Oat Bread Days

  

              In our house, we rotate through seasonal foods. First the fruits and veggies, eating whatever is ripe and fresh every day until it is out of season (or every other day, when it is zucchini). But we also have seasonal baked goods, like pies and quick breads. It started years ago, when there were too many yummy things in December and Mark suggested that we just shift some of them to other seasons. Now, we spread various lentil soups out over months of winter and early spring and quick breads each have their season. We just finished the zucchini bread season, and I broke out the oat bread recipe last week, before we went camping. It is perfect because we are often purchasing fresh oatmeal and wheat berries in late September, so it reflects the harvest season.

Oat Bread

1.5 c oatmeal

1.25 c buttermilk

6T oil

.5 c brown sugar

2 eggs

1.25 c fresh ground whole wheat flour

1 t BP

.5 t salt

1t BS

1 cup small dried fruit—currants, blueberries, raisins….

Soak the oats in the buttermilk for a couple of hours. Mix in wet ingredients, then the dry. Pour into a greased loaf pan and bake in 400 degree oven until done.

Pound Pears

                Mark and I made a pilgrimage to the local Pound Pear tree this morning and picked up sixteen very large, hard pears.  It was a bit of a workout carrying them home in our daypacks, but they did curve nicely around my spine, unlike the complete works of Shakespeare.

We love the pound pear—it has been around, perhaps, since Roman times, and there are documents going back to the 16^th century, at least. It is a Homestead fruit, planted as part of an orchard for winter eating. The pears are rock hard when they fall, ripe, from the tree and they never soften. It is not a fresh-eating, delicate fruit. But, it keeps. If you pick them before they fall,  they will last for months. Then, in late winter, you can stew it down on the back of the stove for some loose, sweet fruit on toast.  If I had space, I would plant one.

This particular tree is in the back of a local park, near some houses, on the edge of town. It must be the last tree from an old orchard. It is fifty feet tall and all of the fruit is far above our heads, even with a fruit picker. It’s unassuming, shaped like the other, younger trees in the area, and about the same height. You wouldn’t know there was anything different unless you walked close and spotted the pears on the ground in mid-November. They range in size from a large eating pear to two fists together. They are hard; many of them are still not bruised, even after falling from the high branches.  They do weigh a pound!  We hunted down the best looking ones, avoiding the splits and chomped edges.

When we came home, I hacked up five of them, whacking them hard with my knife, cutting out the cores and bruises, and tossing them into the crockpot. I added some fresh ginger left over from making cough syrup and a cup or so of water and turned it on. They will cook down for several hours until they soften. At that point, I will taste them and add a little sugar or honey, but they will be remarkably sweet on their own. The rest are tucked in the larder, waiting their turn for the pot. We will finish them up in our January oatmeal and yogurt. 

Is the Heat On?

   

            November—and we have not yet turned on the heat.

                I have always been slow to turn on the heat in the fall and quick to turn it off in the spring.  Even when the heat is on, we keep it low—64 to 66 degrees when we are home and up, low 50s when we are sleeping or working. The cats have nests around the house where they curl up on blankets or sweaters during the day.

                Why? Maybe it was being raised in the energy crisis of the 1970s, when Jimmy Carter put on a sweater and turned down the thermostat—to 68, Mark points out on cold December mornings. The university extended the winter break for several years by a eek to save on the cost of heating all of the buildings during the cold spells that hit New Hampshire in early January.  I have always been away of the consequences of burning fossil fuels and the need to reduce our reliance on them. We have gas heat.

                Maybe it is a New England thing, because old houses were designed to shut off little used rooms in the Winter, bringing the entire household into the kitchen during the evening and sending them to bed in unheated rooms every night. I have always loved heavy blankets and nightcaps. Even now, our bedroom is the coldest room in the house.

                Maybe I am just cheap, hating to throw money after a little warmth that could be just as easily provided by a heavy sweater. I remember one winter when we were determined to only purchase heating oil once, all winter.  We spent most of the winter in the bedroom, wrapped in blankets with the cats, watching old movies, when we were not at our warm kitchen cook jobs or out exploring the winter wilderness. It was chilly, but cozy as well.

                For whatever reason, the heat is not yet on here. We have spent considerable money, over the years, to insulate our little house—ceiling, windows, walls, and floor—and we have an efficient furnace as well. It was all part of our design to reduce our carbon footprint. I made lined curtains for the living room. We have a plug for the fireplace.  Even as costs have gone up, our costs for heating have stayed about the same.

                This year, the challenge has been much easier than in the past. Last February, Mark moved his little Kimberly stove into the dining room, a small, well insulated space that was once the garage. It is fiddly to start and maintain and only takes small chunks of wood, but it is very effective.  Mark loves it because it is very efficient and cutting edge in design. I love it because it is clearing up piles of old scraps of wood. The cats love it because they can sit on the slate fire pad, which holds heat for hours after the fire dies away. It heats the dining room and the kitchen and we, in old New England tradition, have moved into the smaller space, leaving it only to sleep at night.

                Soon, we will break down and turn the heat on. We like being able to use all of our rooms especially when the weather is bad and we need a little more room. But, until then, I will toss another chunk of laurel into the chamber and sit in front of the stove.

                 

Soil Prep

 

              The season of growing is done, harvest almost done, and soil preparation is upon us. Last week, I pulled the last of the tomato plants from the back garden and then the long climbing zucchini off of the greenhouse. There were a few small fruits on both, but, really, how many zucchini can one household eat? Mark has finished sifting compost for the season and has three large garbage bins full, including the repurposed wheeled recycling cart that I use to gather leaves off the street. It is time to begin the layering of organic matter.

