Alfred's Long Johns

It is the day before the Summer Solstice and I am baking Alfred’s Long Johns….

In Oregon, summer comes slowly…we have spring from Candlemas to the Fourth of July, especially during el Nina years—and we are in the midst of the most Nina of years on record. It has been raining forever. There have been nice days. Yesterday, I trimmed the entire vegetable garden and Mark mowed it and it looks quite snazzy, but, this morning was overcast and drizzling. When I went to let the chickens out, only the Boss Chicken, Gertrude, came striding out. George was lurking under the shelter and the Peepsters just stayed in bed for another couple of hours. My bare feet were covered in grass clippings when I came in. I resigned myself to the weather, gathered up a couple of books, a small pot of tea, and the cats, and settled into the nook for an hour or so. When the caffeine hit, I decided to make the Long Johns.

Alfred’s Long Johns come from an early summer vacation on Cape Breton I took years ago. My friend Sher, whose partner owned a bit of land and a transformed chicken coop, took me with her to the edge of the land, a small cabin at the end of the road, literally. An elderly couple—Alfred—owned the adjoining piece of land and allowed access to their shower and conversation. It is a beautiful spot, right on the ocean, high up on a cliff, green and grey and stunning. I gather it is exceptionally fine in sunny weather, but I would not know. The day we arrived, clouds settled in and did not move for the week we were there. So, we hibernated. It had been a rough year of part time graduate school and full time baking and I brought a pile of books for my thesis along. Sher had a book of Native American History. We both had novels as well. We climbed into the big bed, rigged the candle lanterns above our heads, and read. And slept. Read and slept. Alfred would come down in the late afternoon, worried that he had not seen us all day, and offer us fresh baked cookies and strong Canadian tea. Lured by the offer, we would emerge into the damp world for a little while before retreating to sleeping and reading once more. On the last day, the sun came out, bright in the world. In our good-bye photograph, we are squinting in the unaccustomed light. “It figures,” we muttered as we climbing into the car for the long drive back to work and writing and not enough sleep. But, even then, we knew that the Weather Gods had given us a huge gift—a reason to stay inside, drink tea, eat cookies, and dream, waking and sleeping, for an entire week.

So, when it is late Spring here in Corvallis, when the clouds have settled over our heads again, when I am, once more, feeling like retreating into a week of sleep and read, I make the same cookies. They are an old-fashioned variety—no chocolate, not too sweet—but they are perfect with a strong cup of tea, a book, and some quiet conversation. I have four dozen sitting on my counter….wipe your feet before you come in.




Alfred’s Long Johns
½ c. butter
1/2c. margarine
1c white sugar
1c molasses
1 egg
1T soda, ¾ c water
1T vanilla
4 ¾ c flour
1t tartar
1t salt
1t cinnamon
½ t ginger and clove
Cream butter and shortening, add sugar and molasses. Dissolve soda into the water and add with the egg and vanilla. Mix dry ingredients together and add. Mix well. Add a little flour if things seem wet. Drop in funky shaped balls onto the cookie sheet and bake in 350 degree oven for about 10 minutes.

The Crockpot

Three weeks ago, Mark and I were walking downtown on Saturday morning, headed to the Farmer’s Market and the library, discussing whether or not to buy a pretzel (leaning towards yes), when he spotted a cheery orange object sitting on a stump next to a dumpster. This particular dumpster had been fruitful in the past, so we stopped. It was a pristine pumpkin orange crockpot with sketches of dancing veggies around the bottom. A vintage crockpot, complete with plastic lid. “Beef stew,” Mark muttered. “If it’s still there on the way home, I’m grabbing it.” It was and he did.

My family had a crockpot—ours was white and had a glass lid and dancing veggies—back in the mid-seventies when they were all the rage. The economy was tanking, oil prices were skyrocketing, and people were looking for cheap ways to eat hearty, comforting food. The crockpot was perfect—put the cheap stew beef and carrots in before you leave for work in the morning and have dinner waiting when you come home. My mother made stew and I made gallons of baked beans in it through one winter. Then things looked up, I went off to college, and it went to the back of the cabinet, hauled out once or twice a year for Swedish Meatballs at one of my mother’s parties. She left it in New Hampshire when she moved south. I didn’t want it.

So I was not as excited as Mark when he hauled this one home. He put it on the counter. The orange clashes with the red trim paint, I thought. It really needs some Harvest Gold appliances (which we had, in the same kitchen as the crockpot) to set it off. Then I remembered that I hated Avocado Green so much—the last of the triumvirate of colors—that I refused for fifteen years to try an actual avocado, because the color was so awful. Avocados did not exist in small town New Hampshire …All of this came back when I looked at that little crockpot. That and some really bad music…”Billy Don’t be a Hero,” “Seasons in the Sun,” and Neal Diamond singing “hands, touching hands, touching you, touching me”… and visions of my mother in a bar with friends, all of them touching hands and swaying to the piano man’s song.

