Finley Wildlife Refuge--- plant list

 

                There is a lovely peacefulness in a botanizing hike. The mileage is less, the stops more frequent, the pace slower as we watch for bright spots in the deep green woods and fields. Mid-May is the perfect time for late spring flowers in the Willamette Valley, so we returned to Finley Wildlife Refuge again this weekend, this time with the books. We know most of the flowers and where we will find some specific old friends, but there are always a few that need to be teased out. Mark, long ago, discovered the two best ways to increase the count: pay attention to those tiny little white flowers and become familiar with the different varieties of some common species. He was trying to work on his checkermallows today.  We are still a little confused.

Woodpecker Loop to Mill Hill Plant List:

English Daisy

Hawthorne—not native (thorns!!)

Dandelion

Poverty Clover

Field Madder

Shining Geranium

Native Blackberry

Yellow Avens

Spring Beauty

Fringe Cup

Small flowered buttercup

Sweet Cicely

Trillium

Bird’s foot buttercup

Camus

Cleavers

Mariposa Lily

Cow Parsnip

Hop Clover

Iris

Wild Rose

Red Lotus

Sheep’s Sorrel

Parsley Leaved Lovage

Strawberry

Rose Checkermallow

Speedwell

Buckthorn

Stinky Bob

Nemophilia (small)

Columbine

Prairie Star

Western Starflower

Gorse

Larkspur

Footsteps of Spring

Yellow Paintbrush

Waterleaf  (there were two)

Thinmbleberry

Bleeding Heart

Scarlet Pimpernel

Shasta Daisy

Clover

Blue Eyed Grass

Serviceberry

False Dandelion

 

Meadows by the road:

Popcorn Flower

Monkeyflower

Lomaium Nudicalum

Another checkermallow, bigger and paler

Flax

Cinquefoil

Madrone

Wild cucumber

White Lupine

White Larkspur

Field Bindweed

Bittercress

 

 

 

 

 

 

Green Dream

Green dreams….

These days, I wake at dawn, grey light filtering through clouds, through my eyes. It is not time to rise, drink tea, get moving on the day, but to dream, halfway between waking and sleeping. I have green dreams. I think what is growing in the front yard, the hop vine adding several inches a day, waving above the trellis. I remember the bean seeds I planted in the warm moist ground the day before. I plan where  and what I need to do next, at home and at the school garden, which we are slowly bringing back to order.  Weeds and irrigation systems tangle in my brain with potato starts and mints to be replanted on the herb mound. These days, there is no sound of traffic, or early morning workers on the move. It is silent, except for the haunting whoo  of pigeons, calling for the friends. And the quiet rustle of plants, growing towards the light.

Green dreams.

When I pulled the tarot card for My Day, it was the Knight of Cups: what kindles your dreaming soul?

Candlemas weekend

Daylilies begin

Finley walk

Candlemas Mantle

primroses

Prep for seed planting

Mark's compost area after pruning

The Garden Notebook

               Four years ago, I started a weekly entry garden book, based upon the weeks of the year. Each week is a page with brief entries for ever year. After I figured out how to count the weeks—no mean feat—it worked.  I figured I’d have six years on the page; after four years, I think I’ll come closer to twelve. The process takes about five minutes a week, either on Saturday morning or when I do something significant during the week. This year, it has really begun to prove useful.

                It’s been cold. But, in early March, I always think that it has been cold and damp for a very long time. This year, thanks to my lovely garden book. I have evidence. Usually, the daphne is blooming by now. Some years, the camilla is covered in blossoms. The plums are blooming. This year—nothing. Buds, but no blooms. I am right. It has been cold. There has been snow.

                Because it has been cold, I feel like I am falling behind.  I should have beds covered with the hoops and plastic, prepped and planted, I think. I am a season pusher….but, when I check my notebook, I see that, really, I am on schedule. Seeds are all ordered. With the laurel hedge whacked back and the debris hauled to the compost area, I have completed pruning. I have cabbages and broccoli bumped up and under the greenhouse light. The tomatoes are just emerging in my warm classroom. I am on schedule. I am just chilly while working.