                First, I will compost in place anything that is not disease carrying, like the goldenrod branches in the front garden. A rough chop and they are laid down where they grew, closing the nutrient loop. Then I haul the vegetable plants to the big compost hoops, tossing them in whole. They will break down this winter. The summer mulch stays in place, usually layer of straw that has already begun to break down. If the beds are not part of the chicken tractor rotation, I layer some compost in them; when we have a rabbit, they also receive rabbit droppings. I pull the weeds and volunteers that I have allowed to bloom for several months. The beds are ready. This is where we are now.

                Across the street, six full grown linden trees are dropping their golden leaves. Two doors down, a birch is shedding red leaves. The fig is about to drop some huge brown leaves and the oak is waiting until December. I am watching all of them closely… soon the landscapers will be around with rakes and leaf blowers, pushing the bounty into the street. When that happens, we pounce. First, lock the grey cat into the bedroom so that she is not rolling in the road. Then we find the leaf rakes—one in good shape, the other dying—and the rolling bin. Maybe we grab the big blue tarp as well. Working quickly, racing the dark, we fill the bin and dump it, over and over, one binful per garden bed. The street pile disappears. The garden piles grow. An hour later, all of the beds are covered in leaves. If there is time and leaves, we will set up a hoop in the driveway and fill that as well.

                All winter, the leaves mingle with the other organic matter, followed by the chicken tractor. For a month, the coop sits on each bed while the chickens rummage around, turning over slugs and eating weed seeds. When the coop comes off, I toss the leaves and straw and everything else over lightly, mixing it all with the soil. This allows it to all break down before I begin planting in March. Every year, the beds hold more moisture, have fewer pests, and grow strong vegetables.  And it all begins now.

Henny and the election Season

   

            I have been seizing the occasional hours between downpours to tidy the yard this week. I’ve hauled a pile of leaves and mulched, raked the back yard, cut down the asparagus,  moved my beautiful metal hoops onto the bed that will need to be covered if it ever grows cold this winter, and planted two buckets of small mystery bulbs that I sifted out of the front strip planter when I did a bit of revamping  in early October.  Bringing order to the garden helps my mind to settle down, away from the chaos of this last (Thank God!) week before the election.

                Our white leghorn, Henrietta,  is not feeling well. She has had a huge molt this fall, but she has also, suddenly, grown old.  Her comb is drooping. She is moving slowly and napping a great deal. This week, she has not flown up on the perch at night. One afternoon, when I offered her some banana—a preferred food—she did not even see it. I was sure that she was about to go. I let all of the ladies out while I planted bulbs. The Buffs ran about, hunting bugs in the grass. Henny sat, stooped, in the sun. When she did not even come out on Friday, I sat with her for a while, telling her that she had been a good chicken and it was ok to go.  I sent Mark out when he came home for the same reason. The next morning, I did not rush out; when Mark took a while coming back in, I was dreading the news. “She’s still there,” he said. “Looks pretty good. She even ate something.”

                Today, we let all of the hens out again. Henny came out to sit in the sun near the greenhouse for the afternoon.  She was munching on some grass. I like to think that she is waiting, as I am, for the outcome of Tuesday’s election. She has always been a scrappy little hen, bossy and loud. A good layer—we could host Hot Cross Buns for eighteen on just her white eggs alone. She kept the Buffs in line until just last week, when her comb began to droop. Even now, they leave her be. She was always  first into the compost heap when we brought out the yogurt container full of kitchen scraps. Henny never doubted her place. So, maybe she is waiting—more patiently than me, to be honest—for Tuesday evening. And she is hoping, as I am, to see history – or, maybe Herstory—made, when we finally elect a woman for president. It will be a victory for women. I hope Henny is still here to see it.  I hope I am, as well.

Here Comes the Sun

Summer view of greenhouse and panels

          After a long week of steady rain, the sun came out on Saturday morning. This happens about once a month during the winter, and we all leap to gather as much sunshine as we can. I threw three loads of sheets though the laundry and hung them outside to dry. The Farmer’s Market stands took advantage of the clear weather to leave their canopies at home, so the squashes and pumpkins could glow in the sunlight. We walked downtown wrapped in wool sweaters and hats, but not raincoats. In the afternoon, I raked up most of the leaves in the yard, spread some mulch, and trimmed down the asparagus bed, while Mark finished up some work on the greenhouse. Then we moved the coop to a new bed, rearranged the fencing, and placed the dilapidated cold frame on the just tractored bean bed.  “It might as well fall apart on a bed rather than the ground,” Mark observed as we shifted it into place.  Every hour or so, I swung by the solar panel display to cheer on the meter.

            Next door, the college students decided it was a good day to sit on the roof. The put on jackets, found some cokes, and climbed up. The last one carried his iphone and speakers. Once they were arranged in a line, looking west over the street, they turned on the tunes. Beatles songs. They sang along, belting out “Hey Jude” at the top of their lungs, followed by “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” like they were the first generation to ever do so. A couple of friends joined then. They grumped about school work and the football game.  Then “Here Comes the Sun” came on. They were quiet, basking in the setting sun.

 Down below, I put away my tools and latched the chickens in for the night. “Good-bye roof,” one of them said as they descended and headed inside for dinner. “Good night sun, “ I added and moved inside myself.

Solar output for the weekend—3.5 KWH, which is about what we produced in the five days leading up to the weekend.

Pumpkin Streusel Pie

            Start with a crust, add filling, then streusel. Bake in 350 degree oven until set.

Filling:

2 cups of  cooked pumpkin, mashed

3 eggs

1.5 cups of cream

¾ cup of brown sugar

½ t salt

1.5 t cinnamon

1 t ginger

½ t nutmeg and cloves

¼ t allspice

Streusel:

½ c brown sugar, oats, chopped walnuts

¼ c flour, butter

½ t cinnamon

Rain

 

          Rain.  There will be months of rain.

