Castor and Pollux, blow me to Bermuda!

Bermuda is absolutely charming. From the customs official (picture Emily with black hair and coffee colored skin) who chatted with us about the rain we missed earlier in the day, to the security guard who directed us to go back past Customs to the restroom because “This one is out of order, and where are you going? Southampton? That is too far to wait,” to our landlady who offered to drive us to the grocery store, by way of the post office to get our bus passes (unlimited bus & ferry for 7 days, $56 – very little more than we paid for the cab ride from the airport), to the 2 resident dogs.

It rained most of the night. The downspout into the cistern is outside my bedroom, so it was rather like sleeping by a rushing brook. All of Bermuda’s fresh water supply is rainwater. Every house has a specially constructed roof to maximize collection into the cistern below.

It is clearing now, breezy, high 60’s. The sun is up, but Ellen is not. I am sitting on the couch in my nightgown with a light shawl, and quite comfortable.

There are limestone “crystal” caves to explore, a botanical garden, the tallest cast iron lighthouse in the world (closed fro renovation) and many other things to see and do. Sadly, it may, in fact, be too cold for swimming, the locals wait for “Bermuda Day” late in May. Pictures to follow.

BTW I checked home prices on one real estate site: the cheapest was a 2-bedroom condo for $495,000. So, nice place to visit, but we won't be living here.

Orion

Orion over Molokai may be the same constellation of stars that we see in Tacoma. But there he’s dressed in denim with steel studs. Here he wears black velvet and diamonds.

Molokai

Molokai again – the annual escape from gray and gloom and wet and cold and grim.

I came a day ahead of the kids this year; I want to get to the Saturday morning farmer’s market on the first day instead of the last day of my stay.

SeaTac was frosty, the mountains were snow-covered, and it was clear and COLD when I left.

There are clouds out here, but they’re DIFFERENT clouds.

My choice for a car rental? Minivan or convertible. Let’s see, now, which should I pick?

Picked up groceries in Kaunakakai on my way out to my condo at Wavecrest (13 miles east of town). Forgot coffee! John may say, “I told you so.” He suggested a packed of pre-ground beans from home for my first morning. I said, oh, no, I can get good coffee at the airport. Well, yes. If I REMEMBER!

Rained on the drive to the condo. It did not rain at all  on my last visit here. Fine drops, more like a very heavy mist. Then rained all night.

Clearing now at dawn, and the roosters are carrying on. There’s a plumeria tree off my deck!

Slate Roof Cake

My father dated my Aunt Betty a few times before he started dating my mother. At my parent’s’ 60^th Anniversary dinner we asked him, “So why did you marry Mommy instead of Aunt Betty?” “Well, Betty couldn’t make the chocolate cake.”

This is “the” chocolate cake recipe that won my father. My mother made it for every special occasion – church suppers, neighborhood picnics, and for my father’s birthday for 65 years . She makes the boiled sugar frosting without a thermometer – she can judge the temperature of the sugar syrup by the length of the thread it spins from the tip of a stainless steel spoon.

The recipe comes from my mother’s father’s step-mother. This is the side of the family whose Tory politics made them unwelcome in Connecticut in the 18th century, so my grandfather grew up in New Brunswick, but he and his sister returned to Connecticut around 1905.

Great-grandma Minnie’s Slate Roof Cake

Cake:

Mix

Cream together:

½ c butter

2 eggs or 3 yolks

2-1/2 sq bitter chocolate, ,melted

Stir in

½ c sour milk with

½ tsp baking soda mixed in it

Beat in

2 c flour

¼ tsp salt

3 tsp baking powder

1 tsp vanilla

Add gradually

1 c boiling water

Batter will be thin. Bake in 3 layers, or a 9x12 rectangle about 35 minutes at 375 degrees.

Frost with chocolate frosting or the following boiled frosting:

Beat

3 egg whites until barely stiff

Boil:

1-1/8 c sugar

3/8 c water

1/8 tsp salt

stirring constantly, until mixture spins a thread 8” long

Pour slowly into the egg whites, beating constantly.

Add ¾ tsp vanilla

Beat until frosting holds its shape.

Spread on the cake and pour

2-1/2 sq melted bitter chocolate on top

My own notes:

You’ll find this frosting called ‘White Mountain” icing in modern recipe books. That 8” thread is equivalent to 238 degrees on the candy thermometer. Like candy-making, don’t try it on a cloudy day. One person can do it with a stand mixer; otherwise it takes one to hold the beater and turn the bowl and another to pour the syrup.

If you want a layer cake, use the whole eggs; it unmolds better.

Am I a Socialist?

