Amenity or Infrastructure?

 

            A few weeks ago, I was sitting in a council training where the presenter referred the lovely bicycle and pedestrian amenities that Bend had installed in the last ten years. “Interesting choice of words,” I mused, and then went back to considering the topic at hand, which was “stay in your policy lane, city council.” But the phrase rankled. Why?

            An amenity is “something that is intended to make life more pleasant or convenient for people.” I think of hotels  with a fluffy bathrobe to wear strolling down the hall to the soaking pool or fancy soaps in the shower when I hear the word amenity. Or, perhaps, a greenway along the river with an overpass to a row of dining establishments which serve craft beers and local organic salads. Amenities are nice things that we do not have or use every day. There are special, a treat. So, when you install bike/ped amenities you are implying, at least, that bike lanes and sidewalks, curb cuts that do not collect water at the base, and stop lights to make crossing busy streets easier are not things we use every day, all day, but something for casual weekend activity by people with money. On weekdays or when it is raining out, you are using the city infrastructure—roads—to drive your car from work to school to the gym to home.

            I prefer the idea of bike/ped infrastructure: “the basic physical and organizational structures and facilities (e.g. buildings, roads, power supplies) needed for the operation of a society or enterprise.” Just the word—structure—sounds more substantive, more permanent, more significant. Infrastructure is maintained because we cannot live without it. Sewage treatment plants and pipes are infrastructure, as are roads and bridges, the electrical grids, and municipal buildings. And when one of them fails, breaks down because of poor decisions or freak accidents, people want to know why and demand rapid repairs.  Lives depend upon functioning infrastructure. Everyone, rich and poor, uses it every day and pays for it. Infrastructure is a great unifier.

 Our lives, our health and the health of our planet, depend upon improving functional bicycle and pedestrian infrastructure, although we don’t always admit it. We have to reduce our dependency on cars. Therefore, we need buffered bike lanes on busy streets—and signs sending us down the road less traveled as well. We need green painted turning lanes; we need bulb-outs to reduce the distance crossing the street; we need something a whole lot better than the flashing yellow lights that are cropping up everywhere in the middle of long, long blocks to make crossing the highway safe for all. And we need this infrastructure throughout our cities and towns, not just in wealthy areas and inward facing neighborhoods. Not all of this infrastructure needs to be concrete—much of it can be lighter weight, sometimes mobile—but it does need to move us closer to safe, shared streets for all users, in all weathers, not cars on weekdays and the occasional bike ride to brunch on a sunny Saturday morning.

           

Hermits?

 

               In the New York Times today, I saw an article “Hermits Support the Newly Isolated” which described the life of two self-described hermits and their outreach to others during the pandemic. They write books, run a web-site and now produce YouTube videos—I know, not very hermit-like, in my mind. I was most interested in the definitions of hermits and, in the end, thought, are we hermits?

1.       “Hermits can live anywhere, but tend to reside in modest dwellings.” Check—we have a modest dwelling. Comfortable, but not large or fancy.  

2.       Hermits do “not exit society because of misanthropy… but chooses solitude for spiritual reasons.” Check—we both like humanity, but need long periods of quiet in order to function.

3.   

    Hermits are “rooted in place.” They are “anchorites.” Check—getting Mark to leave home is a constant battle, made worse by the pandemic. We have not left Corvallis since September.  Once on the road, we are both great, but, even during normal times, the amount of effort needed to chivy us out of the house and backyard is considerable.

4.       Hermits “practice austerity.” Check—the heat is set at 64 degrees. My pants are ten years old. The van-- 1984.We mend, and repair, and reuse as a spiritual practice.

5.       Hermits show “awe in the face of the natural world.” Check—We take long walks, watch the seasons change, consider the sublimity of the natural world.

6.       Hermits like rituals. Check.  We are creatures of habit and ritual, from the tea we drink before bed to our observations and celebrations of the cycle of the year. Wheels within wheels, rituals within rituals. 

Six for six, on a chilly November morning. The Catholic Church is ringing their bells for second service. Outside, juncos dig in the left over leaves; the Halloween pumpkins slowly compost into the garden beds; garlic begins to poke up in the small bed under the kitchen window. Inside, the newspaper is scattered on the couch; laundry hangs to dry in the dining room; fresh greens and four small advent candles settle into the mantle.  