                The notebook is helping in other ways, as well. I make notes to my future self on posties and place them on the appropriate week as reminders. I have maps and seed order forms from previous years so that I have a better grasp of rotations. I have a section for next year’s plans, so that I remember to dig out the gooseberry and move it in the fall. I track rainfall in the winter, cucumber harvests and canning schedules in the summer. I know when I got that swarm of bees last spring and the last year we brought home chicks. I know when to hunt for eggs, because this flock refuses to lay in the coop. I had general knowledge in the past, but now, there is data. Evidence. I like it.

               

The Season of Grass

   

            ‘Tis the season of grass…Mark mows on Saturday.  By Wednesday, and the grass is an inch and a half taller and sprouting grass tweakers.  It is green, it is lush, it is fast, it is lovely.  However, it is a lot of work.

                When we first moved in, the  grass plan went something like this: Mark was in charge of the lawn and I was in charge of everything else. We bought a lightly used push mower from a friend who was moving to the big city and Mark began chasing it around the yard in patterns, some circular, some straight. He developed techniques of yanking back the handles to cut off stubborn blades and spent several summers slowly pulling false dandelions from the back yard. (The rabbits finished them off a few years ago.)  He had grass pride.

                Meanwhile, I added raised beds in all of the sunny spaces, effectively increasing the ratio of mowed to trimmed work in the yard. “You’re taking over my grass!” Mark fussed whenever I suggested a new garden bed.  And it’s true. We now have one lovely area of lawn in the backyard between the greenhouse, outdoor table, and the garden beds. We can even water it a bit from the summer shower. The rest has been lost to paths, garden beds, and shade.

                Trimming has become a larger activity. Mark started out trimming, but he trims with all of the care that he uses to cut my hair, small areas at a time and lovely and level. He also trims around plants that he likes in the lawn, like lemon balm.  I, on the other hand, have a whack it off approach. Using my right fist to grasp a large clump, I point the shears downward to the base and hack, leaving a golden strip of exposed grass behind. During breaks, I snip exposed slugs. The chickens follow behind, looking for bugs and worms.  Done right, I can reduce the hand trimming by half! In the spring, this is a compelling argument.

Come summer, growth slows down. Mark mows occasionally to open up the view. I trim after tending to a garden bed—tying up plants, harvesting, weeding, and squashing the occasional bug. The trim indicated completion so I always know where I am. As I work, I tuck clumps of grass into the beds, giving some plants a little extra mulch and care.  We talk about taking the mower in for a tune up, so that we are ready for next year.

                It is spring. The yard needs a good mow. 

Green Rain

                Green rain.

                In late April, May, and early June, we have green rains. They come after a week or so of dry, clear, warm days, when all of the plants in the yard stretch towards the sun, bloom fully, and begin to set fruit. But, as they grow, they lose water, and contract slightly. Then, one afternoon, the wind picks up and clouds tumble over the Coast Range, back up against the Cascades, and cover the valley. Sheets of low grey cloud form; huge golden puffs pile up above them. The barometric pressure and the temperature drop overnight. This week, the rain was ushered in by a thunderstorm rolling over the house at midnight. We sank into a deep sleep as the rains began.

                In  the morning, we awoke to a green rain. Green rains are steady, all day, wet-footed rains, not mists and drizzles. They fill all of the dry plant cells so that everything, from apple tree to tomato plants, to the grass, swells with moisture. Branches dip down over the paths. Water soaks into the ground once more. A few bean seeds rise above the soil; I walk the beds to tuck them back 

underneath. We can no longer see the low apartment house behind us because the hazelnut trees are so huge and full. The entire space, the entire county, begins to glow deep green against the grey skies.