            It has been raining, off and on, how it does in the Willamette Valley, for several days now.  We’ve replaced the white lights that hang under the “light shelf” in my classroom so there is enough light to read by near the windows in the early morning. We have all stared at the skylight when a downpour roared through in the middle of class one afternoon. We are all a little damp, little swelled up on the edges, like the mosses and lichens that hang from the trees on the refuge south of town. Rain.

            Yesterday was Parent Teacher Conferences, which always make me ill. For eight to twelve hours, depending upon the year, I perch on a hard plastic chair in the cafeteria, peering at an endless stream of parents, feeling ambushed because you just never know what is on their minds. Honestly, 95 percent of the interactions are positive— after years of practice, I am good at defusing parent worries, and the only parents who come are either very proud of their student and just want to check in or really worried about their student and need some help. Once we move past that thirty seconds of “Who is this stranger suddenly in front of me?” it’s ok. And even the surreal ones, that happen every few years, are helpful. But that constant talking, constant being on and focused, is exhausting, psychically and mentally. And my butt hurts from the chair.

            I took a walk in the rain this morning to shake the conferences from my head. It was misty and windy when I left the house, and, half way to the river, it poured for a few blocks. I was wearing my ancient,  Lost and Found box at school black sweatshirt, so old and shrunk tight that it is almost waterproof. It is my winter coat. Add a wooly hat and scarf, and it is fine in January. Push the sleeves up a bit, and it is comfortable in April. Perfect for October rains. The rain washed down my face and covered my glasses, so I walked into a blurry world. No problem. I know the way. A toddler, fascinated with a puddle, called hello before stamping in the water as his grandmother watched, totally in love. I chatted with an old colleague waiting on a porch. Leaves danced along the pavement. Deep breaths. The air smelled of ocean, and forest, and earth all tumbling together—home.

            Down by the river, a cab driver napped in his car, waiting for a call. No one else was around. Ducks, mostly mallards, chatted by the water. A few drifted downstream, then paddled back to the group before sliding away once more. A gravel bar was slowly disappearing as the river rose from the upstream rains. Grey green water swirled around the bridges, carrying small bits of debris to the ocean. Downtown, a few neon signs glowed in the grey day, but the path was empty. No one was really up and around yet, except for the cooks, chopping onions and frying garlic for lunch, and the bread bakery, which smelled of yeast and baking wheat. I swung inland and homeward, dreaming of another cup of tea and my new book.

            There will be months of rain.

Winter Lasagna

Another layered dish....

Take two large cans of chopped tomatoes, add garlic and onion, and simmer until the onion is tender.

Chop a delicata squash into small cubes. Chop a large bunch of kale.

Mix about a cup of mozzarella and a cup of ricotta cheese together.

Find the large casserole pan.  This is the order:

1/3 sauce

1/2 ww lasagna noodles, not cooked. They will cook in the oven.

1/2 cheese

All of the veg

1/3 sauce

1/2 noodles

1/2 cheese

1/3 sauce

Bake until the squash is tender. Let it sit for a while to firm up before cutting. 

Late Summer Evening

  

  

   

not much space here

      Silence drops slowly over the backyard in the evening. The flock is integrated now, so there is no chicken fuss over dominance after the first squawks of the morning and a bit of ritual labor coaching while the youngest lays an egg. In the late afternoon,  the ladies discuss tidbits quietly while the hive hums loudly as the drones come out for air, the of the cat calls for attention from the fenceline, cars cruise down King’s Blvd., cedar waxwings feast on the high figs, and people head home on foot, shouting into their cell phones. After dinner, the foot traffic is gone and all we hear are the voices of our neighbors over the fence speaking Spanish, or English, Chinese or Arabic—the apartments behind us hold a world of cultures in their old brick walls. An occasional car pulls into the alley, shifting gravel. Further away, a couple of small children play.  Mark and I eat dinner outside, chat softly, and listen to the world. A dove hoots from the telephone line.

            As the light fades, so does the volume. The chickens move into their new coop and begin protracted negotiations on roost rights.  Wings flap. Someone is shoved off the perch and launches upward. Bees move into the hive quickly when dusk comes. Cats wander by, looking for a warm lap. The crickets begin. Inside, Mark runs water for dishes, humming to himself. Water sloshes into the greywater bucket as he works. The crickets begin, softly at first, then growing louder. Mark turns on the lights in the kitchen and the house glows.

            When it grows dark, I move to tuck in the animals. First, the rabbit, who, like a toddler, does not want to go inside for the night. I chase her around the yard until she makes a false move and is caught by the garden fencing. In she goes with a thump, then bounces loudly over to check her crunchies and look for the treat we often use as bribery. Once she is in, I move to the back bed, where the coop is perched for September. All of the ladies are in and settled now, but they chirp softly when I jostle the coop to hang the full bucket of feed. Occasionally, one will jump down to see what she’s missing. The hive is still buzzing softly, especially when I slide between coop and hive to reach the chicken feed. Some nights, a few bees buzz a warning that I am too close and I slip behind instead. One of the cats investigates the motion in the backyard and rubs against my legs, purring.

            When everyone is settled for the night, quiet comes down. Mark empties the last bucket of greywater onto the kiwi vine. I take a shower. The crickets chirp. The possum drops out of her home in the laurel hedge and bumps into the garden fence right outside the bedroom window. The moon rises, tangled in the plum tree branches. A few cars pass in the distance, but, by ten, the world is still.

Swamp Maples

Whole wheat bread with rice

Use the "bread in five minutes a day" system. 

Cook 3/4 cup of arboriso rice and cool.

Mix three cups of water, 1.5 T of yeast and salt, three cups of wheat flour, three and a half cups of white flour, and the rice. Allow to rise and proceed as usual.

