final early that morning and needed garden time to relax and unwind. I encouraged her to dig plants to take home to her new gardens as we’d have rain over the week-end and into the next week and the plants could settle in nicely.

Coral Bells

 She went about her pleasant task and I weeded cheat grass out of the Medicinal Garden. It makes the compost pile smile. So many seed heads, abundant protein and easy to digest. It’s an annual grass and makes tremendous growth in the spring. Really, it’s impossible to get rid of. Kinda like chickweed. I see it all as fodder for the compost. I slide an old butcher knife under the roots of this grass to release its hold and into the wheelbarrow goes the clump, after clump, after clump.

 We broke for lunch and while I cooked, Agnes mowed. Then after our lunch, she mowed. In fact, I had a tough time keeping up with her. She would empty the mower bag so often it seemed like she dumped more grass into the waiting wheelbarrow than she mowed. I’d push it out to the Park where I’d weeded and spread those luscious clippings over the bare earth. When I’d return, the second wheelbarrow would be filled up. And I’d race back out to the Park with that. This went on for well over an hour. I felt tired from hustling to get the next wheelbarrow back to her, but she barely broke sweat. Youth. Blessed youth.

Honeysuckle flava

 When she left, she thanked me profusely for the car load of plants. I looked at her with surprise, “Shouldn’t I be thanking you?!” But she doesn’t see it that way. She sees the opportunity to move about the gardens as a gift even though I tell her repeatedly that she’s the gift. No doubt a win-win relationship.

 Agnes drove back to Rolla, 35 miles away, set out plants until she had to meet with a student, then went home and set out the rest of the plants, put paving stones in the new garden, mowed all her grass and put the grass clippings on THAT garden!! She finished at 8:15 that evening.

Iris virginica

While Agnes was doing her evening gardening, I was sitting quietly, watching the hummingbirds do their incessant feeding and dancing, getting up now and then to look at one beautiful scene after another. Grateful to watch spring unfold, to devote time to spring viewing. To know that because of Agnes, I could dedicate tomorrow to tomato planting and during breaks, walk around and admire what springs forth after a long winter’s nap.

Gladys’ peony

There’s Gladys’ peony, really her mother’s, well over 100 years old. I can see Gladys downing a cold beer after we picked cherries so many years ago, she was 85 at that time. And Elmer, our incorrigible neighbor who telephoned for fish as a young man. Even though blind and crippled, he still told the best stories and gave me this iris, the Wabash. I hear his stories every spring. Like so many who have gone to their reward, they come back to me when spring reminds me of their moment. Glorious spring.

Wabash iris from Elmer

Peanut Butter Cookies

Gelato 2003 Charcoal on paper, 40 x 30 inches

As the chief cook around here, I get (have) to decide what we eat.  Bud rarely asks for a particular dish but might say, “How about pizza?  Or pasta?” Not a lot of help with my planning, but I’m lucky to have such an accommodating audience for my cooking.

I can’t imagine not deciding what we will eat for each meal.  I’m able to indulge my sudden desire for scrambled eggs or a smoked turkey sandwich.  Or cauliflower salad with olives or a shrimp risotto.   And Bud is happy with whatever I make.

I plan our meals like I’m orchestrating a symphony. I think about taste and texture notes ─ is there something savory, spicy, cold, hot, smooth, chunky, crisp or soft ─ on the menu.  I might toss toasted pepitas or almonds into a butter lettuce salad for a little contrasting crunch.  Or add a handful of dried currants to a quinoa salad for a burst of sweetness against a savory, citrus dressing. 

When it comes to dessert I use the same strategy.  What was the main meal and do we need a little extra protein, something cool and creamy after a spicy dish, or a buttery slice of pie after a simple, light supper? 

Our lunches are usually comprised of a salad with a variety of veggies, nuts, beans and perhaps salmon, tuna or chicken.  If I feel I’ve skimped on the protein I’ll include these cookies for dessert.  What a good excuse for a favorite treat! 

Peanut Butter Butter Cookies

Slightly adapted from Marion Cunningham in The Fannie Farmer Baking Book. This recipe varies from the traditional one I have used and I’ve come to prefer it. These are crisp and flavorful. 

Cream together ½ cup unsalted butter and 1 packed cup of brown sugar.  Add a large egg, ½ cup peanut butter, (smooth or chunky), and ½ teaspoon vanilla.  Stir in 1 ½ cups unbleached flour, 2 teaspoons baking soda and ½ teaspoon salt.

Form dough into walnut sized balls, (¾ – 1 inch), and place on a greased or parchment lined baking sheet a couple inches apart as they do spread.  With a fork, flatten each ball twice, at right angles, to make the traditional markings of a peanut butter cookie.  The pressed dough ball will be about 1 ½ inches wide. Sprinkle each with a good pinch of flaky Maldon sea salt or other coarse salt.