Pancake Grills

 

        

        Years ago, when I still lived in Portsmouth, I bought an avocado colored waffle and pancake grill from the Immaculate Conception thrift shop. I was tired of trying to flip pancakes in my cast iron frying pan. I wanted a little wrist room! It was about five dollars, and it lasted another fifteen years before it finally died.  I really liked the design—it was multi-purpose and reasonably flat, so that it stored well—so I hunted through thrift stores, searching for another. None. I tried local stores for a new one. None. Finally, I ordered another on line, because Mark really likes oatmeal waffles for breakfast. The new grill lasted about six years and died. Once again, I hunted around and gave into the online order. Five years, alter, it died.

                By now, Mark had decided that he likes electrical repairs and projects, so he dismantled the grill, looking for the problem. It was a short in the thermostat; we could see the crack.  He looked for the replacement part, but it does not exist. Black and Decker makes the exact same grill with the exact same thermostat, but you cannot purchase it separately.  This is the epitome of the throw away society we are living in. First, the product is made to give out in about five years, rather than twenty five years, like my old one. Then, it cannot be repaired when it dies, so we have to purchase a new grill, if we want waffles again.

                Rather than buy a new Black and Decker grill, we bought a stove top cast iron grill which allows me to make pancakes and flip them. It is also nice for breakfast potatoes and eggs, as well as veggies and grilled cheese sandwiches, so I am happy. Even better, it has no moving parts to break and can be used inside, on my stove, or outside, over a camp fire.  We are, however, still waffle-less, so I am hunting, once again, for a vintage waffle iron, one that is built to last and to be repaired, like our stove.

Wood Piles

  

               Mark and I brought in a load of wood this morning. He has a work friend who took down a couple of dead trees, had the wood split, and sells it for a donation to the food bank.  Everyone wins. This morning, we drove over, loaded up  the Ark with nice dry wood—some of it a funky shape—and came home to move it into the basement.

                Moving wood is one of the projects we do well together. We are not like his parents, who are perfectly in tune after fifty years of house projects. Mark wants more snacks, requires more specialized equipment, and needs to think the entire effort through before he begins. I tend to plunge in, forget the gloves, and get splinters.  Sometimes, one of us will be the official Lead on the Project (yes, he is such a software engineer) but usually we work alone, calling for help occasionally. Wood does not work that way, if you want it out of the car or driveway so that the space can be usable again.

                Mark works the lower station; I take the surface. Before we begin, I consider the existing piles and the order I am always striving for, firewood split from stove wood split from kindling wood. I move things around, including a storm window or two.  He finds our gloves, fills a water bottle, and considers the space I have cleared. We discuss the stacking plan. Then it begins. I gather a pile of wood, walk over to the basement window, and call “Ready?” down. “Yes,” he calls back, and I drop the wood, piece by piece, into the window well. Occasionally, one bounces into the cellar—Mark stands back. He did mutter about needing his bike helmet, but it never got that bad. Sometimes he yells “NO!” because his hand is in the window well. I wait above. When I am done dropping wood, I call “done” and held back for the next load.  He stacks the pieces while I gather the next load. Back and forth, back and forth we move, working our way down the pile. There is a rhythm and a peace to the project, which is always done faster than I think it will be.

                There is a comfort to this late fall work, bringing in what we need for the winter. We have gathered the potatoes and onions, squash and dried fruit. We have canned tomatoes and jam. We have ordered dried beans, flour, what, and oatmeal. The wood for winter fires is in. The benches, table, and chairs from outside are in. The storm windows are up; the chicken coop is resting on an empty garden bed. Most of the compost work is done.  In the next few days, as the leaves fall and are swept into the street, we will pile them onto the cleaned out gardens. And then we will read, and rest, and take long walks in the damp winter world, waiting for the season to begin again with seed catalogs.

                       

Compost Piles

One of the benefits of the Stay Home, Save Lives spring has been the ability to wander out into the back yard and see how things are growing.  When my eyes are tired of looking at the screen, they are happy to rest on the hunt for the cabbage worm eating in the center of the broccoli plant. And, because it has been warm, wet season, everything is growing madly.