The dough is wet. You will need more flour than usual to toss it into a dough ball. It will also take longer to cook-- beware. 

Thankful for...

            One of the best things about Corvallis, what I am most thankful for this season, is the level of community engagement in all sorts of issues. In the last few weeks, we have worked with three different organizations who are all working towards making Corvallis a more sustainable place to live. It has given us some new things to chew on over the long Thanksgiving weekend.

            Two weeks ago, we went to a presentation on residential solar power, sponsored by Abundant Solar and Seeds for the Sol. The first half of the talk was technical. We learned about all of the rebates available right now for solar panels; we could get over half of our money back between rebates and tax credits. The presenter all discussed how solar panels have become more efficient, so a smaller array could power the house. That interested me, because we do not have a huge, open, south-facing roof. Our house is aligned east/west, and part of the roof is shaded by a huge fig tree.  When I came home and looked at our electric bill, and saw that we average 6 KWH per day, I began to reconsider the panels. Maybe we could do this….It is a low priority, but I may ask Abundant Solar to swing by this Winter Break and let me know if it could happen.

            Seeds for the Sol (www.seedsforthesol.org) directed the second half of the presentation on funding other family’s panels. If you are not in a perfect location, but still want to increase solar power in town, you can donate to the organization by directly purchasing panels, or by purchasing the federal tax credits. Mark was very interested in this idea, because it was easy. He could do it this year, and it would help decrease our reliance on fossil fuels as a community.  We came home excited to consider, once again, how we could make our house more sustainable.

            Last week, we attended the League of Women Voters presentation on carbon taxes. They had organized a panel discussion with two economists for Portland State, a woman from Sightline Institute, and a University of Oregon law school professor. Each presented for about ten minutes, and questions followed. This being Corvallis, a town full of engineers and math geeks, the economists, who had been studying carbon taxes and designing models to judge the financial impact of different prices, received the most questions. Everyone wanted to see the data. (They promised a new study next week! http://www.pdx.edu/nerc/sites/www.pdx.edu.nerc/files/carbontax2013_0.pdf) If we established a tax of 100 dollars per ton of carbon, we would just meet our  targeted emissions. But was the politically feasible? What would the impact on the economy be? All of the presenters considered British Columbia, which has had such a tax for several years, and California, which is working on a similar idea.  There will be a bill in the Oregon Legislature for the next session.

            Finally, inspired by all of the discussions in our house about carbon footprint and recycling what we do not need, I called Corvallis Furniture to pick up several pieces of furniture we had rescued from the streets. There was a wooden desk, a chair, and a small table lurking in our basement.  Corvallis Furniture  was started by a group of students who were appalled by the amount of good furniture that is cast into the streets to rot at the end of every school year. They collect decent stuff, take it back to a workshop, and refurb it. Sometimes it gets a coat of paint; sometimes it is transformed into a totally new design. Either way, it is off the streets. They have a store front in town, so, in a few weeks, I could visit my rescued and repaired desk!  (corvallisfurniture.com – or check out their FaceBook page)

            All in all, I am, as always, thankful to live where I do, in a small city where people not only talk—a great deal—but also take positive action every day.

Peanutbutter Cookies: Whenever we have a meeting, we have cookies.

1/2 cup butter

1 cup peanut butter

1 cup brown sugar

1 egg 1 t vanilla

Beat well.  then add

2 cups of white flour

1/4 t salt

1 t BS

maybe some chocolate chips. Or raisins. Or nuts....

The dough is a bit crumbly, but holds together if you use a firm hand in shaping. 

Bake in 350 degree oven.

Autumn

In the Willamette Valley, warm dry October afternoons are deeply unsettling. Natives are especially nervous, eying the blue skies like there is something fundamentally wrong with golden sunshine. And then, one day, the clouds roll in, smelling of the sea. Deep grey, they drop the sky down to a more human scale, and then, more come. And more. Soon, they bump up against the Cascades and flow back over the valley. One afternoon, the rains begin. In my north-facing classroom, we look up. Cross-country runners calculate the rainfall and potential mud creation quickly, and smile. Readers snuggle deeper into their minds, looking forward to the long evenings curled up in bed, reading and listening to the quiet conversations of the rain. The ceiling of our world descends, snugging us all in for the long winter nights, and everything feels right once again

Other signs of Autumn:

·        Wool socks

·        Squash in the Larder

·        Winter Wheat colors the fields a deep green.

·        Fuzzy pants in the evening

·        Cats nap all day long

·        Flan.

·        Fires on Sunday mornings.

·        Pumpkins everywhere!

Sugar Cookies from 1957

3/4 c of soft shortening (half butter)

1 c sugar

2 eggs

.5 t vanilla

Mix together.

Add 2.5 c flour, 1 t BP, and 1 t salt

Mix and chill for an hour or so. Then, roll out and cut into leaf shapes.

Bake in 350 degree oven until golden.

.

Putting the "Urban" into Urban Homesteading

I am not well-rested these days.

 After a long week of work and meetings, I looked forward to a decent night’s sleep on the weekend of October 3rd. However, other residents had different plans.

On Friday night, we were woken up at least three times by drunks passing by the house, bellowing. The first time is not a big deal; we can roll over and go back to sleep. The second is worse—there’s a shot of adrenalin that happens when you are woken from a sound sleep by a scream. The third leaves you lying in bed, waiting for the other shoe to drop—or scream to happen.

Saturday night, we stayed up until eleven, despite short sleep, hoping to find the near-by parties and bust them before we fell asleep. Around ten-thirty, the noise began. Groups of ten to twelve people walked by, discussing alcohol loudly. A group of males began chanting at one another. Three stood on one corner. “Old man! Old man!” they bellowed. “Old man! Old man!” another group responded from two blocks away. “Dude, wait up!” another called. Everyone was heading south, towards Frat row. I walked the neighborhood, busted one party where the attendees were standing outside, surrounded by a sea of beer cans, and went to bed. The noise continued. Groups walked by, every fifteen to twenty minutes, until around one AM.