But it was also kind of cheery…perky…pristine…and I remembered the time last winter we accidently left the lentils on the stove and went downtown, coming back hours later to amazingly yummy lentil soup because, really, lentils and split peas need to cook for three or four hours to taste good, not forty five minutes... I reached for the locally grown lentils sitting on the shelf, poured them in, chopped an onion, peeled a couple of garlic cloves from Sunbow, nipped two bay leaves off of my own bush, still damp from the rain, added some water…and turned it on. Soon, the house smelled amazing…onion and garlic and bay and beans in a warm, enveloping scent that promised security and lunch for days. After a few hours, I chopped carrots and celery and dumped in a can of tomatoes from last summer and some red wine…then left it on until dinnertime and ladled three quarts of soup into jars for the week. And, with that, the crockpot was established in the kitchen.

It does not live on the counter—the color and lack of room prevent it—but it lives nearby, in the larder, waiting to be hauled out on Saturday afternoon, filled with beans and veggies, and plugged in. And I think it is happy to be back, doing its designated job in the appliance universe, making hearty, comforting food in Hard Times…and I’ve caught myself humming a few old songs while I chop the carrots—although Neil Diamond is still banished from the house.

Living in town presents its unique challenges to veggie gardening. True, I do not have—at least, not yet—deer roaming through my yard eating the tops of tomato plants and, so far, I have not had raccoon issues, but there is still one nasty animal that loves the back yard—the cat. It’s not really the cats (four or five on them claim parts of our yard) that are the problem, it is their poop. I am always hunting for new ways to keep cats out of the garden… I used to create a barrier of sticks placed in complex patterns over the beds, some pointing up to spear a squatting cat in the behind at a delicate moment, but it was a bother. I moved to chicken wire, which was also annoying; I found myself muttering “patience is a virtue” over and over as I unrolled it, and then, if I did not get it off in time, it decapitated the green beans. Such a pain. Then I tried remay covered hoops, which worked fine with an old and lazy cat, but not the young ones. Lucy loved to walk on it and tear through, then Kayli slid inside where it was warm, squashed a few kale plants, and takes a nap.

I’ve had a few successes. The cold frame works well in the early parts of the year—pop the plants into the ground and cover them with glass. Lucy walks all over it but never lays a paw on the soil. Kayli cannot slide in for a nap, although she tries. Planting out seedlings, rather than seeds, establishes a certain amount of garden turf early on. Straw mulch is quite effective in cutting back the poop—but really encourages the naps. Right now, I have a new experiment—black planting paper. I don’t like the plastic mulch—we don’t need any more plastic in the world and the bio-degradable stuff, I’m not so sure about. But the paper looks pretty nice. I lay down the soaker hose, spread the paper on the bed, and cut through to plant the squash vines. The paper heats the soil and keeps down the weeds (this was the potato bed last year, and they just keep coming…) and keeps the cats from digging. It was not very expensive, either. I’ll see how it does, but I think I may have outsmarted the cats….

Chicken Drama

We’ve been having Chicken Drama in the back yard this week.

The delicate, fluffy, sooo cute peeps have become Peepsters— adolescent chickens with all of the desires for freedom and poor decision making skills of adolescents everywhere. When we open the rabbit hutch (their usual home) to let them out on grass in a wire enclosure for a little while, Penny, the leghorn, flaps madly around the cage, whacks her wings against my head, then flies out. Mark swears. She runs around, peeping pitifully while we herd her into the pen with the others using our arms and a rake. “She’s going—into the stewpot,” Mark mutters when I finally fling her in with her cohort. At night, it’s the same routine all over again. We’re so tired of it, we left them in today.

Meanwhile, in the big coop, Agnes, lowest chicken on the totem pole, has established dominance over the nest box. She did this last year. In early May, she decides, even though there is not a fertile egg in sight, to brood. Logic has no sway over her behavior. She has settled into the straw, laying an egg about once every three days (which I confiscate), and refuses to move. Once a day, I haul her out into the sunshine for a few moments, then she hops back up and settles down, threatening anyone who comes near. At the same time, she has sent out some sort of signal that stops the other two chickens from laying, so I am getting lots of attitude and no eggs. I don’t need all of this Drama….