We  are also working on the compost mounds. The pruning and trimming of shrubs and trees is finally done—the Camilla has to wait until after the bloom—and everything has been hauled back and piled up next to the fence. Over the next few weeks, we will cut it all up, using everything from the Big Loppers to hand trimmers—and the occasional stomp—and fill the wire bins. We should work from one bin to the next, so that there is an order to the decomposition, but, occasionally we give into convenience and toss branches into the nearest bin. Mark has used a chipper in the past and it produced some really nice compost in a much shorter period of time, but it was loud and not conducive to Deep Thought, so he has returned to the hand cutting method. These days, as he is also working from home, he will wander out to the pile and trim while considering a sticky problem. Cutting compost is an ongoing meditative process.

Occasionally, we grow an extra potato.

There are three wire bins. We prefer bins because of their flexibility; when one is full and ready to be sifted, Mark pulls the wire away, sets it up into its new spot, and begins (with the help of the chickens) to sift out the finished compost and to toss the pieces that need some more time into the new circle. We add the kitchen and garden scraps to that bin while the others work in peace. There is room for five full bins in the work area, but we only have three, so we can move things around. By late July, there will be one hoop of fresh chopped material, one sprawled on the ground being sifted, and one working on decomposition.  There will also be an old garbage bin full of sifted compost for me to distribute to the raspberry and gooseberry beds out front.

Working on the compost mounds is a steady process and cycle in our lives. Tucked into the back corner, it s never tidy, never done, and a constant work in progress.

Rhubarb

When I was little, I found rhubarb terrifying. There was something about those big, crinkly leaves, the way it grew so quickly in the spring, the deep red stalks that gave me the creeps. I would hide behind the barn and peer around the corner, just to shiver at the sight. I did not like large vegetables, overgrown or otherwise. Even today, a huge zucchini emerging from the undergrowth will make me scream. There’s something wrong about it.

That being said, I have two rhubarb plants in my back garden and there are six more thriving in the school garden, where I have been working to restore order. So, it is the season. I made a rhubarb cake, which we love and ate quickly. Then I made some rhubarb pickles because I have been pickling everything lately. They were…ok. Maybe they are getting better over time, as the flavors meld. I’ll check again in couple of days. That left quite a bit of the plant, so I tried the rhubarb marmalade in the newspaper. Yum. I simplified the recipe a little bit and it feels more like a jam to me, but the flavors are amazing.  Who knew a scary plant could become so tasty.

Rhubarb Marmalade

Makes about 7 half pints

•About 2¼ pounds rhubarb, cut into ½-inch pieces to measure 8 cups

•4½ cups granulated sugar

•2 oranges, zested and chopped

•1 lemon, zested and chopped

•¼ cup finely chopped candied ginger

In non aluminum bowl, combine the rhubarb with the sugar. Cover and let stand overnight at room temperature.

Place the prepared oranges and lemon in a heavy pot, along with the rhubarb and sugar mixture, and the butter. Bring the mixture to a full rolling boil over medium high heat, stirring frequently. Reduce the heat to a slow boil and continue simmering, stirring frequently, until the mixture has reached the jelly stage (220 degrees from sea level up to 1,000 feet; 216 degrees at 2,000 feet; 214 degrees at 3,000 feet; 212 degrees at 4,000 feet; 211 degrees at 5,000 feet; 209 degrees at 6,000 feet; 207 degrees at 7,000 feet; 205 degrees at 8,000 feet), stirring constantly, about 8 minutes to 10 minutes.

Remove from heat, add ginger and rind. Let sit for about 2 minutes, then skim off any foam that has accumulated. Ladle the marmalade into individual containers for storage in the refrigerator or freezer.

For long-term storage at room temperature: Have 7 half-pint canning jars washed and ready for filling when the marmalade is through cooking. Prepare canning lids as manufacturer directs. While it is still hot, ladle into 1 clean and hot canning jar at a time, leaving ¼-inch head space. Wipe jar rim with a clean damp cloth. Attach lid. Fill and close remaining jars. Process in a boiling-water canner for 10 minutes 

Snapshots from Stay at Home, Save Lives

  

              The greenhouse is packed. It’s always pretty full this time of year, when tomatoes have been bumped up, some summer greens are waiting to go out, and the vines have just been planted in the four inch pots. But, this year, it is also holding all of my classroom plants, with some hanging from the ceiling because there was no room on the shelves, as well as a napping cat, and my work computer on sunny mornings. Add in a sweater or other piece of clothing needing some sun, a used mug or two, and a folding chair so that we can both eat lunch in the steaming warmth of plant growth, and it is packed.