Bake at 350° for 10 -12 minutes until set and a little brown. Cool on a rack. Makes about 3 dozen cookies.

I make another peanut butter cookie, one similar to the fabulous large peanut butter domes at the City Bakery in New York (now closed).  On our trips to the Print Fair, we would try to squeeze in time for coffee or lunch at the Bakery.  And we would always choose a peanut butter cookie for dessert.  The baker didn’t like to share his recipes so I was pleased to find that Julia Moskin, (in the New York Times), had devised one to replicate the wonderful cookies. I make them smaller than the originals.

I mix these in my Cuisinart.  You may use a stand mixer or combine by hand.  The ingredients are similar to the ones in the previous recipe.  Interesting how just a few changes make for a different texture and taste.  These are very more-ish so watch out.

Sweet-Salty Peanut Butter Sandies

Cream together ½ cup unsalted butter, 3/8 cup (1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons) brown sugar, 3/8 cup white sugar.  Stir in 1 cup peanut butter (smooth or chunky), 1 large egg and ½ teaspoon vanilla.  Add 1 cup unbleached flour and ½ teaspoon salt.

Scoop rough balls of dough, about 2 teaspoonfuls, onto a parchment lined baking sheet.  Don’t smooth them as you want the crags.  Use a cookie scoop if you have one. They don’t spread much so you can place them an inch apart. Sprinkle each with a pinch of turbinado sugar and one of flaky or coarse sea salt.

Bake at 350° for 12-15 minutes, until set and slightly browned.  They are fragile after baking so carefully slide the parchment on to a rack.  They firm up after cooling and are tender and succulent.

Makes about 3 dozen.

April Squalls

by Mimi Hedl

I’d been eyeing Our Lady’s winter garb on warm April days and kept saying, “I need to change her clothes, give her the lightness and airiness spring suggests”. Every time I walked by her, she had her head down and seemed absorbed in some kind of reverie. So I let her be even though the 60° nights suggested spring indeed was in full flower. In fact, the cavalcade of redbuds, wild plums, golden currant, Dolgo crabapple, daffodils of every category, blue bells, celandine poppies and so many more early flowering plants made me dizzy visiting them, showing my appreciation for old friends returning, smelling, touching, all that we need to do after a long, dark winter.

Most days I’d sneak away for a brief period, hiding from the head gardener so I could sit on the earth, in protected spots, those private cubby-hole kinds of spots I sought out as a child. Cocoons, wombs, nests, however you think of those secret places you too treasured and would go for comfort when someone had hurt your feelings or you just didn’t feel like playing with anyone.

Maybe I should count these treasured spots but that would cheapen them as they feel as sacred to the child in me as a church does to the faithful. I can simply disappear from the scene and indulge in quiet thoughts and now, with my acquaintance of so many of the wayside herbs that grow in these grassy coves, I’ll touch and smell each addition to the grasses, say their name, and try to remember some use of the plant, what the root looks like, or maybe one of the many names local people, the world over, will call this plant.

Honeysuckle ready for the hummingbirds

As a child, I remember a large field near Lou Ann’s house, my best friend from kindergarten through 5th grade, in Superior, Wisconsin, and the huge trees that lined the far side of the field where I’d play. I had a tree stump with a deep indentation that became my mortar. I used a rock to pound berries, probably from a honeysuckle shrub, and sing a song that Sacajawea sang in a play put on at our elementary school, “I am brave. I am not afraid.”

Back then I was afraid of everything so singing this song, quietly, so no one could hear me, made me feel brave and like the girl I wanted to be. There were grasses and weeds and briars and leaves and sticks of every kind. It felt like paradise. Why didn’t I recognize my passion? Who knows what paths we have to take to find our way in this world. It can seem like a lonely journey when no one acknowledges the possibilities of our dream.

So there I sit on the grassy patch behind the Medicinal garden, concealed, investigating the dandelions, chickweeds, scarlet pimpernel, sheep sorrel living happily together. I nibble on them, like a rabbit sampling the garden. In spring I wear a carpenter’s apron with a large pocket. I pop the new dandelion flowers in, so I can make a tisane, a light tea, later. The leaves I’ll collect at another time for a stronger tea, a decoction, in which I’ll boil the leaves for a potent brew. My daughter gags at the thought. “That looks like the cocklebur syrup you used to give me for a cough!” she said when I sent her a photo of my cocktail. I laughed. How wonderful that she still remembers.