                There will be no yard work done today. It is too wet outside. We walk to the library, huddle under an umbrella, pick up a pile of books, and come home. We make a pot of tea, maybe some Alfred’s Long Johns, and settle in. I start a fire, and we sit near it with a window open to let in the fresh, wet, green air.

                Green rain.

                

Spring Break began on Friday when I fled the building by 2:45, convinced that all of the work that was going to come in was in. The sun was out for the first time all week and the air was warm, When I came home, the Sprung Garden bed, which had been covered in plastic for the last two weeks, called. The soil was dry and friable, so I moved all of the spring starts outside ; peas, cabbage, kale, mustard, broccoli, and cauliflower. Then I buttoned the hoop house back up to keep out digging chickens and napping cats, picked some sprouting broccoli from the one plant that survived, and went inside for dinner.

Saturday  was tomato transplant day. The plants had started out life in my classroom, but needed to move up to the four inch pots. Mark did the labels while I transplanted. When we were done, the greenhouse smelled of damp earth and tomatoes.

Sunday was the day to start the next round of veggies for the summer garden: chard, collards, more broccoli and cauliflower, parsley and basil. While I planted seeds, Mark sat in his greenhouse chair and read.

Blooming wildflowers at  Finley Refuge-- fawn lily, toothwort, bitter cress, fairy bells and fairy slippers, Oregon grape, yellow violets, both types of Trillium.

On Monday, the pink tulips began to bloom. Then the rains settled in. Downpours with sun breaks for days.

Spring greens from Sunbow Farm-- salad, mustard, and raab.

A completed garden bed-- it curves around the window well and will allow us to grow more food in the hot, southern corner of the house. The plan is to run vines up the wall, creating shade on the couch inside.





Easter Evening, after the party is over we eat dinner in the falling sun.

Tu B'Shevat and Seed Catalogs

          The season is changing. Snowdrops are blooming, the solar panels are working more and seeds are ordered.

            Last weekend, we gathered to order seeds—four friends, some tea and lemon bars, and our seed catalogs. It was pouring out. People ran for the door hiding under plastic bags, tucking seed boxes under arms, and shook the water off when they came in. It was loud on the roof in the dining room. No one m indeed. We had seeds on our minds. Several had already made lists, other lists were made during discussion.  Seed packets flew around the table. I tracked orders on my big yellow pad. We talked varieties, past successes, and big plans for the coming season. When we broke up, we had a master order together—and I placed it the next night. They should be here soon.

            After the seed fest, I went to the TuB’Shevat with my friend Maureen. It is a lovely ritual celebrating “the sap rising in the trees” and the very beginnings of Spring. There are readings, chants, blessings, and ritual fruits as we move from the hard-shelled world of the body to the world of pure spirit. The table is covered with various fruits, fresh and dried, and it combines a little of the harvest with hopes for the coming year. This year, there was an underlying concern about the impact of climate change on the human and plant communities of the world.

            When I came home, Mark filled the greenhouse tub with hot water. After dinner, I soaked in the tub, and watched the full moon rise through the foggy windows. I dreamed of seeds started on the shelves inside and planted in the beds outside my windows, then came in for a long, still winter’s night sleep.

I made the Whole Lemon Bars from the Smitten Kitchen cookbook, which I am loving for gatherings. It's a little fussy for every day!

SmarterBalanced Rant

            May is testing month at CHS, especially if you are a junior. So far, they have lost six hours of class—a full Friday—to two multiple-choice tests for SmarterBalanced, and three hours of English class to writing a “performance task”, i.e. an essay based on several articles. They will lose three hours of U.S. history to the math “performance task” next week. If you are a slow worker, there will be more time taken from class and study periods. They have also taken the PSAT and SAT, some have sat for the ACT, and many of my students have taken at least two AP tests in the last month. All told, many of my juniors will take eleven or twelve discreet standardized tests this year, mostly in the month of May, which is also the glory days of Honors American Lit, because we are done with formal essays and are free to ponder the nature of story, of reality, of respect, and of  humanity  as we read Slaughterhouse Five and The Things They Carried. It has been a long year.