                The shed has been cleaned out. Much like the cozy room closet, I was looking for some wood stored in the open loft and discovered a mess.   

This time, it was hazelnut shells that the squirrels had feasted on as well as rodent droppings and some leaves that had blown in. I was handing down boards to Mark when I spotted the nests so he climbed up the ladder and sighed. “I guess we’d better haul everything out from below,” he observed. “It’ll only be worse if we don’t.” We exploded the shed, pulling everything, including the shelves, out. While Mark swept inside, I cleaned up the piles—corralling the bird netting back into its tub, putting remay into a tin so that it could not become a nest, sorting out stuff we no longer needed. After we were done, we tucked everything back in. And there was more space.

          

      I have succumbed to the sourdough trend. After the Yeast Panic early this week, I began a starter. I’ve always wondered about the wild yeasties floating around my kitchen and now they are cheerfully bubbling away on the top of my fridge. We had our first batch of sourdough pancakes for breakfast on Sunday morning.  I miss the library—figuring this out would be much easier if I could sit on the floor, surrounded by various cookbooks, because there are so many variations on this theme. MY book was written by a homesteading woman who spends her entire day in the kitchen and garden, raising five kids. Her system is pretty labor intensive and productive. I don’t need that much starter! So I will be experimenting, sorting out systems that work for us when life becomes more scheduled once again.

               

Line Drying

When we bought our house, it came with a washer and dryer. The washer was avocado green, from the mid-seventies. The dryer looked like something from 1959. It last for four years and a part burned out. Mark replaced the part, it burnt out again, and we called in the repairmen. It’s gone, they told us.  We gave in and hung the clothes outside all summer. It was not a trial.

The next winter, we considered our options. Buy a new dryer, which was not cheap nor was it energy efficient. Or we could hang the clothes in the basement for free. We hung. After a few years of slow drying in a wet basement, we bought a couple of big, sturdy drying racks and moved the process upstairs. Then I took the dowels from the old rack, laid then across the rafters in what is now the dining room, and hung pants and heavy shirts there, over the woodstove. Our weekly laundry air dries, spread around the house, in about 36 hours.

Sheets and towels are a different story. They pile up in the basement, waiting for a dry spell—we usually get one or two a winter. Some years, the sun breaks never come…so Mark loads up all of the sheets, towels, fleece jackets, and bathrobes into his big duffle bag and hauls them down the street. He spends a couple of hours reading, washing, and drying all of the big laundry in the old-fashioned Laundromat with the murals of rivers and waterfalls above the machines. He enjoys the orderliness of the process and the feeling of accomplishment. Even with the occasional trip to the Laundromat, we are happy with our system.

  We had a bright, cold spell this weekend, so I pushed all of the sheets through n Sunday morning and hung them outside just as the fog broke. They were half dry by night, so I left them on the line until I came home from work this afternoon. They smell great and we are good for another month and a half.  Spring will come before the pile overtakes us again.

I Praise of the Humble Potluck

In praise of the humble potluck.

My first encounter with a potluck was in college—I made my Aunty Marilyn’s macaroni salad with mayo, tuna, and sweet pickles and proudly carried it up the narrow stairs to a classic Dover N.H. apartment in a converted old house. When I put it down, I noticed….three other macaroni salads!  We all laughed, piled plates high with macaroni and realized that all of our family recipes were both strikingly different and equally tasty. It was a revelation to me.

 I have loved potlucks ever since. Yes, I have attended lazy post-college potlucks, where everyone brought chips and dip, except for me. I have even hosted one badly planned potluck, where everyone brought desert—although there are worse fates than a table full of cake and cookies. Once or twice, I have gone home from a potluck to supplement dinner with a piece of peanut butter toast, it is true. But, generally, the potluck is a glorious thing. Potlucks are the epitome of community.  Everyone brings a special skill—the fruit salad, the bread, the cake—to the table. People show up at your house carrying dishes full of yummy food, big smiles on their faces. We spread it out, welcome the over-stressed, empty-handed person with open arms, and dig in. There is that sacred moment when everyone has a full plate and all you can hear is the clink of silverware on dishes and then -- someone sighs deeply and the conversation begins. Eating together brings people together, changes your perspectives, and makes you a happier person.