“I think it's long past time to admit that socialism is the meat, potatoes, cabbages, and barley of civilization while capitalism is the opium, hashish, and cocaine.”
- J.M.Purser

Force majeure in the 21st century

The NY Times published an interview with Philip Levine in which he said, "There’s a kind of Protestant ethic that believes that if you’re really a good person, God will reward you with a full table and a garage full of automobiles and a beautiful husband or wife — that we should be judged by what the world has delivered to us."

Force majeure. Wrong then, wrong now.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/06/magazine/philip-levine-still-knows-how-to-make-trouble.html

Yellow Mercedes Benz Convertible

My father was an eminently practical man. At his funeral, many people spoke about his admirable ability to break a seemingly insurmountable problem into parts small enough to tackle. While he could not solve the troubles of the world, he could make a profound difference in his own community. He could, for example, do nothing about Pol Pot, but he could stand as father and grandfather to numerous Cambodian refugees.

When I was in junior high school, a quiz circulated among my sisters and our friends. I found it in its entirely on the internet today:

You are walking through a forest; describe it.
- Through this forest is a path; describe it.
- Along the path you come upon a key; what does it look like; what condition is it in? Do you pick it up?
- Farther along the path you find a cup; what does it look like; what is it made of; what condition is it in? Do you pick it up?
- As you continue walking, you come to an obstacle; describe it.
- What do you do? If you go around it or past it, then how?
- Next you happen upon a body of water; describe it. Do you get in it? How fast is it flowing?
- As you walk along, you come to a shelter of some sort; what does it look like? Do you spend the night?
- Finally, you’re walking along when you reach a fence; what does this fence look like; what is it made of; what condition is it in?
- Beyond the fence is a field; describe that. Do you go over the fence into the field?

The forest represents your outlook on life; how you feel (overall) about life.

- The path represents your plan in life, and is generally more current; i.e. how your life is being lived, or how you see it going.

- The key represents knowledge. If you pick it up, then education is important to you.

- The cup represents your view of love. Was it broken or fragile? Was it solid and complete, pretty, clean or covered with dirt?

- The obstacle represents the challenges in your life; how you normally handle them or deal with them.

- The water represents your sensual side. If you get in it, this means that you basically feel good about it. If not, perhaps you avoid it, or it’s not particularly important to you, or enjoyable.

- The shelter is your view of home life. Again, if you spend the night, it’s likely you feel comfortable about your present home situation.

- The fence represents religion. Does it have hard lines, or broken ones? Is it imposing, or easy to jump over?

- The field represents your view of heaven. Is it pleasant, or threatening? Do you go over the fence and into the field? If so, you’re probably not afraid of death.

I don’t recall that we asked all of these questions. I do recall clearly my father’s answers to some of them:

- he was taking the dog for a walk

- the key belonged to the front door of our house (which, incidentally, we never locked)

- the cup was a coffee mug, plain and sturdy

- the obstacle was probably a mountain which he climbed, the water a pond when he went around (as one of my sisters said at his funeral, there was no mountain he would not climb, and no body of water he would swim in)

- shelter was probably our house, home for the night

Everything about him was simple, uncomplicated, utilitarian

So, I was enchanted, at 15, to hear him say, “When I retire I’m going to buy myself a yellow Mercedes Benz convertible.” It appeared that my father did have a romantic and frivolous side after all.

About 10 years later, after he had retired, I asked him, “When are you going to buy your yellow Mercedes Benz convertible?” He replied that life and reality have a way of intervening sometimes, and it really was not at all a practical acquisition.

Another 10 years went by, and I came across a set of model cars in a catalog – a Volkswagen, a Porsche, and a Mercedes Benz convertible: yellow. Of course I bought them. I sent the Benz to my father for his birthday, reminding him of what he had said 20 years before. He was touched, but admitted that he had no recollection of having ever wished for such a thing.

This affected me deeply. I thought, how sad, to not only never achieve a dream, but to have forgotten ever having had it. I immediately went out and bough my own dream car, a red Volvo P1800 wagon.

And here’s the thing: that car disappointed me. It was so low to the ground that even at 35 I had trouble getting in and out of it; being so close to the road, I felt vulnerable in traffic; the kids quickly outgrew the back seat; it was totally impractical as a family car; and the frame was badly rusted. I sold it for a great deal less than I paid for it.

Which makes me wonder if my father was not right after all? Some dreams should be kept that way. Enjoy the fantasy. Don’t destroy it by bringing it to life.