Cemetery Ladies or Twin Sisters

Of course I lie on the grass and look up. It’s amazing how different the world looks from a prone position, under a tree, watching the clouds drift by, the sun flitting in and out. It reminds me of when I look through binoculars and enter another world. This seems good to remember when we need to rest our troubled minds. The solution’s so simple, so accessible, maybe even the head gardener indulges when she doesn’t see me. Wouldn’t it be funny if when we both got up from our quiet time, we saw each other! I would love that. Maybe then she’d get off my case…

Wayside herbs

In my fantasies, when I’m teaching young gardeners, I bring them to spots like this, where the wayside herbs have filtered into the grasses, creating a rich network of plant life. Each gardener, in their own spot, would list all the plants they find. This would be part one of the final test. The second place for identification would be the compost pile, part two of the final test. After working for months and seeing the multitude of life, to be able to say what genus, what family and maybe the use of the plant, would demonstrate a familiarity with the life in that micro-environment.

I remember seeing lamb’s quarters, epazote and nettles in New York City. Simple wayside herbs that populate so much of North America, and all worthy of knowing, all old friends I cultivate and honor. I make sure to keep dock close by so when I accidentally touch nettles I can rub a dock leaf on my skin. “Nettles in, dock out. Dock takes the nettles out.” Amen and hallelujah. It truly works!

Lamb’s quarters or quelites

Now I’m getting carried away, thinking of all the wonderful plants I use, like our ancestors, for food and medicine. Roots shoots and leaves. (I had to include a play on that wonderful book title that makes me giggle every time I think of Lynne Truss’s Eats, Shoots and Leaves.) Spring does this to me, makes me get carried away, unmindful of so much as I indulge in utter joy at being alive in a world filled with wonder.

And then, boom! the frost came. It was predicted. We had forewarning, but still. The lilacs had bloomed as well as the dogwoods. I picked all the asparagus, no matter how small. It would freeze. I called Tϋlin. She’d put out her lemon tree and bougainvillea, a fig tree too. She could cover the fig tree, but the lemon and bougainvillea would suffer. She had other house plants she and Clayton had hauled out. Oh dear!

On the 20th of April and for the next two days, we had below freezing temps. I kept a fire in the heating stove day and night. Ice and snow came. It was five days past our average date of the last frost. It was miserable for man and beast. Our Lady was grateful for her warm hat, her winter clothes. And what a relief I had respected her silence, her quietness when I thought of letting spring into her. That will come soon enough. Maybe I’ll pick her a May Day bouquet and give her lightness, her airiness, that provides the grace with which she embraces all of spring.



The view from my desk today is of a winter landscape with little green in sight. We have had a few inches of spring snow, perfect for encouraging the peas, lettuce, bok choy, kale and beets I planted last week. The apple tree growing outside the kitchen window is plump with snow-capped buds. Full of promise.

I’m dragging along in the kitchen, ready for new seasonal ingredients and the appearance of self-seeded arugula, parsley, and dill in my garden. Our meals include dishes I’ve made for months, as I depend on old favorites to get me through ’til spring and all its possibilities. My impulse is to stay home, to cook, however uninspired I may be. We did venture out for our first dinner in a restaurant with friends to celebrate Sherry’s exhibition and beautiful book. What a treat to see dear ones and choose our meal from a menu. Slowly, we reenter the world.

One old favorite is a chard tart, jokingly called a ‘charred’ tart by Bud. The crust dough I use is simple, delicious and healthy. I’ve written about it in other posts but here is the recipe from Patricia Wells.

Combine 1 cup unbleached flour, a big pinch of salt, 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/4 cup water. Press into tart/pie pan. Prebake at 375° for 15 minutes. This is a very amenable dough and does not shrink in the pan – no need to use weights.

For the tart, strip the bunch of chard leaves from stems. Slice crosswise about an inch wide. Chop stalks into 1-inch pieces. Sauté stalks in olive oil until tender, 5 minutes or so. Add the leaves and 2-3 cloves of garlic, minced, and cook until wilted and tender.

When cool, add a beaten large egg, 1/2 cup half-and-half, and a cup or so of grated cheddar, parmesan, gruyere or a combination. Spread in prebaked pastry shell and bake at 375° for 25 minutes.

I served the tart with a dish of lightly steamed asparagus, sliced almonds and capers, sautéed in butter.

For a first taste of spring, Evan brought a bunch of nettle tops from his garden, carefully clipped and trimmed for me. The leaves are very prickly and he prepared them with a glove and scissors. He promised to bring me nettle plants when the snow melts. I browsed in a few cookbooks for inspiration and read that nettles turn a vivid green when cooked. I settled on a basic soup recipe.

First, I sautéed a small onion, a carrot, and five very small red potatoes, all diced, in a tablespoon of olive oil and one of butter. When they softened, I added the nettles and about four cups of water. A chicken or veggie stock would have been good but I had neither. Cooked this about 25 minutes, cooled a bit, and blended to a smooth puree. Added salt and 2 tablespoons cream. At serving time, seasoned with lemon juice to taste.

We ate this spring tonic topped with a drizzle of yogurt.

The daffodils will bloom when the snow melts. I hope I do too.