                We had a potluck on Friday night a few weeks ago. Winter comfort foods and cheerful voices.  When we were done, I thought, we need to do more of these.

Date Orange Cake, from the Moosewood book of Deserts

3 c flour

1 t salt

1 t BS

1c butter, at room temp

1.5 c white sugar

3 eggs

1 c buttermilk

2T grated orange peel

1 t vanilla

2/3 c of chopped pecans and dates

Beat sugar and butter together. Add dry and wet ingredients, alternating. Add pecans and dates. Pour into 9 by 13 inch cake pan and bake  350 degree  oven.

While it is baking, heat the juice of the oranges with about ½ cup of sugar until sugar is dissolved. Pour over the warm cake.

Serve with whipped cream.

                 

The South Side

                For the last two years, I have been experimenting with plantings on the south side of the house. It can be a challenging location. It receives full sun in the afternoon, is blocked by house on two sides, and is buffeted by the evening sea breezes.  There are a series of wine barrels, and other containers the size of wine barrels, that live in what was the driveway, as well as two small raised beds built up against the house. For a long time, it was the home for all of the tomatoes, which did well in the heat and also allowed us to nibble on sungold tomatoes as we wheeled our bikes in and out of the back yard. Two years ago, I decided to do some crop rotation.

                Last year, I went for the vining squashes in the pots and the corn in the beds. It did not work. The corn was fried in a heat wave and looked like something from the Dust Bowl. The squashes, although slightly shaded by a tree, were also hit by the heat and did not produce large fruits. I had mini-squashes which were not edible. I thought, if I had moved them into the full shade, they would have been ok, but it’s hard to move a pot full of a long pumpkin vines that are visiting the neighbors.  Scarlet runner beans will grow up the twine along the side of the house, but they will not produce beans (Heat again). The Three Sisters were not happy.

 

Resting bed

               This year, I tried the spring crops—peas, lettuce, mustard, and kale—as well as cabbages and broccoli.  That was more successful. Lettuces really like succession plantings in big barrels. Kale and mustard did pretty well in barrels, too. The longer, heavy feeding crops were not as happy; they were too crowded.  I did get three out of four cabbages, but the same generation did much better in a back yard bed.  I replaced some early crops with dill and zinnas, which are flourishing. And, oddly enough, so is a celery plant which I popped into one empty planter hoping to keep it going through the winter, rather than losing it to the chickens when  I move the coop onto the garden bed that holds its sister plant.  The bed next to the house had problems from too much undigested organic matter rather than from heat; it did not do well even in cool weather. Right now, it is resting and digesting, like a family after Thanksgiving.

                I like the idea of quick growing greens outside the living room windows in the early spring. It brings the garden closer to the house when we really need to watch something grow. I think I will try that again next March.  I am also thinking of bringing the snacks forward —cherry tomatoes and ground cherries—so that we can eat them easily. Flowers and herbs can fill in as the season moves along. They will tolerate heat and being moved if needed for a few days. Maybe the real question should be: what do I want to see when I gaze out of the windows?

Open Streets, Corvallis

Highway 99 runs through Corvallis. It begins as a two lane country highway, winding peacefully  through hazelnut orchards, seed farms, and mint fields, but, when it hits Corvallis from the south, it becomes a behemoth—five lanes with bike lanes and sidewalks—with lots of open land around it, so there is no reason to slow down.  It is a menace as a bicyclist; riders spend hours talking about how to avoid it, which is difficult because it is the spine for the entire South Corvallis community.  No one walks on the sidewalks if they can avoid it. Last week, a traffic calming pedestrian crossing light was taken out by a car.

Ten past one, Sunday afternoon. The side streets are crowded with people on bikes, all ready to surge forward across Highway 99 when given the signal. Three official crossing guards stand at attention, holding signs. “Slow.” “Stop.”  They move into the highway and gesture to five figures in the crowd. The five, dressed in exaggerated costumes from 1958, run into the street. One pushes a tricycle. The audience follows them onto the highway to watch. They strike poses and break into “Greased Lightening” from Grease. They dance and sing around the trike, adding streamers. The audience dances and sways in time to the beat. The pavement is warm, but not burning. Cars pile up behind the barriers. They have altered the lines to the song to fit the moment. Everyone laughs. At the end, they strike a pose, then run off the highway. The crowd breaks up, humming, moves along the Open Streets.