            This was in our minds yesterday as we trudged downstairs to the windowless computer lab to begin the performance task. For some reason, I am required to perform the scripted lesson before the test, but I have to leave the room while they read and write. I do not do well with scripted lessons. The question was written on the board as we walked in—something like “Where do you go for information and news? Why?”

            “Do we really have to write about that?” one girl asked, sighing.

            “Can we just talk about it?” another lobbied.

            In two seconds, we were off script. “Yes.”

            “Mr. Duerfelt.”  One student called out.

            “Yeah, he talks about the news every day,” another agreed. My task was to divide their responses into “traditional” and “non-traditional” news sources. Where does the APUS history teacher fall in that dichotomy? I put him in the middle.

            CNN,” one boy added. “Online.”

            “Newspapers.”

            “Radio.”

            “Oooooowwwww,” – the traditional response to anything “deep” and “intelligent” echoed through the room.

            “They want me to add these,” and I wrote Facebook, Pintrest, Vine, blogs, and smartphones, even though we all know that smartphones are the orange amongst the apples here, and we are smarter than SmarterBalanced.

            At this point, the class begins to laugh. The absurdity of the whole situation, of me, who does not own a mobile phone, use a smart board in class, and continues to show Wallace and Grommet on VHS the day before Winter Break, instructing my tech savvy class on the use of PINTREST as a source of legitimate news—like snapchat of a ninth grader’s hair is news!—overwhelms them. I read them a blurb about blogs and citizen reporters, we indulge in a moment of questioning whether “citizen reporters” are actual trained journalists, and we are done.

            “You are now ready to complete the performance task,” is my closing line, and they turn on their computers as I head upstairs to read ninth grade narratives.

            And I was struck, as I am every year in May, by how my students, how all of our students, rise to the occasion every day. We present them, far too often, with dumb stuff and they take it and run with it, creating something beautiful—or, at least, humorous--  out of the mundane over and over again. Every day, we are given moments of grace, of laughter, or intelligence. It is the greatest gift of teaching. We should not squander it on testing.

May Day

May Day—the celebration, first of fertility and then of labour in Europe—has morphed into a glorious recognition of the Willamette Valley, here in Oregon. Everything is green and growing, blooming, budding, swelling with life. Wildflower festivals and walks, plant sales, Celebrations of Natural Features—everyone is outside. We take off the storm windows and move the heavy dining table outside, settling it back into the alcove between house and garage.

May Day rituals are all around flowers, creativity, and fertility. When I was little, I made little baskets out of construction paper, filled them with flowers, and dropped them on doorsteps. Now, we begin the cycle of wildflower walks, starting on the valley floor and slowly following the blossoms higher—Cascade Head, Mary’s Peak, Iron Mountain, The Three Sisters.  We will see many of the same plants, with slight variations, as we climb the mountains this summer. I keep the lists in a notebook; maybe, someday, it will help biologists understand how our environment evolved because of climate change.  We take long walks in town as well, enjoying the long evenings. At school, state tests and prom stress out the junior class, while my ninth graders kick back, read Romeo and Juliet, and beg to go outside. Sometimes I give in. I have missed the sun as well.

The gardens are planted. Cabbages are heading up. Mustards and kales are ready for dinner. Asparagus shoots for the sky. The artichoke in the back garden bed is striving for new records in size. The chickens are laying eggs, at least three a day, and I have eggs to spare. Potato beds have hoses and mulch. The bean bed is ready to be seeded and covered with the cold frame. The vining crops are planted in four inch pots and I am restless to move them into the garden soil. The beds need a little weeding and constant trimming to keep them neat.