Late Winter Rituals

By Mimi Hedl

Daffodils in the pawpaw grove

On this gray, dreary, rainy St. Patrick’s Day, the abundant daffodils remind me that spring sits waiting. Our Lady in Waiting. March always dumps a good bit of ugliness, mixed with mud and treacherous winds, bringing down branches and creating a mess for the head gardener. She is no jovial spirit at these times. Why doesn’t she see the daffodils smiling at her, I say. And she says I’m just an old fool. Hmm, I say. She claims my frequent naps give me my edge. I tell her, follow nature’s cues, when it’s gray and gloomy, rain pounding the tin roof, your eyes closing, Mother N. says to nap. It’s that simple. She goes off in a huff.

Honey bee on Ice Follies Daffodil

At the beginning of March, I took out my collection of tomato, pepper and eggplant seeds, about 20 varieties of each, all members of the Solanaceae family (for you plant geeks). We’ve been saving seed since 1983 when we became members of the Seed Savers Exchange.  In their 2021 catalog, I see we’re among the original 24 people in the organization. Only 24 of us left. That tells its own story.

These tomatoes and peppers come from all parts of the country, often with a history. When I come to the “O’s” in my tomato bag, I see Oxheart and remember I requested seed of that tomato for Mom, as she said that as a girl it had been her favorite tomato. When she was in her 80’s, I was able to travel back to Boulder with these Oxheart’s and surprise Mom with an heirloom. What a delight for her ─ she was transported.

As I looked through the seed collection, I took note of the year I saved seed of each variety. Every seed has an average viability time. These heirlooms have to be grown every few years to insure they’ll sprout. So I consider the age of the seeds and also what I MUST grow, my favorites. I riffle through and pull out the packets that I’ll use, then organize my labels and wet cloth scraps to pre-sprout the seed.

I fold the cloth for each variety with the slow care of an origami artist, after all, I’m looking into the making of life. Each variety of tomato, pepper and eggplant has its own piece of cloth, a label, the lot folded up into a silent, secure, damp chamber, waiting for magic to arrive and bring the seed out of dormancy, into life.

After a few days, I sit down with my bundles of seed and look for signs of sprouting. It feels a bit like Christmas as every sprouted seed brings a smile and a shout of joy, something much needed on these dreary late winter days. The Serrano pepper seed from 2003 sprouted after 5 days. Amazing to see that seed burst into life. I credit the cool, dry storage of these seeds, but still, that’s a long time to keep a seed waiting.

 Once I’ve collected fresh seed of this pepper, I could compost the old Serrano seed. But I’ve learned from failures that sometimes the new seed isn’t viable. A sad moment. Now I hold on to the old seed until I’ve successfully germinated the new seed. I wish I could pass on the older seed, but like so many parts of life in this digital age, the logistics become staggering. Old seed doesn’t have value, when, like my friend Clayton says, “Seed’s so cheap.”  I say that’s not the point, he brushes me off, laughs and moves on. I feel a bit like a fuddy duddy. Ok, I am one and like so many fuddy duddies, I play the role with pride.

I did have to cruelly chuckle last spring when he called and wanted to know where he could order seed ─ he couldn’t find seed, anywhere. I gave him what I could of my collection, names of seed companies, but he was too impatient and drove miles to find what he wanted. He also pooh-poohs saving seed as a hassle and doesn’t listen to me waxing poetic about my late winter ritual.

The sprouted seed goes in a flat, carefully labeled, and upstairs to a covered tray, where I wait for the seed to pop through the soil. As soon as the cotyledon bursts through, the flat goes under the LED fixture and the seedlings begin to grow luxuriantly with 16 hours of light a day. Once they have their first true leaves, I transplant each into its own container with compost instead of potting soil. I’m priming them for the big wide world. There’s no longer a danger of damping off, a fungal disease that affects newly sprouted seeds and seedlings, so real soil comes into play.

Once each plant has settled in, looks firmly rooted, and all danger of frost has passed, they’ll go out to the cold frame where they’ll feel sun and wind and begin to have an idea of what awaits them. They’ll be with the asparagus seedlings, the onions, the celery and cabbages; though these older transplants will soon find their way into the earth and learn many a lesson about survival. The real world and the cold frame run on different rules; the training wheels come off when the plants go into the garden.

 For someone who works the earth, these are great adventures, equal to exploring the Amazon and deep sea diving. I’ve entrusted a once tiny seed into a mosaic of life, hoping, with my help, it figures out how to grow and prosper. I count on many helpers. Sadly, the polar vortex took 28 of our most beautiful workers, bluebirds. When I went to clean out their houses, after the cold weather passed, I found 19 crammed in one nest box. I nearly fainted with shock and disbelief.

Bittersweet seeds and bluebirds

After I recovered my equilibrium at such a sight, I called a friend at our Conservation Department. I’d sent her a photograph. She too was shocked but had heard from other Missourians about finding dead bluebirds in their yards. The cold was extreme. The bluebirds eat worms or berries and they couldn’t find either. The rest of the bird population ate suet and sunflower seed as never before and I kept them in fresh water as well as I could. The sub-zero temps stayed with us too long. The bluebirds faced a disaster of huge proportions.