Along the route, children ride their bikes, swaying and swirling and playing with balance as we all love to do when we know the road is clear.  Some stop and draw with sidewalk chalk, leaving reminders that it was, for a few hours, okay to create art in the middle of the street.  One little girl learns to ride her bike without training wheels because she has the ability to think just about pedaling, not direction or cars, for an hour.  Parents stand around and talk in the road. Other families set up face painting stands, play live music from 1967 in the driveway, park vintage cars on the grass for an impromptu car show.  Bicyclists are everywhere. “It’s a fiesta,” one crossing guard explains to a neighbor who needs to drive through the street to get to work. The driver moves slowly through the crowd.

In the parks, neighbors listen to music, dance, eat pizza, give opinions on city issues, and hang out in the shade, gossiping. Kids climb over the play structures, chase each other around with water bottles, and yell. A few dogs hunt for scraps. Three folks decide to have a potato sack race and fall over, laughing. Although there are racks, bikes are everywhere along the perimeters.

Streets, even highways, are for everyone—walkers, bicyclists, trucks haulers, families in autos,  skateboarders… Cars do not own the roads. We all do. And, for brief moments in late August, Open Streets reminds us of this fact. We all share the road.

Lammastide

In the circle of the year, Lammastide is the beginning of the grain harvest. Wheat, oats, barley—all of the northern grains that fed the community—were harvested and brought to the church for a festival and a blessing, also known as the Loaf Mass, in early August. Here in the Pacific Northwest, the big harvests begin at the same time. Fields of wheat are drying down. Straw and hay dust turn the sunlight  golden. Fruit tree branches bend over from the weight. The annual veggies are at their peak of growth and production. In the next six weeks, all of the madness of summer food processing will dominate kitchens and cellars.  Pickling.  Drying. Canning in light syrup.  Making jams and preserves. Tucking potatoes into paper bags and storing them away from the light.  Food driers and crockpots run overnight to keep up with the food tumbling in during this season. 

Transit Reality Check

Public Transit. I believe in public transit. I did not get my driver’s license until I was 26, and I’ve lived in Boston and Portland, so I have ridden a lot of buses in my time. I enjoy a good bus ride—stare out the window, eavesdrop on the gossip behind me, meditate on the nature of the universe of dinner plans—it rarely  feels like  a waste of time  to ride the bus, when it is on schedule. I’ll give an extra 35% of travel time gladly for a bus ride. However,….

Last week, I decided to take public transit to visit my friend Amy, who lives in Milwaukie, Oregon. It is almost exactly two hours to drive my VW van door to door, but the Ark had developed a hiccup that could lead to a stop by the side of the road, and I did not want to deal a visit to the repair shop instead of dinner with a friend. I walked out of the door at 11 AM, heading to the Corvallis transit center a mile away. At 11:25, I climbed onto the Linn-Benton loop, rode for 15 minutes to the community college, transferred to the Albany bus, and rode another 12 minutes into the Albany transit station, arriving at 11:55.  Although my bus to Portland left at 1:05, I had to arrive an hour early because the loop bus takes a lunch break for an hour. I packed my own lunch and a book, and ate on a bench outside.  At 1:05, my bus pulled into the station, loaded up, and headed north. It arrived in Portland about five minutes late—no big deal. I grabbed my backpack, walked to the near-by tri-met stop, waited for the orange line, and climbed aboard. This new line travels all the way to Milwaukie, which is very cool. I admired all of the new public art along the way and studied the complex green paint for bikes around some of the stations. We came into town a little after four and I walked the last mile to Amy’s house, landing in her yard just before 4:30.  It took two local buses, one regional bus, and a light rail ride and two walks five and a half hours to travel a two hour car drive. And that was with every bus on time.

Recently, I broke my arm. I am fine, but I have been going to physical therapy 2.5 miles away.  To walk would be an hour and a half there and back—if my ankle was ok that day. To take the bus would be even longer, and would involve hours of waiting because the local buses run once an hour.  The ideal is riding a bike, which I now do, but that was out when I was in a cast. We drove for the first month.

