Homemade Goat Parmesan

2016-09-05 17.16.17Today was the day—the day to finally crack open one of the parmesan cheeses from last October. Eleven months in the fridge, and they were every bit as disgusting as they always are. Covered in mould, in spite of my efforts to avoid it, and with a hard, dry rind.

And as usual, once the rind was cut off, the cheese underneath was the most divine, flavourful cheese ever.

My parmesan is drier than the standard commercial block, a bit less salty, and with twice the flavour punch. It takes at least ten months to reach full ripeness, but it’s worth the wait. We put commercial parmesan on pasta, in risotto, and in pesto. My parmesan, we also sneak onto our sandwiches for lunch, or onto crackers for an after school snack.

Of all the cheeses I’ve learned to make, it is one of the most rewarding for its sheer over-the-top gourmet decadence. I’d say we live like kings, but I wonder if even kings get cheese this good on a daily basis.

Hygge

Definitely hygge

Definitely hygge

It was way too warm this evening to need a fire, but I lit one anyway. After two brutal days in the garden, I just wanted warmth and comfort.

Apparently, it’s very trendy. Just two days ago, they were discussing this very thing on National Radio—hygge—a Danish term (pronounced hooga) that means comfort, well-being, cosiness, and contentment all wrapped up in one word.

Taking care of yourself. Doing those things that bring happiness and comfort—a picnic on the beach, curling up with a good book and a cup of tea, enjoying a glass of wine with friends.

For me, curling up with a good book by the fire is hygge, and that’s what I’ll be doing this evening.

But hygge for me is also an evening stroll in the garden, after the day’s work is done. It’s half an hour at the piano. Lunch outdoors in the sun. Scones on Sunday morning. Milking in the dark at 5am under a sky full of stars. Morning coffee among the tassling corn in mid-summer.

What is hygge for you?

Captive

100_3654 smThe siren song of spring has taken me outdoors
Against my will…
Or not.

And so, I will not write today
I am in the garden.

I will not post a blog
I am weeding the strawberries.

I will not sweep the floors or clean the bathroom
I am turning soil.

I am unlikely, even
To worry about what to cook for dinner
Until it is too late to do anything
But the simplest meal.

I am in the clutches of sunshine
Lured away by birdsong
Captured by the earth.

Happy Spring!

I don’t need the calendar to tell me it’s spring. I know it’s spring because…

The daffodils are blooming.

The daffodils are blooming.

The office is full of plants.

The office is full of plants.

The fruit trees are budding up.

The fruit trees are budding up.

Artichokes!

Artichokes!

The grass needs mowing.

The grass needs mowing.

The weeds are out of control.

The weeds are out of control.

The wind blows hard from the northwest.

The wind blows hard from the northwest.

The dandelions are blooming.

The dandelions are blooming.

Humming Rosemary

There isn’t much in bloom at this time of year around our place. Daffodils, crocuses, a few early daisies and other weeds in the lawn.

And the rosemary.

Rosemary is perennial here, and grows into a large shrub unless regularly trimmed. The rosemary in the herb knot in the front yard is kept quite small, but two bushes by the side of the house are allowed to range more widely. They’re about two metres tall, and almost as wide. Right now they are in full bloom.

And they are absolutely filled with bees. I swear, there’s an entire hive there right now. The hum is audible from five metres away.

I love to watch bees on rosemary. Not only are they incredibly enthusiastic about the nectar, but they collect the purple pollen, which looks really cool in their pollen baskets.

We’ve been talking about re-envisioning the plantings at the side of the house. The new plan doesn’t have giant rosemary plants in it. Watching the bees enjoy the blooms in early spring, though, we might just have to rethink that.

Crocuses to the Rescue

2016-08-29 18.00.55It was a long day. I was working in town. At the library. Trying to focus sitting next to a man who spent the day ripping pungent farts, then next to a pair having a loud business meeting. It was a spectacularly unproductive day. I went for groceries, and the store smelled of rotting fish. I sat in the hot car waiting for the kids, who were late getting out of their after-school activity.

With a splitting headache, I drove home, an hour later than I expected, and two hours later than I’d hoped. I took the route with fewer intersections, knowing my exhaustion and pounding head would throw my judgement off.