Our menu is shifting as the winter squashes, potatoes, and onions are all finished. Greens are coming on strong. I dig through the cookbooks to discover different seasonings to disguise the kale and mustard greens. We cook huge pots of beans to mix with the greens and spread over whole wheat toast. A little parmesan cheese or a few kippers and we have a tasty dinner. There are some new potatoes from the volunteers in the garden beds; I dig them out as I clean out each bed.  We eat eggs, creating golden frittatas and quiches. Salad every night. Mint tea for desert.  It is all lighter, leafier, greener than dinners in January and February. When we need something more substantive, we buy some fish.

Out at the wildlife refuge, everything is shining. The ponds, flooded in winter to encourage the geese, are still full and catch the sunlight. Most of the geese have moved onto summer quarters, but ducks, newts, and bullfrogs still live in the ponds. One of the old houses on the property has not one, but two beehives, one behind a loose shingle and the other in the chimney. The parking lot buzzes with air born activity. When I followed the sounds, I startled three deer on the edge of the field. Flower bloom is at its peak; we identified 52 blooming plants on Saturday afternoon. Camas turns the swaths of  fields blue.  Checkermallows flash pink. In the woods, iris and fairy bells lurk under the trees. We walk carefully along some paths, which are lined with the new, shiny leaves of poison oak.

In the evening, we return home. Mark works on his compost heap while I make dinner. Tonight, we will have a rhubarb cake, salad, and a frittata with new eggs, volunteer potatoes, and a few spears of asparagus. I light the beeswax candles. It feels too warm for a fire inside, but the sea breeze makes an outside fire feel too chilly. Never mind. We will eat, bask in the last rays of the sun, and go to bed.

Rhubarb Cake: AKA as MayDay cake. Taken directly from Moosewood’s Book of Desserts

½ c butter

1 c white sugar

3 eggs

1 t vanilla

½ cup of milk

1.5 c flour (half fresh ground wheat, half white)

1 T BP

¼ t salt

2.5 c chopped rhubarb—or any other fruit you have around

Cream butter and sugar. Add eggs. Add half the dry ingredients, then the milk, then the rest of the dry. Stir in the fruit. Bake in a square pan, 350 oven, until done. It could take a cream cheese frosting—or not.

Experiments with Vines

 

Vines in pots

          The warm weather has brought out the lawn mowers, lilacs, and lounging in the sun. It has also been excellent planting weather. In the past week, we have transplanted all of the starts for the summer greens bed, set out new herb plants, direct sowed a few flowers, and begun an experiment with the vining crops, like cucumbers, zucchini, and pumpkins, which like warm soils for germination and good growth.

            For the last five years, I have started these crops in four inch pots, sometimes at school, sometimes in the back yard on the potting bench, and then transplanted them in the middle of May. It keeps the starts cozy. They also appreciated the protection from slugs and pill bugs. It is a functional system. Last year, I put them out a few weeks earlier and covered them with min-cloches made from gallon milk jugs. They really liked the extra warmth. This year, I have an experiment.

            One set of seeds--- three each of all of the vining crops—were sowed directly in the ground. I turned over just that spot in the bed, planted, and then covered the seeds with a gallon jug to keep the soil warm and a little dry.  Keeping off the rain cuts down on the slug activity. The cover also keeps the cats from digging up the seeds and the rabbit from eating the new leaves.  The other set of seeds is planted in four inch pots, sitting on the potting bench. I need both sets to germinate for full crop production, but, because I started a few weeks early, if the garden beds do not survive, I can plant in pots and recoup my losses. It may even benefit the zucchini to be staggered.

            I am curious to see if, in July, it really matters. If I can direct seed and cloche cover, it saves a step, especially during warm springs like this one. However, the potting system is more flexible, allowing me to start the seeds according to the moon, not the occasional dry spell. We shall see.

Sticky Buns

Vines in bed

I use about a third of the recipe for my bread. Whole dough works better, texturally.