I mourned for several days and when I found 9 more bluebirds packed in another bird house, I quietly buried them and moved on, shaking my head as I dug the holes. What more can we do? It will be a quiet spring without these lovely workers. I only hope they can reproduce in other parts of the state and slowly move back to this area.

This all shows the precariousness of life. March has a bad reputation in gardening books and lore. It’s looked upon as fickle and uncertain when really it’s we who haven’t learned that March is a time of transition. We need to move slowly and carefully and not expect spring to appear because we feel so ready. Hence the naps.

I like to think of March as the last hurrah before the intensity of the growing season. I still may have to cover the cold frame if frost arrives. The peach blossoms may get coaxed out too early and suffer an untimely loss and a few times the lilacs have also complained about the cold.  Transitions invite stress, an inevitable part of life. We learn how to move with the changes and celebrate small victories, like this blooming spice bush and the electric blue squill.  (I saw the head gardener bending down to admire them.)

Breakfast for a Snowy March Day

March weather in Colorado may include almost anything. Rain, snow, sunshine, springlike breezes or wintry cold. This year, March came in like a lamb, sunny and warm, but has taken on the lion’s roar.

Yesterday, we arose to find that a heavy snow had fallen and to the start of daylight savings time. March weather in Colorado may include almost anything. Rain, snow, sunshine, springlike breezes or wintry cold. This year, March had arrived like a lamb but was now a roaring lion. 

Most mornings we eat granola, fruit and yogurt for breakfast. I wrote about my granola recipe in an earlier post – “Every Morning” – https://wordpress.com/post/howilearnedtocookanartistslife.blog/161

But yesterday I made a special breakfast. Back in the day we ate pancakes or waffles each Sunday morning but now I prepare them only as a treat when Zoë spends the night or like yesterday, when a warm breakfast seems the perfect meal to start a snowy day.

This recipe is based very loosely on a Marion Cunningham recipe in The Breakfast Book. I use it to make waffles and pancakes. You may vary the flours ─ substitute 1/2 cups of oat flour, rye or quinoa, but I would keep at least 1/2 cup of unbleached in the mix. We like granola in the batter to provide a little crunch.


Combine 1/2 cup each of unbleached flour, wholewheat flour, cornmeal and rolled oats or granola. Add 2 tablespoons brown sugar, 4 teaspoons baking powder and 1 teaspoon salt.

Stir in 2 large eggs, 1 1/2 cups milk, and 1/2 cup safflower or other vegetable oil.

Pour 1/2 cup of the batter into hot waffle iron and bake until brown and crisp. This makes about 6 waffles.

The recipe is easily cut in half to make enough for just the two of us.

Serve with maple syrup, a dollop of yogurt, and fruit such as the mango and banana pictured here.

When we have only apples, I sauté them, peeled and sliced, in a bit of butter for a delicious accompaniment.

The sun is shining this morning and the temperature is near 60°. Ah, Colorado, ah, March.

Blue Mountain in sunlight on Monday morning.

After the Polar Vortex

by Mimi Hedl

My daughter called while she drove Brady, my grandson, to school and I had a moment to say hello. I told him one week ago, it was 80° colder than today. He couldn’t believe it and said, “Wow!”  On a 70° day, with sun pouring in, I try to remember what -10° felt like and the mindset I lived with those 3 weeks when the polar vortex made an appearance and decided to stay. Lots of the country was courted by a similar assault. We’ve learned new words to describe the uninvited guest.

In order to keep my sanity more or less intact, and to spend some time thinking about the coming spring, I decided to sit close to the fire and create woven plant protectors for some of my spring seedlings, the ones planted close to where the baby rabbits bed down. Last year they chose these young plants to play with, devastating the seedlings and the head gardener. It was not a pretty scene when she discovered the tyranny of the bunnies.

Over the years I’ve collected all kinds of vines and branches, roots and fibers, experimenting with their qualities. Some require drying and then re-soaking, as they shrink too much if not dried first, others, like honeysuckle, provide long weavers you can use fresh, or dry and then reconstitute. It’s a wonderful process to become acquainted with these materials and my fascination never ends. I find myself bending and weaving almost anything my hands touch.

For these teepeenies, or little teepees, I had fresh willow, dried willow, dried wisteria, and fresh native bamboo, plus some hazelnut branches Agnes and I had cut in warmer weather. I soaked what needed soaking and made a jig, then tried it out, making my first teepeenie. Hmmm, not so great.  I made another and another.