The next morning, I walked down my street to take photographs, which I have attached. I ran into a neighbor, hanging our “Rights and Responsibilities” door hangers. She told me that a young man asked her what she was doing. When she explained, he took a handful of hangers to distribute on his side of King’s Blvd.

 By October10th, the next Friday night, we were unable to sleep, once again, because of herds of shouting drunks passing by out house…so we were primed to be upset by Saturday’s events.

The fraternity in our neighborhood had a very loud party on Sat afternoon. So loud, in fact, that one of our city councilors, who was at my house on another errand, was appalled. There was screaming, chanting, and music ricocheting off of all of the cement walls in the neighborhood. “Not unusual,” we told him. “It used to happen at two AM. This is progress.” After hearing the party in our basement, my partner called in a noise complaint; the police visited and nothing changed. When we called in the second time, an hour later, the police came around the back of the building and had a long conversation with the membership. Silence reigned.

Around six o’clock, the herds began passing once more. One group of four boys began screaming in front of the first house on the block and ramped up the volume as they walked along the sidewalk. They stopped outside of our house shouting, “Fuck you!” “Motherfucker” and “It’s still light out!” then screamed and continued along the block. This was clearly targeted harassment.

At 8:30, we could hear another party from inside the house, with the windows shut. When we investigated, we found it a block and a half away, across King’s Blvd, in a backyard. I called it in, only to be told that the police had just that moment arrived to break it up. Herds continued to wander the streets around our house. When I heard another party at 9:55, I went out to investigate. It was the frat across the way, playing tribal drums and chanting—as well as several parties in the townhouses down the street. Before I could locate addresses, a dozen people, staggering drunk, headed my way down the sidewalk. One had enough visual acuity to spy my slender gray cat tagging along behind me and suggest that someone grab her. I scooped her up and fled inside.

We went to bed. Noise continued to swirl around the neighborhood—shouts, bass beat, sirens near and far-- until almost midnight, when there was a settling down. Just before we nodded off, red lights flashed into our room. The police and an EMT were bent over our front garden, rousing a student who had passed out in the foliage and been spotted by a passer-by. The EMT left quickly because of a drug overdose down the street, while the officer attempted to find a sober friend to come fetch the staggering young man. When the officer came to our door to explain the situation, he was remarkably cheerful and very professional. It was, we agreed, a very bad night.

I am detailing our experiences for you not because we are so unusual, but because they are so universal in the areas around the university. Friends have seen people peeing in their front yards, been woken up by young women screaming, and heard young men puking off of the roof next door every weekend until the cold rains drive the behavior inside.

Corvallis and Oregon State University have a serious alcohol problem. According to OSU statistics, 46% of the student population used alcohol in the last 30 days; 24 percent more than ten times. Within that group, the average number of drinks was 6, with a blood alcohol level of .09. As the CDC defines binge drinking as more than five drinks, with a blood alcohol level of .08%, this is alarming. Of greater concern, 42% of drinking students forgot where they were and what they had done, and five hundred and thirty seven were raped (labeled “someone had sex with you without your consent” on the chart). 

 It is clear to me that we still have considerable work to do on livability in our neighborhoods.  A small group of drunken individuals continue to hold our ability to sleep and enjoy our lives hostage.

Suggestions:

Bike patrols. Our doorhangers. Encourage all residents to call in when they are disturbed by rowdy behavior. Tone down promotion of drinking around football games and college. Remove the beer ads from city busses. Clean up trash and glass in the streets. Lean on landlords to monitor behavior and respond to complaints quickly.  Suspend and expel students for bad behavior. Do not sell alcohol after ten PM.

Oregon State University statistics from: http://studenthealth.oregonstate.edu/osu-drinking-statistics.

Binge drinking definition from http://www.cdc.gov/alcohol/fact-sheets/binge-drinking.htmI am not well-rested these days.

 After a long week of work and meetings, I looked forward to a decent night’s sleep on the weekend of October 3rd. However, other residents had different plans.

On Friday night, we were woken up at least three times by drunks passing by the house, bellowing. The first time is not a big deal; we can roll over and go back to sleep. The second is worse—there’s a shot of adrenalin that happens when you are woken from a sound sleep by a scream. The third leaves you lying in bed, waiting for the other shoe to drop—or scream to happen.

Saturday night, we stayed up until eleven, despite short sleep, hoping to find the near-by parties and bust them before we fell asleep. Around ten-thirty, the noise began. Groups of ten to twelve people walked by, discussing alcohol loudly. A group of males began chanting at one another. Three stood on one corner. “Old man! Old man!” they bellowed. “Old man! Old man!” another group responded from two blocks away. “Dude, wait up!” another called. Everyone was heading south, towards Frat row. I walked the neighborhood, busted one party where the attendees were standing outside, surrounded by a sea of beer cans, and went to bed. The noise continued. Groups walked by, every fifteen to twenty minutes, until around one AM.

The next morning, I walked down my street to take photographs, which I have attached. I ran into a neighbor, hanging our “Rights and Responsibilities” door hangers. She told me that a young man asked her what she was doing. When she explained, he took a handful of hangers to distribute on his side of King’s Blvd.

 By October10th, the next Friday night, we were unable to sleep, once again, because of herds of shouting drunks passing by out house…so we were primed to be upset by Saturday’s events.