These are just two examples of the problems we face when we begin to think about how to move people from one place to another without individual cars. When we say “just don’t bring your car to campus” or “you don’t need a car in Corvallis—you can get everywhere on the bus. Its free!” we are not considering the absurd amount of time and effort it takes for healthy people to commit to public transit.  Buses need to run every 15 minutes, day and into the late evening, to be user friendly on a broad scale. They cannot take lunch breaks. Bike lanes need to feel safe on busy streets. Walkers need paths to cut through long blocks. Everyone needs better signage to calculate distance and location. This is more than a cultural mind shift—it will require a complete shift of how we fund transportation and road design. It needs to happen; we need to begin today. Otherwise, in a few years, we will all be trapped at home, unable to visit a friend in Milwaukie.

Summer Canning

The morning is cool and quiet, cloudy. In the dining room, the red currants are draining; the gooseberries have been tipped and tailed. After breakfast, I wander to the basement, find the steam canner, gather the jars and long loops of rings handing on Christmas cords. Half way up the stairs, the lids are tucked in amongst the cleaning supplies.  Metal changes on metal as I dump everything on the kitchen table. It is time for the summer rituals to begin.

First, I boil the currant juice. Poured into half pint jars and sealed, we can drink the juice with fizzy water in the winter. Vitamin C. It is a deep red and stains the counter. The canner, with the usual quart of honey weight on the lid, rattles and steams. In the living room, NPR explains the news. While the currants seal, I make the gooseberry jam, boiling sugar and berries together, testing the transformation of juice into jam. It finishes just before the timer buzzes for the currants. Move quickly—trade the jars. Replace the lid, the weight, start the timer once more.  Clean up. Summer work on quiet mornings, before the day grows warm.

A Week in Garden Harvests

Radicchio

    

            I am in love with radicchio this season. I bought some seed this winter, when all greens looked good in the catalog (hence my overabundance of cabbages and broccolis) and started it in February, first in six-packs, then bumped up to a barrel in the yard and some four inch pots. It has been lush for months.  That has been one of its charms; whenever I harvest a full sized plant, I have popped another, from the four inch pot stash, into the hole. It keeps on growing without missing a beat. So far, it has been one tough plant, even when it was hot and dry a few weeks ago. It even repels pill bugs and earwigs!

                It is also a beautiful plant. Deep green leaves, veined with red on the outside. A cabbage-y, swirly leaf layout in red and white inside.  Some are more red, some more green.  When it first grows the true leaves, they have an adorable little twist to them, like the piping on a cake that turns inward to create the head. Layer upon layer of leaves build up on that twist, and the biggest lay down to frame the plant. So lovely.

                Radicchio is tasty, too. We started eating the young leaves in salads in late April. Lately, I have been harvesting the heads for sautéed greens. They are bitter but not spicy as mustard greens and they mix beautifully with kales and mustards. Last night, we ate them cooked with an onion and garlic, toasted pecans and raisins. So good.  Such a nice counter point to the ricotta pie that was left over from the night before.  This one is clearly a keeper.

Parsnips!

Yesterday, I dug what I thought was the last few parsnips. If you had asked me how many where in the ground, I would have replied about six…Mr Beezhold, the hungry bunny, has been eating the tops like mad, so it was hard to tell. When I dug in, I found at least two dozen solid roots. Some were intertwined. Some reached down into the clay a foot below. A few were small and popped right out, but they just kept coming. I gave them all a quick bath with the hose, roasted three for dinner, and began to re-plan our meals for the week. Parsnip and Cheddar soup, here we come.

Other parsnip options:

·         Sautéed with butter

·         Parsnip muffins

·         Parsnip cake with cream cheese frosting

·         Gratin with leeks, fennel, and potatoes, garlic

·         Winter Minestrone soup

Parsnip and Cheddar Soup

Chop equal amounts of parsnips (peeled) and potatoes, one medium onion, and about half the amount of carrots.  Barely cover with water, add salt, pepper, and some caraway seed and dill, and boil gently until very soft. Chunk about a quarter of a pound of cheddar. Toss the veggies and the cheese together into the cuisnart and puree. Return to the pot, add milk to achieve the right consistency, and heat slowly. Eat for dinner with cornbread and salad.

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.