As I learned, I realized I needed stouter uprights and a bigger diameter for an adequate teepeenie. I drilled larger holes in the jig to hold the stout uprights that I’d weave together to form the structure of the teepenie. I saw more clearly what I needed to do as I worked with the materials. I made accommodations by the hour as some things didn’t work, with some materials too flimsy or not flexible enough. Only when I began to feel chilly did I realize I had another job to do and should haul in more wood before continuing.

This concentrated effort kept my fingers engaged, my mind on spring and my admiration for weaving materials, and of weaving, alive. I would regroup each morning after my chores, a good breakfast and coffee, and see what I could come up with. From this photograph you can see the different materials and the different results.

The teepeenie who won first prize has fresh, green, native bamboo uprights and split green bamboo weavers at the base. The strength of the uprights and the weavers made this teepeenie a winner. It held together tightly so I could weave the rest using a randing weave* that will keep rabbit paws from reaching inside the frame. The way the bamboo uprights stick straight up, will keep the deer from nosing in to see if there’s anything good to eat. I’ll push the 8 uprights into the soil, adding a couple more bamboo pieces to stake the teepeenie firmly in place so no one can tip it over. Then I’ll watch the critters disprove my theories ─ a common event for any gardener who thinks she’s outfoxed the fox.

These supports will come out once the plants grow large enough to fend for themselves and rabbits have other delicacies to nibble on. Most of the teepeenies will survive for another season or two and in the meantime, more data will be collected for future frames.

When the weather warmed up to a high of 15°, I ventured away from the fire and onto the kitchen table, my winter transplanting site. The onion and asparagus seedlings had outgrown their flats and needed more room, the onions a haircut to stimulate bulb growth. Roots on seedlings mimic tree roots, the only difference being size. The roots have to anchor this onion and have succeeded, with loose soil to guide them. Once the seedlings go into the garden they will plow through the earth and find their home in deeper ground. The worms have created tunnels for them to glide through and for the rootlets to pick up nutrients, a process I marvel at when I see brand-spanking-new roots.

This asparagus seedling has another baby asparagus popping up. I know the focus is poor on this photograph, but I wanted you to see the lilliputian spear. And the roots too! This seedling, one month old, is 8” tall and has roots to match. We’ve grown all our asparagus from seed and a patch will produce reliably for 20 years, plus. After that, the crowns tend to crowd each other and the production declines, though you’ll always find some asparagus, just not prime spears.

One of the other jobs Agnes and I did before the “visitor” arrived was to cover the snowdrops that had begun to bloom. We raked leaves over them, as well as the rosemary plant in the culinary garden. After the vortex left, going wherever it goes after it’s done it’s work, I went out to see the snowdrops, undaunted, and the first of the winter aconites in bloom. The rosemary survived, if a little worse for wear. After such an ordeal, I feel more like the rosemary than the snowdrops.

Mimi wove the willow basket that protected the rosemary.

*When you rand, you have one rod for each upright, and you weave one after the other. For these frames, I used two rods instead of one, so I could build the walls faster, as they didn’t need to be strong, simply a barrier.

If I Knew You Were Coming….

Leaving Hawai’i 2004, charcoal on paper, 40 x 72 inches

Here in Colorado we are in the thick of winter. Most other years, lucky us, we have spent my February birthday in the tropics and cut our winter short by a few weeks. Not this covid year. The weather has been very cold with lows below zero. We can only dream of Hawai’i while listening to Gabby Pahunui play his melodious slake-key guitar. Here on Blue Mountain Road, the insulated shades are drawn and I listen to jazz and the blues on KUVO – the ‘Oasis in the City’.

I like to bake and we often have cookies for our lunch dessert. But sometimes, cake is just the thing to cheer us up with delicious baking aromas and the satisfying flavors of lemon, banana or vanilla. In these pandemic times, I’ve read that folks have eaten a lot of bananas, in banana bread and muffins and on breakfast granola. In Hawai’i, I celebrate a friend’s birthday with a banana cake, made with the small apple bananas we love. I recently fancied it up with walnuts and chocolate for a mid-February Colorado treat. This cake is also delicious on its own, simply topped with the lemon glaze. I call it ‘Everyday Cake’ in my book.

Banana Cake

Preheat oven to 350°

Grease and flour two 8-9 inch layer cake pans, a fluted pan or a 9 inch springform. I used heart shaped layer cake pans in honor of Valentine’s Day.

Cream together 1 cup unsalted butter and 1 cup brown sugar (packed). Add 2 large eggs, then 1 cup mashed, ripe banana (2-3 medium-sized).

In another bowl or on a piece of wax paper, combine 1 3/4 cups unbleached flour, 1 teaspoon baking soda, 1/2 teaspoon salt. In a cup, combine 1 teaspoon vanilla and 5 tablespoons buttermilk, yogurt or soured milk (1/2 teaspoon lemon juice in 5 tablespoons milk. Let sit a few minutes until curdled.) Add to the butter mixture alternately with the flour mixture.

Pour into prepared pans and bake for 25-30 minutes, 35-40 minutes if using a tube pan or springform. Check doneness with a toothpick.