Melt two tablespoons of butter. While waiting, roll out the chunk of dough into a rectangle. Spread butter over all, then sprinkle with brown sugar. The dough needs to be evenly covered, but not thickly. Cover the sugar with coarsely chopped hazelnuts and a handful of raisins. Roll into a log, cut into six pieces, and place, standing up so you can see the roll, in a pie pan. Allow to rise for half an hour, bake in a 350 degree oven until golden and meltly, and flip onto a plate. Do not eat too soon or you will burn your mouth!

Moments of Being Happy

Saturday afternoon, for a series of complex reasons, I was left at our local coop with the groceries, near the magazines, for about ten minutes. I picked up Mother  Earth Living, one of those healthy life-style magazines, and landed on the page “How to Be More Happy.” Get a good night’s sleep. Eat well. Focus on the positive.  These are the positive moments of the last week.

Thursday afternoon, Parent Teacher conferences.

Not my favorite activity. They are exhausting.

I look up to see a mother-son pair heading my way. The student was totally lost first semester, but has done a 180 and is shining this semester. His work is in on time. He comes early to ask me questions. He talks with everyone. He sits down with his mom. His shoulders are back, his head up. He makes eye contact. We all smile. I compliment him on his radical change of behavior. “What happened?” I ask. His mother nods. She is also wondering. “I didn’t like not doing well,” he said. “I always got As and bad grades weren’t me. I decided I needed to work harder.” I cannot stress how unusual this is—for a ninth grade boy, on his own, to decide to do better and follow through on it. It speaks well for his future. His mother and I listen. She nods proudly. He son will be ok.

Saturday morning.

On Saturday, despite a downpour, we head for the hills and a long loop walk on logging roads through the OSU forest. There are Bleeding Heart and Fawn Lilies along the roadside. The moss is fat on the Douglas fir trees and sparkles in the sun. Dogs run ahead of their owners. I can hear the voices of my companions solving the world’s problems behind me, but I am not interested. The steady pace of the walk, rising and falling along the ridgeline, is peaceful. I have never been good at sitting meditation, but the rhythm of  walking clears my mind.

Sunday.

After heavy showers and clouds all week, the day is clear. I mow and trim out the backyard and consider, once again, how much bigger it looks when mowed. After raking and replacing the chairs, I check on the beehive—comb, pollen, honey, and the queen is out of her box. The hive is buzzing, but not aggressive. I cut off one branch to increase the  amount of sun on their front stoop and settle in with a book and my notebooks, dreaming of plants. In the garden, the leeks, spring greens, and peas are growing. Tulips and alliums are blooming, and the bees have discovered the comfrey and wild hyacinth blooms.  One cat perches on the cinder block in the flower bed; the other curls up on a blanket draped over a chair. The bunny chows on the freshly mowed grass. The world is peaceful.

Whipping cream will not splatter!

Coconut Cream Pie: This makes many people happy

Three parts— prebaked crust, pastry cream, and whipped cream, made in that order.

Pastry Cream:

1.5 c milk

1T butter

Start to warm in the pan. When the butter melts, it is ready.

Meanwhile, whisk six egg yolks, from backyard eggs, into .5 c milk, .25 c cornstarch, and .5 c of sugar.

Pour this mixture into the warmed milk and stir. Slowly heat the whole mixture, stirring regularly, until it thickens. Pour off into a bowl, add a splash of vanilla and a large handful of dried coconut, cover with plastic to avoid the film, and cool overnight.  Assemble right before eating.

Lap the bowl when done.

Hot Cross Buns

I decided, this year, to change up the way I made the Hot Cross Buns for our annual pagan/Easter celebration. For years, I have made a rich dough with sugar and butter, kneaded the mass twice, shaped the rolls and baked them the night before. The problem was, rolls sweetened with sugar tend to dry out a bit overnight. I wasn’t happy with the results, but I was not willing to wake up early enough to start them on Easter morning. I love my friends—but not that much. I just put a little more cream cheese on the tops.