I got home (thankfully to find my husband was making dinner) and raced to do the afternoon chores before the light was gone. I was ready for some good rural silence, but the neighbour was ploughing next door, and the rumble of the tractor rattled my brain. Last thing I had to do was go collect the mail.

On the way to the mailbox, I saw the crocuses—the first of the year. They were as limp and spent as I was, but they made me smile. The rest of the unpleasant, frustrating day didn’t matter—the crocuses were enough.

 

When Summer Meets Winter

2016-08-21 10.36.07Early spring is an awkward time in my office. The office is used, not just for work, but also for sewing, crafts, and as a heated greenhouse.

In springtime, it can get awfully crowded in there.

I do a lot of sewing over winter, when the garden doesn’t demand so much of my time, and it’s not particularly pleasant outside. In summer, I do almost none—I have little free time, and my hands are so garden-rough that working with fabric is a lesson in frustration.

But in springtime, the two often overlap. My winter sewing list is always longer than I have time for, and I try to squeeze as many projects in as possible before I run out of time. That means I’m usually still frantically trying to finish the last project when it’s time to start vegetable seeds. The plant shelves go into the office and are filled with seedling trays while the sewing machine and iron are still set up.

It’s crowded, fabric invariably gets dirty, pins and scissors end up getting dropped on fragile seedlings.

Some day, maybe I’ll have a dedicated, heated greenhouse so that sewing and gardening can be separate. Until then, winter will rub shoulders with summer for a few weeks every year.

Saturday Stories: Gardener’s Ballad

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I couldn’t resist a story in verse this week…

A gardener’s life is full of shit
And compost is the best of it.
Now hear a tale of a gardener who
Rose to fame on a pile of poo.

T’was springtime when, as all do know
Young green things are apt to grow.
And Sally, your young gardener fair
Prepared the soil with skill and care.

She turned it with her spading fork.
And pulled the weeds, such heavy work.
Then went she to the compost pile.
Which had been rotting for a while.

Cow pies, weeds and chicken poo,
Mouldy hay she’d added, too.
It made a rick and crumbly mix.
The deficiencies of her soil to fix.

Into the soil her compost went.
She mixed, raked it, then she bent
And lovingly she planted seed
‘Atlantic Giant’, yes indeed.

For this year, she would beat them all
Win biggest pumpkin in the fall.
All summer she did weed and water
As though the pumpkin were her daughter.

The pumpkin grew, and grew, and grew.
Drawing nutrients from the poo.
And Sally grinned as the contest neared.
She thought of past competitors who jeered.

But this year, she would have last laugh.
She had the biggest pumpkin by half.
Fifteen hundred pounds it weighed.
A large blue ribbon on it laid.

Sally was famous, her gardening lauded.
And all the spectators loudly applauded.
And when she was asked, just what did she do,
She calmly replied, “I just fed it some poo!”

Ode to a Seed

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Oh, little seed
Barely a speck.
Germ and cotyledon armoured
In seed coat.
You hold such potential–
A pea, a bean, a sprawling melon
Waits inside your humble shell.
Such modest desires you possess–
Soil, sun, water, warmth.
It is my pleasure to provide for you
Knowing you, someday, will provide for me–
Succulent tomatoes, crisp lettuce, spicy radishes.
I can taste your future.

Grow, little seed.
You are my sun, my life, my lunch.
You are spring itself.

Sedgemere Haiku–Spring

In honour of National Poetry Day this Friday, the remainder of my posts this week will be in verse.

2016-04-18 14.50.46 cropFog billows in wet.
Frosting hair, spider webs, grass
With silver gilding.

_______

Magpie warbles loud
In early morning darkness,
Waking up the sun.

_______

Bees hum in purple
Lavender blooms, blue pollen
Dusting hairy backs.

_______

Seedlings defy frost,
Growing tall in warm sunshine,
Sheltered under glass.

_______

Sparrows descend to
Old sheds, bringing straw, grass, noise
Leaving poo, feathers.

_______

Ploughs plough, seagulls wheel
Overhead seeking
The freshly turned worm.