Let the cake sit in it’s pan on a rack for 10 minutes. Unmold. When cool, spread bottom layer with 2-4 ounces of melted dark chocolate. If you used the springform or fluted pan, split the cake horizontally and proceed with filling

Pour glaze over top layer ─ combine two teaspoons lemon juice, 1 cup sifted powdered sugar and some grated lemon zest. Sprinkle with toasted, chopped walnuts.

Roseanne brought me luscious, juicy lemons from her folks’ tree in Phoenix. Of course I had to make a lemon cake. I searched my cookbooks and came up with a hybrid recipe using olive oil.

Lemon Loaf Cake

Preheat the oven to 350°. Grease a 8-9 inch loaf pan and line with parchment, leaving extra on the long sides for easy unmolding.

Stir together 1/2 cup of olive oil and 1 cup sugar. Add 2 large eggs and the zest from a large lemon, about 1 tablespoon. Stir in 1 1/4 cups unbleached flour, 1/4 cup cornmeal, 1/4 teaspoon baking powder, 1/4 teaspoon baking soda and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Then add 1/4 cup lemon juice, 3/8 cup (1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons) yogurt, and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla.

Spread in prepared loaf pan and bake for 45-60 minutes. Test with a toothpick for doneness.

Glaze while warm. (Combine 1 tablespoon lemon juice, 1 cup sifted powdered sugar and some grated lemon zest.) Cool on a rack.

So, I wish you were coming ’cause I baked a cake! One day…..

A Voice from the Past

by Mimi Hedl

Mimi 1986, pastel on paper, 22 x 30 inches (excuse the poor photo)

In rain, snow and the heat of summer people from the past show up at Strawdog. With a knock on the door or a look up from mowing I’ll see a strange face. After a few moments as I travel down once well-trodden paths, the memory’s rekindled. I can usually attach a name to the face. Sometimes it’s shocking to see what time has done, other times, like the latest, pure joy.

Since I’ve started writing for Barbara on her blog, I’ve had several of these knocks on the door, via an e-mail. Barbara figured out, by Googling Strawdog, that my writings come up and people who know about this piece of paradise, can enter. And this is what Saori did.

Saori was one of three Evergreen State College classmates who came to Strawdog in 1992. My niece Zoë, Barbara’s daughter, had asked Ron and me if they could come. They were 19 years old. They came for 3 weeks to do some sort of research project. We all know how much research most of us would do at this age. Still, it sounded like a fun adventure for them, and us.

Saori, Stacy, along with Smasher, her dog, and Zoë came with boundless energy and enthusiasm. We had lived on Strawdog for 10 years in what most Americans, even in 1992 would consider, old school ways. Cooking on a wood cook stove, doing laundry with a wringer washer, no television or stores close by, and an old truck for transportation. I can only imagine the shock for Stacy and Saori. Zoë had come to Strawdog often, with Hilary, my daughter, flying together from Boulder.

Now, and over the 29 years since their visit, I’ll flash on something about that June, stimulated by who knows what, just the fickle way memory works, and laugh. Sometimes I’ll cringe because my step-daughter Suzy didn’t give me the name of ‘Commandant’ for nothing. She gave me this title with affection and humor, but I don’t think everyone who has dealt with me sees me in the same light, and I may have pushed these neophytes too hard. No one complained to me directly, but….

Saori struggled with English back then. In the letter she wrote a few weeks ago, her English flowed smoothly and effortlessly. Still living in the North West, she makes jewelry and grows spring ephemerals from seed ─ mostly seed of bulbs that thrive in rocky locations, many from her native Japan. Her letter was thoughtful and filled with gratitude for the experience she had here. She also offered condolences for my loss of Ron. Needless to say, her letter filled me with longing and happiness. What a gift to be remembered, fondly, after so many years.

Saori sent photographs too. This one, of her milking Flora, is my favorite. When she came to Strawdog, she had one ambition ─ to learn how to milk a cow. None of the others shared her enthusiasm. I don’t remember how her lessons fit in with her schedule because rising early was not on her radar, and Flora came in early and expected to be milked and have her breakfast. I do know Saori succeeded and was so happy. In fact, to this day, when I’m really happy, I’ll shout “I so happy!” because this is what Saori said and it was infectious.

Zoë and Stacy in Ann Elizabeth

We’d drive to Westphalia, a German-Catholic town about 20 miles away to buy feed for Flora and the chickens. On our way, in the Ann Elizabeth, a truck we bought with money my mother won in the lottery, the girls would sit in the back, singing and mooing at the cows as we drove by. Here you can see Zoë and Stacy.

When Ron and I drove this way, we’d always stop in a little town before Westphalia, another German-Catholic town, Rich Fountain, where we bought a double-dipped ice cream cone for a nickel. When the older woman who ran this tiny store out of the bottom floor of her beautiful stone house died, we mourned her loss and the wonderful moments we had buying a treat from her. Zoë couldn’t remember if the store was in business when they visited. In my imagination, it was.