The fraternity in our neighborhood had a very loud party on Sat afternoon. So loud, in fact, that one of our city councilors, who was at my house on another errand, was appalled. There was screaming, chanting, and music ricocheting off of all of the cement walls in the neighborhood. “Not unusual,” we told him. “It used to happen at two AM. This is progress.” After hearing the party in our basement, my partner called in a noise complaint; the police visited and nothing changed. When we called in the second time, an hour later, the police came around the back of the building and had a long conversation with the membership. Silence reigned.

Around six o’clock, the herds began passing once more. One group of four boys began screaming in front of the first house on the block and ramped up the volume as they walked along the sidewalk. They stopped outside of our house shouting, “Fuck you!” “Motherfucker” and “It’s still light out!” then screamed and continued along the block. This was clearly targeted harassment.

At 8:30, we could hear another party from inside the house, with the windows shut. When we investigated, we found it a block and a half away, across King’s Blvd, in a backyard. I called it in, only to be told that the police had just that moment arrived to break it up. Herds continued to wander the streets around our house. When I heard another party at 9:55, I went out to investigate. It was the frat across the way, playing tribal drums and chanting—as well as several parties in the townhouses down the street. Before I could locate addresses, a dozen people, staggering drunk, headed my way down the sidewalk. One had enough visual acuity to spy my slender gray cat tagging along behind me and suggest that someone grab her. I scooped her up and fled inside.

We went to bed. Noise continued to swirl around the neighborhood—shouts, bass beat, sirens near and far-- until almost midnight, when there was a settling down. Just before we nodded off, red lights flashed into our room. The police and an EMT were bent over our front garden, rousing a student who had passed out in the foliage and been spotted by a passer-by. The EMT left quickly because of a drug overdose down the street, while the officer attempted to find a sober friend to come fetch the staggering young man. When the officer came to our door to explain the situation, he was remarkably cheerful and very professional. It was, we agreed, a very bad night.

I am detailing our experiences for you not because we are so unusual, but because they are so universal in the areas around the university. Friends have seen people peeing in their front yards, been woken up by young women screaming, and heard young men puking off of the roof next door every weekend until the cold rains drive the behavior inside.

Corvallis and Oregon State University have a serious alcohol problem. According to OSU statistics, 46% of the student population used alcohol in the last 30 days; 24 percent more than ten times. Within that group, the average number of drinks was 6, with a blood alcohol level of .09. As the CDC defines binge drinking as more than five drinks, with a blood alcohol level of .08%, this is alarming. Of greater concern, 42% of drinking students forgot where they were and what they had done, and five hundred and thirty seven were raped (labeled “someone had sex with you without your consent” on the chart). 

 It is clear to me that we still have considerable work to do on livability in our neighborhoods.  A small group of drunken individuals continue to hold our ability to sleep and enjoy our lives hostage.

Suggestions:

Bike patrols. Our doorhangers. Encourage all residents to call in when they are disturbed by rowdy behavior. Tone down promotion of drinking around football games and college. Remove the beer ads from city busses. Clean up trash and glass in the streets. Lean on landlords to monitor behavior and respond to complaints quickly.  Suspend and expel students for bad behavior. Do not sell alcohol after ten PM.

Oregon State University statistics from: http://studenthealth.oregonstate.edu/osu-drinking-statistics.

Binge drinking definition from http://www.cdc.gov/alcohol/fact-sheets/binge-drinking.htmI am not well-rested these days.

 After a long week of work and meetings, I looked forward to a decent night’s sleep on the weekend of October 3rd. However, other residents had different plans.

On Friday night, we were woken up at least three times by drunks passing by the house, bellowing. The first time is not a big deal; we can roll over and go back to sleep. The second is worse—there’s a shot of adrenalin that happens when you are woken from a sound sleep by a scream. The third leaves you lying in bed, waiting for the other shoe to drop—or scream to happen.

Saturday night, we stayed up until eleven, despite short sleep, hoping to find the near-by parties and bust them before we fell asleep. Around ten-thirty, the noise began. Groups of ten to twelve people walked by, discussing alcohol loudly. A group of males began chanting at one another. Three stood on one corner. “Old man! Old man!” they bellowed. “Old man! Old man!” another group responded from two blocks away. “Dude, wait up!” another called. Everyone was heading south, towards Frat row. I walked the neighborhood, busted one party where the attendees were standing outside, surrounded by a sea of beer cans, and went to bed. The noise continued. Groups walked by, every fifteen to twenty minutes, until around one AM.

The next morning, I walked down my street to take photographs, which I have attached. I ran into a neighbor, hanging our “Rights and Responsibilities” door hangers. She told me that a young man asked her what she was doing. When she explained, he took a handful of hangers to distribute on his side of King’s Blvd.

 By October10th, the next Friday night, we were unable to sleep, once again, because of herds of shouting drunks passing by out house…so we were primed to be upset by Saturday’s events.

The fraternity in our neighborhood had a very loud party on Sat afternoon. So loud, in fact, that one of our city councilors, who was at my house on another errand, was appalled. There was screaming, chanting, and music ricocheting off of all of the cement walls in the neighborhood. “Not unusual,” we told him. “It used to happen at two AM. This is progress.” After hearing the party in our basement, my partner called in a noise complaint; the police visited and nothing changed. When we called in the second time, an hour later, the police came around the back of the building and had a long conversation with the membership. Silence reigned.

Around six o’clock, the herds began passing once more. One group of four boys began screaming in front of the first house on the block and ramped up the volume as they walked along the sidewalk. They stopped outside of our house shouting, “Fuck you!” “Motherfucker” and “It’s still light out!” then screamed and continued along the block. This was clearly targeted harassment.