               

HB 2020

HB 2020: Contact the legislature.  This is NOT  guaranteed passage!

1.       When you email legislators, put the bill number and your position in the subject line. “HB 2020—yes!”

2.       Email the chairs of the committee in charge of the bill as well as your own reps: Sarah  Gelser and Dan Rayfield for Corvallis, Senator Denbrow and Rep. Power for the Joint Committee on Carbon Reduction. All contact info is online and easy to find.

3.       In your email, first give your personal reasons for supporting a specific aspect of the bill.  The anecdote should connect to something in the legislation. Just saying you are worried about an issue is not as compelling as saying why in a way that proves you READ THE BILL.

I want to speak specifically about the need to be clear on where investment funds will be directed in HB 2020: I grew up in the 1970s in New England. Rising oil prices, depressed economy, homes heated with oil furnaces. Minimum wage was a little over three dollars an hour; gas prices were going up to a dollar a gallon. We were working class; my mother was a hairdresser, my father worked construction, when it existed. When I went to college, my roommate and I kept the heat low, put on sweaters, did our homework in bed to save energy. Until I became a teacher, at 34, I was working class. I had enough money to live, but none to spare.  I understand the need to budget tightly. Now, as a teacher, I know I have families who decide between a warm house and food or rent.

4.       Second, refer to specific aspects of the bill that you support or want to see strengthened:

a.       Anything that threatens this delicate financial balance is terrifying. As we move forward on the absolutely essential need to reduce our greenhouse gas emissions, we must be very clear in how we are going to protect people from rising fuel and food prices, which will happen. Spelling out specific investments, using specific numbers, will allow us to alleviate some of these very real fears. Please do not allow HB 2020 to move on with the language “to the maximum extent feasible.” Set specific targets and percentages. Allow for review after five years and adjust accordingly. But, I have very real fears that this non-specific language will feather the pockets of the well-off, while leaving others struggling.

5.       Thank them for their service.

6.       Repeat as needed.

  

Specific Details for HB 2020

1.       The whole bill, plus related information, is on OLIS. You can sign up for updates on any bill you are interested in there.

2.       Corvallis Climate Action Advisory  Board stated:

·         Interim Target – HB 2020 sets an interim target at 45% below 1990 emission levels by 2035. This interim target is essential to the success of the Clean Energy Jobs Bill.

·         No Free Allowances for New Fossil Fuel Infrastructure .

·         No Additional Free Allowances for Natural Gas Utilities

·         Investment Allocations (Equity) – The 2018 version of the Clean Energy Jobs Bill included percentages to determine where investments will go, including 50% to benefit the communities that are experiencing the greatest impacts of climate change – primarily lowincome individuals, rural communities, and communities of color.

·         Citizen Governance: We believe that a provision for statewide citizen engagement in governance of the program must be added to HB 2020.

3.       The Mary’s Peak Chapter of the Sierra Club stated: In addition to supporting the CAAB recommendations for HB 2020, the Marys Peak Group requests that the City Council consider including two issues that would strengthen the bill. The first would be to eliminate the exemptions for aviation fuels and fluorinated greenhouse gases. These are major contributors to climate change, and their exemption significantly reduces our opportunity to meet the stated goals. The second addition would be to require that a seat on related advisory boards be set aside for Tribal representation.

4.       Climate Solutions stated:

1. Environmental Integrity: Must be an economy-wide program starting in 2021 therefore needs an emergency clause, a program that links regionally with a cap of at least 45% by 2035 & at least 80% by 2050.

 2. Centers Equity: There must be a clear requirement that the majority of all proceeds will go to the communities most impacted by climate change to not only mitigate impacts but more importantly provide opportunities. This should include low-income and rural communities, communities of color, at least a 10% Tribal set aside, and a just transition fund for workers.

3. Effective and Fair: All Emitters under the cap (no exemptions), oil industry cannot qualify for free allowances, no free allowances in perpetuity, fossil fuel infrastructure cannot qualify as EITE or receive free allowances. Entities who receive free allowances should use the value of those benefits for energy efficiency upgrades and not be eligible for program proceeds.

 4. Delivers Benefits: This program must deliver benefits across the state and prioritize greenhouse gas reductions and not be used for investments that increase

5. Kickstarts Comprehensive Climate Action: No climate or environmental rollbacks.