Category: Kitchen and Garden

Abundance and Foresight

Abundance and Foresight

Bringing in the onion harvest.

The weather here in my little Mid-Coast Maine neck of the woods has been ping ponging from one extreme to another.  Friday was a beautiful balmy 70 and we celebrated our final sunset on the water for the season.  Saturday we had our first frost.  Sunday was largely devoted to bringing anything left to harvest in from the garden.  Save the cold loving ones, of course.  Torrential rains this week sped up some of our garden chore timelines even further.  What I love about the life we have created here is that there is no work week clock.  Everything is fluid.  My schedule revolves around the weather, the tides, light and dark, and client needs, of course.  Emails are answered in the wee hours of the morning before light breaks these days.  Foraging overlaps with walking the dogs (to their chagrin sometimes), “making” happens while something is baking, stewing, canning, fermenting–which is almost all the time— and gardening ebbs and flows around (and sometimes floods) the rest.  If there is such a thing as balance, I think we have found it.  And we know how fortunate we are in that.

Since we moved to Maine I’ve been learning so much about the land we’re on and what it has to give and what we can give to it in return.  I frequently feel overwhelmed by the abundance around us—from the garden, from the wooded trails, along the shore.  And next week our state is voting on adding  a person’s Right to Food to our state constitution.  I believe we are the first state in the country to do this.  I am both proud of this and sorry that such action is needed.  But I appreciate the foresight.  And the thoughtfulness, the bipartisanship, and the time and the effort put into bringing this to the vote of our community.

And then It Was Done

And then It Was Done

Garlands of peppers hang next drying herbs and hooked rugs.Here in my spot of Maine a switch has been pulled.  Summer tomato salads have given way to a pot of simmering lamb stew(with tomatoes).  Morning strolls to the garden are no longer barefeet and tank tops, but oversized sweaters and thick slippers.  Rest assured, no matter the season, there is always a steaming cup of coffee involved.   Almost to my horror at this point–not really, but really—the tomatoes keep coming, despite the blighted state of their affairs.  I’ve frozen, canned, jammed, and sauced them in every way I can think of.  The summer squashes are rife with powdery mildew even though we’ve had only scant rain and the garden well has run dry.  Even still, they keep fruiting.  There’s a basket of garlic in my studio that rivals my baskets of wools.  There’s a tsunami of hot peppers coming in that my husband dutifully strings to dry, even though he is a little scared of them.  But my studio feels festive and decorated for celebration with vegetal garlands hanging from my display rails along with drying herbs, my finished rugs and freshly dyed skeins of wool.

My garden always gives me solace.  Maybe more so this year than usual, but in equal measure to my work—which has taken wild turns into unexpected territories.  There is more to muse over on that topic, but for the moment I’m going to enjoy my hooking and the burbling of stew on the stove.

I hope you are all well in these tumultuous times.  Not only are my thoughts with you, so are my actions.

Be well,

Jess

An enormous basket of garlic holds reign in my studio along with baskets of wool.

The Year is 2020

The Year is 2020

The year is 2020.  I spend an inordinate amount of time making cloth masks on my 1930s Singer.  I’m hooking a Pandemic rug.  It’s snowing in May.  My hair is purple.  Life is different.  Worse.  Better.  Changed.  Evolving.  To be determined.

 

Face mask with wording, "I care, do you?"

I feel like we are living in a Snow Globe.  Shake it to enhance the innocence, naïveté, denial.  Hide behind glittery objects.  Oh, so sparkly.  I can’t explain what’s going on.  Why is data (science) a four letter word?

Still, I find joy in the garlic–planted last fall during more hopeful times–persisting in pushing through its straw mulch.  The seedlings that lay in wait to put down roots in the garden until this snow and minor league temperatures pass.    The patio slowly taking shape as I lay it down stone by stone.  We have a home, a garden, a patio.   All of them riches, by any measure.  We are still trying to decipher the world and determine how to help make it a better place for everyone.  And, yes,  I entirely acknowledge there’s not much in the way of grammar going on.

Be well,

Jess

The garlic coming in before the snow.