At 8:30, we could hear another party from inside the house, with the windows shut. When we investigated, we found it a block and a half away, across King’s Blvd, in a backyard. I called it in, only to be told that the police had just that moment arrived to break it up. Herds continued to wander the streets around our house. When I heard another party at 9:55, I went out to investigate. It was the frat across the way, playing tribal drums and chanting—as well as several parties in the townhouses down the street. Before I could locate addresses, a dozen people, staggering drunk, headed my way down the sidewalk. One had enough visual acuity to spy my slender gray cat tagging along behind me and suggest that someone grab her. I scooped her up and fled inside.

We went to bed. Noise continued to swirl around the neighborhood—shouts, bass beat, sirens near and far-- until almost midnight, when there was a settling down. Just before we nodded off, red lights flashed into our room. The police and an EMT were bent over our front garden, rousing a student who had passed out in the foliage and been spotted by a passer-by. The EMT left quickly because of a drug overdose down the street, while the officer attempted to find a sober friend to come fetch the staggering young man. When the officer came to our door to explain the situation, he was remarkably cheerful and very professional. It was, we agreed, a very bad night.

I am detailing our experiences for you not because we are so unusual, but because they are so universal in the areas around the university. Friends have seen people peeing in their front yards, been woken up by young women screaming, and heard young men puking off of the roof next door every weekend until the cold rains drive the behavior inside.

Corvallis and Oregon State University have a serious alcohol problem. According to OSU statistics, 46% of the student population used alcohol in the last 30 days; 24 percent more than ten times. Within that group, the average number of drinks was 6, with a blood alcohol level of .09. As the CDC defines binge drinking as more than five drinks, with a blood alcohol level of .08%, this is alarming. Of greater concern, 42% of drinking students forgot where they were and what they had done, and five hundred and thirty seven were raped (labeled “someone had sex with you without your consent” on the chart). 

 It is clear to me that we still have considerable work to do on livability in our neighborhoods.  A small group of drunken individuals continue to hold our ability to sleep and enjoy our lives hostage.

Suggestions:

Bike patrols. Our doorhangers. Encourage all residents to call in when they are disturbed by rowdy behavior. Tone down promotion of drinking around football games and college. Remove the beer ads from city busses. Clean up trash and glass in the streets. Lean on landlords to monitor behavior and respond to complaints quickly.  Suspend and expel students for bad behavior. Do not sell alcohol after ten PM.

Oregon State University statistics from: http://studenthealth.oregonstate.edu/osu-drinking-statistics.

Binge drinking definition from http://www.cdc.gov/alcohol/fact-sheets/binge-drinking.htmI am not well-rested these days.

 After a long week of work and meetings, I looked forward to a decent night’s sleep on the weekend of October 3rd. However, other residents had different plans.

On Friday night, we were woken up at least three times by drunks passing by the house, bellowing. The first time is not a big deal; we can roll over and go back to sleep. The second is worse—there’s a shot of adrenalin that happens when you are woken from a sound sleep by a scream. The third leaves you lying in bed, waiting for the other shoe to drop—or scream to happen.

Saturday night, we stayed up until eleven, despite short sleep, hoping to find the near-by parties and bust them before we fell asleep. Around ten-thirty, the noise began. Groups of ten to twelve people walked by, discussing alcohol loudly. A group of males began chanting at one another. Three stood on one corner. “Old man! Old man!” they bellowed. “Old man! Old man!” another group responded from two blocks away. “Dude, wait up!” another called. Everyone was heading south, towards Frat row. I walked the neighborhood, busted one party where the attendees were standing outside, surrounded by a sea of beer cans, and went to bed. The noise continued. Groups walked by, every fifteen to twenty minutes, until around one AM.

The next morning, I walked down my street to take photographs, which I have attached. I ran into a neighbor, hanging our “Rights and Responsibilities” door hangers. She told me that a young man asked her what she was doing. When she explained, he took a handful of hangers to distribute on his side of King’s Blvd.

 By October10th, the next Friday night, we were unable to sleep, once again, because of herds of shouting drunks passing by out house…so we were primed to be upset by Saturday’s events.

The fraternity in our neighborhood had a very loud party on Sat afternoon. So loud, in fact, that one of our city councilors, who was at my house on another errand, was appalled. There was screaming, chanting, and music ricocheting off of all of the cement walls in the neighborhood. “Not unusual,” we told him. “It used to happen at two AM. This is progress.” After hearing the party in our basement, my partner called in a noise complaint; the police visited and nothing changed. When we called in the second time, an hour later, the police came around the back of the building and had a long conversation with the membership. Silence reigned.

Around six o’clock, the herds began passing once more. One group of four boys began screaming in front of the first house on the block and ramped up the volume as they walked along the sidewalk. They stopped outside of our house shouting, “Fuck you!” “Motherfucker” and “It’s still light out!” then screamed and continued along the block. This was clearly targeted harassment.

At 8:30, we could hear another party from inside the house, with the windows shut. When we investigated, we found it a block and a half away, across King’s Blvd, in a backyard. I called it in, only to be told that the police had just that moment arrived to break it up. Herds continued to wander the streets around our house. When I heard another party at 9:55, I went out to investigate. It was the frat across the way, playing tribal drums and chanting—as well as several parties in the townhouses down the street. Before I could locate addresses, a dozen people, staggering drunk, headed my way down the sidewalk. One had enough visual acuity to spy my slender gray cat tagging along behind me and suggest that someone grab her. I scooped her up and fled inside.

We went to bed. Noise continued to swirl around the neighborhood—shouts, bass beat, sirens near and far-- until almost midnight, when there was a settling down. Just before we nodded off, red lights flashed into our room. The police and an EMT were bent over our front garden, rousing a student who had passed out in the foliage and been spotted by a passer-by. The EMT left quickly because of a drug overdose down the street, while the officer attempted to find a sober friend to come fetch the staggering young man. When the officer came to our door to explain the situation, he was remarkably cheerful and very professional. It was, we agreed, a very bad night.