Nobody loves me

Silly me.
Drake is Mommy's Monkey. She made the disastrous mistake of calling New Baby "Monkey." Once. Drake informed her, most emphatically, "No. I'M your monkey."
So, when I saw this monkey at Walgreen's just before Valentine's Day, I thought, "Wouldn't Drake love to have a monkey as big as he is?"
Wrong.
He studiously ignored it for weeks. When the balloon we were playing with landed in the money's lap, I had to get it. Drake was going nowhere near it. But when I asked if the monkey should go away, he say no.
Finally, last Friday, he told John that the monkey could go away.
Yesterday, John offered the monkey to young Master Alden who lives across the alley. Alden, is 2-1/2. Alden has never uttered more than one word at a time, in our experience. (That word is usually "Gracie!" our German Shepherd). Alden got an eyeful of Big Monkey and loudly informed his Grandma, Great-Grandma, and John. "No! I don't want the big monkey!"
Clearly there is some big monkey mojo going on that we adults are completely un-attuned to.

Where to?

I returned for 6 days in Mexico so much enamored of (with?) warm air and warm water that we are beginning to look at retiring in Belize. Seattle weather and work have conspired to reinforce that inclination.

Planning for the next gardening season

I have not transplanted the iris yet, although I did get the area between the front walk and the street rototilled. That area becomes perennials. No more mowing. I got a nice walkway laid so parking on the street does not mean walking in the mud to get to the front gate.

The chickens have been doing an excellent job of digging up the old beds and keeping the weeds down. It will be hard to contain them, come planting time. 8-ft fence? Chicken wire roof?

I think I will pass on planting tomatoes, onions, peppers and cukes this year: getting them to ripen at the appropriate times for salsa and pickles is beyond me. Between the cold spring and wet summer, most of what I planted last year went to the chickens. We have several CSA’s and farmer’s markets to choose from; better to buy there to satisfy my canning/preserving itch, and save my arthritic joints for what pays off abundantly: red potatoes, green beans, wax beans, black beans. We should get some asparagus this year, and I will put in a third blueberry bush. I want to try butternut squash; and Galeux D Eysines, it’s so delightfully warty, for Halloween.

It's Christmas

Amahl & the Night Visitors on Christmas Eve
- I caution John, “I’m playing Christmas music, you might want to put on your headphones.” We get to the first mezzo-soprano scolding, and John observes, “You weren’t kidding!” and retires behind his headphones.
- As a child, I thought that Amahl was cured by one of Kaspar’s magic stones. That was much more believable to me than a miraculous healing by the Christ child.
- Later I thought that if only Christianity practiced what Melchior sings, I could be a Christian:
The child we seek doesn't need our gold.
On love, on love alone he will build his kingdom.
His pierced hand will hold no scepter.
His haloed head will wear no crown.
His might will not be built on your toil.
Swifter than lightning, he will soon walk among us.
He will bring us new life, and receive our death, and the keys to his city belong to the poor
- There was a year when I could not listen to mother and child parting without sobbing myself:
Don't forget to wear your hat
I shall always wear my hat.
So, my darling goodbye! I shall miss you very much, very much
Wash your ears.
Yes, I promise.
Don't tell lies.
No, I promise.
I shall miss you very much.
Feed my bird.
Yes, I promise.
Watch the cat.
Yes I promise.
I shall miss you very much.
- This year, listening to the mother’s response to the Kings’ description of Jesus, “Yes I know a child the color of earth, the color of corn [incidentally a point that demands suspension of disbelief, corn was not extant in the middle east in the first century, was it?] … He is my child, my son, my darling, my own.” It dawns on me: this captures my spiritual; belief. Every child is a child of god, with hands of the poor/hands of a king, and poor/king he was born.

Girls are from Venus

Drake's mom threw a party last Saturday. Lydia came. Lydia has been an idol of Drake’s since the day they met, when she showed him how to pick ABC gum off the underside of the restaurant table. Lydia and Drake (now 4 and 2-1/2) were playing in the dining room when Drake started to cry. Mom got to the doorway just as Lydia minced out, smirking. (The mince and the smirk are both typical of Lydia, and not necessarily an indication of the nature of the play.)
Drake, tearfully: “I don’t like that one.”
Mom: “What happened?”
Drake, wailing: “I don’t know!”

Not to be cold, but get used to it, buddy.

Am I getting old?