Zoë and Mimi at the mill

Ron loved this grain mill. He became friends with the men who ran it, always covered in dust from head to foot, the eyebrows especially, coated, covered, thick with this grain dust that had a lovely fragrance. The entire mill felt like a relic of the past that these folks in rural Westphalia kept alive. Ron would visit with the men over the sound of the grinding gears as I’d walk around, admiring the view from the hilltop where the steeple from this Catholic Church competed with the one in Rich Fountain.

The five of us spent quiet summer evenings. I remember one evening especially. All of us were sprawled over the sofa or chairs, maybe on the floor. I knew Saori wrote in Kanji, a logographic script. (That means that a character, instead of letters, represents a word or thought.) I had begun to study and enjoy haiku. I loved Basho. I asked Saori if she’d write Basho’s famous haiku about a frog jumping into a pond. She agreed and we proceeded to find a proper pen and paper.

Saori’s beautiful kanji in this 29 year old work.

Watching Saori quietly collect herself, and practice a few times before committing the haiku to paper, I watched a self-assured, confident, skilled young woman. Quite frankly, I was mesmerized. Inside me, the desire to learn kanji began to form. Seven years later I would meet a young Chinese woman at the library in Jefferson City who would help me begin the journey that Saori’s poise inspired.

These are the Japanese words for Basho’s haiku, and the English translation:

furuike ya                                old pond…

kawazu tobikomu                    a frog leaps in

mizu no oto                             water’s sound

the farm circa 1991

As I admired the photographs from all those years ago, I was struck by the plants growing in the first quarter-acre. Everything looks so well-mulched and luxurious, especially the bed of comfrey and the garlic. Now that quarter-acre slowly returns to nature. I can no longer take care of so many gardens, and little by little, I give back what we once took.

Redbuds have volunteered in this plot. I’ve said yes to a half-dozen of them, pulling weeds and grasses from around their base. I’m still debating what large deciduous tree I’ll plant, maybe a pecan, maybe an oak of some kind. Or perhaps I’ll see what volunteers and take that as a sign of divine intervention. Whatever happens will seem good and lovely. To watch a piece of land you’ve grown to love become a new character seems as beautiful as watching a young woman grow into her beauty, like the three young women who came to Strawdog all those years ago.

the farm in 2019

Looking forward to a new year

Pu’uhonua 1992, woodcut, 22 x 22 inches

During these months of staying at home when cooking has become an incessant daily chore, I have moments of kitchen fatigue when no food or recipe appeals. Those days we have scrambled eggs and toast for dinner. Then I get excited by a new recipe from the Smitten Kitchen, the New York Times or King Arthur Baking. I try a chicken curry or a loaf of Harvest Bread.

During the holidays I cooked a lot, sometimes with my daughter and husband as assistants.  We made smoked salmon for Christmas dinner and spent the afternoon of New Year’s Eve making spinach pasta sheets and ricotta for a big pan of lasagna. 

Zoë and Bud rolled the pasta dough into sheets. I cooked the milk and cream for ricotta.

With a simple tomato and garlic sauce, grated mozzarella and fresh basil, we were ready for the assembly.

Many layers later, we baked the lasagna and enjoyed it for our New Year’s Eve dinner.

Now I’m ready for simpler meals. One of my favorites is a savory tart accompanied by a salad. I use a wonderful, easy recipe from Patricia Wells for a simple, crisp, crust.

Combine 1 cup unbleached flour, a big pinch of salt, 1/4 cup olive oil and 1/4 cup water. Press the dough into a 8 – 9 inch pie plate or tin. (I used a Betty Woodman dish.)

I don’t prebake the shell. If you do, prick the bottom but there’s no need to weight the pastry as this does not shrink (another recommendation for using the recipe). I make spinach, asparagus, tomato or cheese tarts with this dependable crust. Lately I’ve had a yen for caramelized onions.

Thinly slice two largish yellow onions and sauté over medium high heat in two tablespoons olive oil. When the onions have begun to soften, lower the heat and cover the pan. Continue to cook over low heat, about 25 minutes, until browned and caramelized. Watch so they do not burn, stirring every now and then. Uncover in the last 5 minutes and raise the heat a bit to further brown. Stir frequently. Cool.

Use a spoon to paint the bottom of the tart shell with a good tablespoon Dijon mustard.

Combine the cooled onions with 1/2 cup half-and-half or milk, 1 large egg, 3 ounces grated Gruyere or cheddar, and five or six grinds of black pepper. Fill the shell and bake at 375° for 25 – 30 minutes. The center may be slightly jiggly but will firm up as the tart settles.

Happy New Year and happy cooking ─ even if you make scrambled eggs for dinner.