I am detailing our experiences for you not because we are so unusual, but because they are so universal in the areas around the university. Friends have seen people peeing in their front yards, been woken up by young women screaming, and heard young men puking off of the roof next door every weekend until the cold rains drive the behavior inside.

Corvallis and Oregon State University have a serious alcohol problem. According to OSU statistics, 46% of the student population used alcohol in the last 30 days; 24 percent more than ten times. Within that group, the average number of drinks was 6, with a blood alcohol level of .09. As the CDC defines binge drinking as more than five drinks, with a blood alcohol level of .08%, this is alarming. Of greater concern, 42% of drinking students forgot where they were and what they had done, and five hundred and thirty seven were raped (labeled “someone had sex with you without your consent” on the chart). 

 It is clear to me that we still have considerable work to do on livability in our neighborhoods.  A small group of drunken individuals continue to hold our ability to sleep and enjoy our lives hostage.

Suggestions:

Bike patrols. Our doorhangers. Encourage all residents to call in when they are disturbed by rowdy behavior. Tone down promotion of drinking around football games and college. Remove the beer ads from city busses. Clean up trash and glass in the streets. Lean on landlords to monitor behavior and respond to complaints quickly.  Suspend and expel students for bad behavior. Do not sell alcohol after ten PM.

Oregon State University statistics from: http://studenthealth.oregonstate.edu/osu-drinking-statistics.

Binge drinking definition from http://www.cdc.gov/alcohol/fact-sheets/binge-drinking.htm

Signs of Indian Summer

In New England, Indian Summer is the time after the first frost, when the sky is bright blue, apples hang on the trees, and the days are warm and glorious. Here in the Pacific Northwest, the signs are more subtle—we do not have a killing frost until late October, if then—but the delicate shift is season, and the deep longing to hang onto the last golden rays of the sun are the same. These are the signs.

·        Powdery mildew on the zucchini.

·        Smoky air from distant fires.

·        Blankets at night.

·        Too much fruit!

·        Eggplant. Tomatoes. Corn. Green beans.

·        Young chicken eggs.

·        Kayli, the furry beast, NEVER comes in.

·        The fennel in the front yard needs to be tied up, away from the sidewalk.

·        Flan for breakfast (this is related to the eggs…).

·        Huge Harvest moon.

·        Art Retreats.

·        Chai is tempting.

·        Bees are very honey turfy.

·        Our reading nook looks appealing.

·        Hot in the middle of the day, cool in the evening.

·        School starts.

Indian Summer Fritatta , perfect for a group dinner or full moon watching

3 cups of blue potatoes, cubed and boiled. Use the tiny ones!

2 cups of small tomatoes

Large handful of feta cheese

6 basil leaves, chopped

6-8 eggs, beaten with pepper and garlic

Layer tomatoes and potatoes in a baking pan, add cheese and basil, pour the ggs over all. Stir to settle and bake in 350 degree oven until the eggs are set, about 40 minutes. This can be eaten warm or room temperature but it is not good cold. The colors are lovely!

Fall Rituals

The storm windows went up this weekend.

Years ago, when we bought our house, it had aluminum storm windows—the sort with screens built in that warp slightly and are tricky, over the years, to open. Although I have fond memories of following my father through empty houses while he installed such windows, they are ugly. After we painted, I did not want to re-hang them. It was like putting blinders on our house. However, after a year of serious drafts, something had to be done. Our friend Mark is a woodworker and he took the glass from the old storms and built wooden ones, sized to fit each window’s quirks. We painted them deep red, hung them, and never looked back. Every autumn, around Halloween, we wash all of the windows—house and storm—wax the wooden edges with a chunk of candle like waxing old wooden cross country skis, and pop them on. Well, sometimes there’s a bit of pounding involved, if something has shifted over the summer. They add a layer of detail to the house, rather than subtracting. The house turns inward and quiet, focused for the long winter nights. Fires, beans in the crockpot, potlucks, sweater knitting, and reading  become the focus of our lives, rather than hiking and gardening.

                                                            *****

Sunbow Farm had a Harvest Home potluck this evening. We pulled in through the tall pampas grasses right before sunset and parked by the chip and mulch pile. The cob house was warm and welcoming; they had cleaned and lit a fire in the big wood stove. The world smelled of earth and dinner. Kent had carved a series of compost pile gourds and lined them down the path to the back field, ending with a large pumpkin. At twilight, we all stepped out into the breezy fields. The sun was setting south of Mary’s Peak, casting gold and peach light into the clouds and lighting up the mountain. The trees were dark against the sky. Kent lit the furthest pumpkin, and we walked back to the house, lighting gourds as we went. “We’re inviting the field spirits into the house for the winter,” he and Harry explained, “so that we can all live in peace. Then, in the spring, all of the spirits head back out into the fields.”  Fifteen people walked the field track, back to the houses, as we had so often, summer after summer, hauling beans, water bottles, armloads of greens. “Now,” he announced, “we can eat!” And we did—fava and Indian Woman beans, stuffed red peppers, applesauce and apple cake, pickles from abundant crops of beets and cucumbers, all from our local farms.

On the way home, we passed three churches having Sunday evening services, their stained glass windows glowing in the leafy darkness.

Mabon Quiche

Turn the oven on to 350 degrees.

Make a quiche crust with half whole wheat flour.

Sautee a leek in olive oil salt and pepper until limp.

Chop a crisp apple.

Cut smoked gouda into small cubes.

Beat four eggs into about 2/3 of a cup of milk.

Layer the quiche: cheese, apple and leek, then beaten eggs. Support the crust edge if it starts to bend with a shim of folded paper.

Bake until set.

Eat for dinner with a fresh green salad and cider.