Lately I have been accumulating all the symptoms of Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA), including, but not limited to, achy joints that may not loosen up for 3-8 hours in the morning (oh, it's not still morning then, is it); stiff, swollen and painful joints in fingers & toes, aggravated by use; and pain & swelling in my neck leading to tingling and numbness in hands and sometimes legs (also aggravated by use, like sitting at my desk at work, or, perversely, digging in the garden). But I do NOT (like 20% of people with RA) test positive for RA factor in the blood.
Consequently, my GP (a nurse practitioner, does anyone see an MD these days, or should they?) referred me to a rheumatologist. My first choice, in a medical center with other specialists I know and love, is "on medical leave. Indefinitely." Sad to hear. My second choice, close to home, declines to see me! Recommends referral to pain management clinic.
My GP's "referrals scheduler," a little taken aback, asked, "Is that what you want?"
Well, yes, it does seem like pain management is a good idea. However, I would very much like to know what it is that we are managing.
My suspicion (and I have no direct knowledge of this rheumatologist's comments) is that, out of 19 pages of medical notes, she picked out weight and blood tests, and concluded obesity. Borders on malpractice, in my book, but clearly she is not someone I want involved in my medical care.
I am now waiting to hear from the rheumatologist in my GP's medical group, probably a better choice, being associated with a major university medical school, in spite of being 40 miles from home.

Oil

Louisianans are “angry, they’re frustrated, they’re feeling helpless, but they still understand that it is part of the culture and the fabric of the economy,” said Representative Charlie Melancon, whose district encompasses all of the areas where oil has come ashore. “It is what it is.” (NY Times, "Despite Leak, Louisiana Is Still Devoted to Oil" By CAMPBELL ROBERTSON Published: May 22, 2010)

Clearly it's up to the rest of us to change that culture.
That being said,

"ANCHORING CHANGE IN A CULTURE
COMES LAST, NOT FIRST. Most alterations in norms and shared values come at the end of the transformation process.
DEPENDS ON RESULTS: New approaches usually sink into a culture only after it’s very clear that they work and are superior to old methods.
REQUIRES A LOT OF TALK: Without verbal instruction and support, people are often reluctant to admit the validity of new practices.
MAY INVOLVE TURNOVER: Sometimes the only way to change a culture is to change key people.
MAKES DECISIONS ON SUCCESSION CRUCIAL: If promotion processes are not changed to be compatible with new practices, the old culture will reassert itself." - John P Kotter

And I think we're out of time

Lessons in urban farming #1 & 2

Lesson 1 - Locally grown
Everything I buy at Portland Avenue Nursery is stunningly better quality- if a fraction more expensive - than the same bought from the big box or chain supermarket. Hands down, every time. Healthy plants, grown locally (read acclimatized), in season. I buy a plant from the big box or chain supermarket now only if I don't care that much whether it survives.
Lesson 2 - Sod
This one I have only heard about - too late. If you're turing sod into garden, go out & buy a bag of soil, plop it down on top of the grass, cut it open & plant in it. While your garden is growing, the plastic bag is smothering the grass underneath. In the fall, pull the plastic out & till. Sure wish I'd done that....

Lessons in urban farming #3

Lesson 3. Chicken tractors (Lessons 1 & 2 to follow. Immediacy trumps history.)

Glowing descriptions by Michael Pollan of Polyface Farm, and recommendations of other chicken farmers notwithstanding; consider carefully the mix of chickens' inexhaustible excrement (see previous post) and toddler play area.

The idyllic model of the mobile chicken run that gives the chickens access to a continuously replenished source of bugs and little green sprouts, while simultaneously fertilizing next year’s garden or pasture does not compute on a 3,000 square foot city lot.

We are now considering dog-kennel fence panels which, while more permanent than the wheeled tractor, still will not require the sinking of new fence posts. It will, however require the transplanting of one rose bush and a ton of deep purple iris, and reassessment of what gets planted on the other side of the portion of fence that will be shared with the garden. I WAS planning on using that fence for the peas to climb on…

Oh, and should I mention money? $5/dozen for the free-range organic eggs at the farm stand no longer seems quite so extravagant. But consider it the price of an education.

Chickens

Turns out every idiom involving chickens is true:
Chicken s**t (it never ends!), Chicken-hearted, Chicken feed (they are quite happy with the dregs: weeds and cores and peels), Chicken out (although not with the same meaning that we use it), and of course, like a headless chicken...

We bought a mix of brown layers. We wound up with (I'm guessing, they're still young) 5 aggressive White Orpingtons, 3 very sweet Buff Orpingtons, a gorgeous Black Australorp and a hen-pecked (see what I mean?!) Dark Cornish. I keep trying to give extra treats to the Cornish, but she skitters into the crowd, and one of the Whites invariably gets it.

Today I dropped one of our extraordinary (i.e. huge) nightcrawlers at the feet of the Black and a Buff. They hesitantly pecked at it, but shied away when it moved. "It smells like worm, and it tastes like worm, but it looks like snake." A white finally took over. "If you're not going to eat it, I will!"