Lorraine Ellis died at 3:10 AM on Tuesday morning…she was comfortable, in her own bed, and received excellent care. About 12 hours before she died, she ate a bowl of spaghetti; the night before, she had opinions on my hand during a game of rummy. The life force was strong until the very end. She was living independently, managing her entire life, in senior housing until a bout of pneumonia knocked her into the Hospice system. As soon as she lost her independence, she went quickly—are any of us surprised?

Because so many of her people are spread across the country, it is very difficult to arrange a Memorial Service for her, so this is what I propose…On May 12, eat a bowl of spaghetti for dinner, preferably with spicy sausages, listen to Frank Sinatra singing “I Did It My Way”—sing along loudly if you can—have stiff drink, and remember not just her, but all of the strong women whose shoulders you stand upon. If you feel so inclined, make a contribution to your local community theater—at least go to a play—or buy a child some art supplies. Support your local arts scene, which meant so much to her over the years. Light a candle, maybe in the Catholic church, maybe not.

The Language of Hospice

In the past week and a half, I’ve had a crash course in Hospice terminology and how to use it to get the care you—or, in this case, your mother—needs. Because they do not provide you with translations…you are in a foreign country where they all know what’s being said and you have no idea.

“She needs a safe plan,” they said a few weeks ago. “We don’t think she is safe. She can’t walk the halls. She needs someone there full time.” “Really,” I thought, “She seems strong enough to me—and she wants out of the hospital.” Translation—she’s been put on morphine, and when that hits your system, your brain is gone, wandering around making shapes from toast. But it takes a few days, so, when I call her, she sounds strong and mad that people are in her house, talking fast around her, and not asking her opinion on anything. “She’s deaf,” I keep telling them, “Not addled. And she wants to walk the halls.”

“She needs to spend down her money so she can get Medicaid,” they tell me. “About a thousand dollars.” “Okay,” I agree. “But how much can she have? And how much does she have? It’s her money, earned, really, years ago from making pincurls.” “Maybe she can buy a new coat,” one suggests. Translation—she can have 1,500 dollars for “funeral expenses” and less than a thousand in her bank account or she is going to have to pay market rates for 24 hour care, which is pretty expensive. She had over 6,000—who knew? It went fast, believe me.

“She needs a safe plan—and you have to find the 24 hour care giver, because you’ll be working with her most closely. Here’s the number for Senior and Disabled Services.” Translation—when you call SDS, they will “search the extensive on-line registry” for you, turn up five people, and hand you a sheet with five people’s telephone numbers on it and a note asking that you informed THEM if any of the numbers are disconnected. Yeah. I called the five people; it took about ten minutes. Two numbers were disconnected, one was no longer doing in home care, one did not answer, and one had a job. At this point, though, I had the language down.

***
“My mother is going to run out of money at nine AM Thursday morning,” I inform the case manager at SDS. “She needs safe care.”
“Did you try our registry?” she asks, hopefully.
“I did,” I give her the rundown, and, against my better judgment, the names of the disconnected numbers. She sighs softly.
“Could YOU fill in some of those times?” she asks, again hopefully.
“No,” I say. “I am not trained to do this. It’s not safe.”
“Well, let me look around,” she says. “We can talk tomorrow.”
***
The next day, we talk.
“I can pay for an overnight caregiver and five hours of day care,” she offers.
“I can pay for the rest of the day care,” I offer, thinking we may have a solution.
“Oh no,” she says, “We can’t mix the money like that.”
“Well, she’s out of money in 12 hours,” I reply. “What do you suggest?”
“Is there someone from your church who might be able to help?” She is ever hopeful.
“No,” I am not helpful.
“Maybe,” she tries, “Hospice volunteers can come by for the extra time that you cannot be there.”
“Look,” I say. “That is not a safe plan. I am not comfortable being in charge of her medications and if something goes wrong, I am not trained to do anything. I do not believe having volunteers come in is a viable solution.”
“You can always call hospice or 911,” she says.
“I am not comfortable with this plan.” I stand by my original statement.
“Let me call Hospice,” she says. “I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”
***
Hospice nixes The Plan. I knew they would. At 5 o’clock on Thursday afternoon, nine hours after my mother officially has run out of money and I have paid for the next few days from the Travel Fund, she calls again.
“I have an extension,” she says. “ I can cover a 12 hour overnight caregiver from AtHome (a cheaper agency—and you get what you pay for here) and 12 hours from New Horizons (a better organization, which has already been there for a week) for the month of May.”

Victory. I agree to keep looking for a 24 hour caregiver—but, really, they do not exist. I go for a long walk, breathe deeply, move further into the language of Hospice.