This year, I decided to address the issue head on and made several changes.  First, I decided to use the wet dough into the fridge method, rather than the heavy kneading system. This cut down the preparation time from hours—knead, rest, knead, shape, rest, bake—to minutes. Measure ingredients, stir, rest overnight, and shape the buns in the morning. When you are looking at

 HCB for 18 people, this is a vast improvement.  Three loaves of bread dough in a lump is a challenge to knead well. It also allowed me to easily bake the buns in the morning, so that they were fresh and soft when people arrived.

Second, I added some whole wheat flour to the mix—2:1 white to fresh ground whole wheat. This improved the texture considerably. I changed out the butter for oil, which was a milder flavor, and did not add milk to the mix, but just water. The eggs came from the back yard. The most significant change in ingredients, however, was the shift from sugar to honey. Honey naturally retains moisture in baked goods, including bread. A Whole Wheat Honey loaf is golden and soft, slightly sweet, and very long lasting.

Finally, we had two spreads for the HCB. They are always crossed with a sweetened orange cream cheese, but I also put out the jar of lemon curd that was left over from Christmas. Nothing is bad with lemon curd on it.

NEW Hot Cross Bun recipe:

This should make about 24-28 buns, depending on how you divide the dough.

3 cups of water

1.5 T yeast

1.5 T salt

3 c ww flour

4.5 c white flour

1/3 c honey

¼ c canola oil

2 eggs

1 T cinnamon

1t cloves

2/3 cup of chopped apricots

Whisk yeast into water. Stir all other ingredients in until well combined.  Let set out while you decorate the hard boiled eggs, about two hours. Put in the fridge overnight, covered with a plastic bag. In the morning, cut into bun sized pieces, shape, allow to rise for half an hour, and bake until done. Remember that honey browns quickly and does not indicate doneness. When cool, frost.

Spring Equinox

 

          The Spring Equinox, the moment when day and night are the same length, but stretching towards the light, is a rainy, muddy, petally time in Oregon. Spring is in full bloom—daffodils and grape hyacinth line the walks, dogwood petals fall on the sidewalk, wild fruit trees bloom in the woods. Unlike the Fall Equinox, there is no thought of holding back, of striving for balance, of preparing for the long haul of the dark winter. Now is the time to go full on—long walks, late nights, tending starts, having friends over for dinner, and beginning all sorts of new projects, usually outside, while finishing up the holdovers from the winter. 

            Garden planting starts in earnest around the Spring Equinox—a time also known as Spring Break in Oregon, as all of the schools have rainy, cloudy week off.  The garden starts from Candlemas need to be planted out under the cold frames. Kale, cabbages, mustards, and peas are eager to grow in the new, thin, spring sunshine, but still need protection for heavy rains, probable hail, and hungry rabbits. The tomatoes need to be bumped up into four inch pots and distributed on Easter weekend.  The next round of garden seeds need to be planted: collards, beets, chard, herbs, and more broccoli and cauliflower.  Eager for spots of color, everyone buys primroses and pansies to gather in pots around the front steps. The season revolves around the planting of seeds in the ground and one full Saturday afternoon will be devoted to potatoes. Creative fencing abounds, as the chickens are still living on a fallow garden bed, but want to run around the yard in the afternoon. By May Day, the coop will be under the laurel tree once again and the summer fencing established.

There are two important. Rituals for Springtime: Distribute the Surplus tomatoes and Hot Cross Buns. The first occurs on a Friday afternoon in early April, when I give away all of the excess tomatoes—usually between fifty and sixty plants.  Mark claims that it sounds like a drug deal as we hunker down around the plants and negotiate amounts and varieties. The plants leave home and I spend less time in the evening moving starts back inside. The other event is Hot Cross Buns, an Easter brunch involving  Hot Cross Buns (obviously), coconut cream pie, winter root vegetables, and a huge salad, along with decorated eggs and a peep hunt. Some years, we gather in the dining room and listen to the rain pounding on the roof, dodging out quickly to hunt for marshmallow peeps and peanut butter eggs wrapped in raincoats.  Others, we set the table up outside in the garden, watch the bunny run around the yard, and blithely toss shells into the herb gardens.

By the end of March, the winter stocks are getting low. If I am lucky, a couple of squashes remain on the shelf and the onions have not quite started to sprout. I have to spend some time brushing the ghostly tendrils off of the eating potatoes and some small tubers are tossed on the compost pile. Tomatoes are long gone. Parsnips and leeks are starting to send out seed stalks and must be eaten. The Farmer’s Market is full of raab of all sorts, as their crops also shift into seed production. Although we still have lots of dried fruit, pickles, and salsa, the vegetable stores are going away. Greens, however, are thriving. Mustard and collard leaves the size of my head fall out of the produce bag from Sunbow Farm. We eat greens almost every night and I hunt through the cookbooks looking for new seasonings. The asparagus is just appearing, so we will have small sides of it sautéed with garlic for dinner. Or I will cook it with morels and eggs, with a side of whole wheat toast for dinner.

Out at Finley Wildlife refuge, things are blooming. Fawn lilies fall down the hillside. Fairy slippers and shooting stars catch our eye, magenta in the heavy dark leaves. Toothwort, Trillium, Spring Beauty, and an occasional Fairy Bells bloom in the woods. Wild mustard and English Daisy dominate the disturbed areas. The Big Leafed Maple is also blooming, and sends a spicy, sharp scent into the air. Newts are laying eggs. Birds are building nests. Everything is turning green.

In the evening, we come home for dinner, once again in front of the fire. Spring flowered plates, chicks, and decorated eggs rest on the mantel. The table runner is a mottled, batik green with underlying magenta hints. A green and pink table cloth covers the dining room table with pink depression glass candle holders. We will eat potato leek soup, Irish soda bread, and salad for dinner, then work on finishing up a pair of hand-knit socks. It may be Spring, but the floor is still chilly.

Irish Soda Bread

2 c white flour

2 c whole wheat flour

1 t salt

1 t BS

3 T sugar

nice handful of currants

4 T butter

1 !/3 c butter milk

1 egg, beaten

Mix dry ingredients together, then rub the butter in. Add milk and egg. Stir. Knead lightly. Form into a circle about two inches thick. Slide onto baking stone in the 350 degree oven and bake until golden. Eat with butter, honey, and jam.

Rainy Weekend

            Rainy weekend….Up and down the Willamette Valley, people looked out the window at the rain on Saturday morning, poured another up of coffee, and settled down on the couch. Life feels right when the skies are cloudy in March (and November, December, January, February, at least half of April and May…). We’ve had a run of beautiful, warm, bright, sunny weather and it just felt wrong. Yeah, we all basked in the warm sun, took long walks and bike rides, planted out veggie starts early, but, underneath, there was a current of guilt. “Global Warming…climate change… something’s weird… this cannot last…snowpack is down….” You could feel the discomfort in the air.  We need clouds to feel safe, snugged in, protected from the world in the valley. This weekend, they returned.

Raspberry Cream Pie, for Pi Day

           

Make a crust from graham crackers or nilla wafers.

14 oz of condensed milk

¼ c of sour cream

¼ c of lemon juice

zest from one lemon

2 ½ c raspberries

Toss into the cuisinart and whirl until smooth. Pour into the crust and chill for several hours.  You could add whipped cream to the top, or drizzle some chocolate sauce over it all. 

It's Spring!

Berry Alley poem

Blooming plum

compost delights

Front porch plants

Front yard

Laundry line

Mason Bee house

Mason Bees

Parsnips

peas

Poem post

one lost potato

Raspberry row

Front steps

Saint Francis

Leek and Mustard Pie

Make a pie shell, half whole wheat, half white flour. Spread some good mustard on the bottom.

Saute two or three sliced leeks until tender.

Shred or chop cheddar cheese and lay on the mustard. Spread leeks over the cheese. Cover with a custard of three to four eggs and milk, and bake in 350 oven until set.

Eat with a good green salad.