Cabbage Season

February is cabbage season. There are still leafy greens in the fields, but they are large leaves, not delicate salad mixes, soft and sweet. There are storage squashes, although they are beginning to rot and need to be checked every week. There are parsnips and beets in the garden bed, but, as the days grow longer, they will re-sprout the leafy tops and develop hard cores for seeding. Onions and potatoes are hanging in there. Canned tomatoes and green beans are a solid fall-back option, as are frozen peas and corn. But, really, late February and early March is cabbage time.

                We ate the last cabbage from the garden in early February. There would have been more—January Kings hold well in the ground—but Mr. Beezhold, our rabbit, discovered that he really likes cabbage and could jump up into the bed. He nibbled down two before I caught him and fenced them off.  So, we have been buying them at the Winter Farmer’s Market. Last week, I found the most beautiful cabbage I have even seen and took it home for dinner.  We ate the solid head in Rumpledethump by the fire; the rabbit got several deep purple leaves to munch on overnight.

                We like cabbage. I have at least four variations of cole slaw, with apples, with adobe chili, with lemon juice, as well as adding slivers to a mixed greens salad. It is good in soup. It adds bulk to a mound of sautéed veggies. It is good with peanut sauce and rice. It makes a nice gratin. Mashed with potatoes, butter, and milk, it’s a solid White Dinner. Last night, I mixed the cabbage, onions, and potatoes with cheddar cheese. We were pleased. Anything but an hours long, slow boil in a big pot – New England Boiled Dinner—is excellent.

                The garden season has begun again. I planted some kale and mustard starts in the greenhouse bed last week. There are quick start cabbages growing under lights in my classroom. Soon, we will be in salad season once more, all delicate leaves and greens. And I may miss the significant heft of a cabbage.

Rumpledethump

1.       Chop about two pounds of potatoes fairly small and boil them.

2.       Slice an onion and sautee in butter. Add a small head of cabbage, nicely sliced, salt and pepper,  and cook down.

3.       Grate about a cup and a half of cheddar cheese.

4.       Mix in a casserole dish and bake for about twenty minutes in the oven so that all of the cheese is melty.

5.       Eat by the fire in winter.

Valentine's Day, 2019

Thursday was Valentine’s Day. When I crested the stairs by my classroom, I saw the usual couple noodling at the table. Today, they were hidden behind a heart shaped balloon, a bunch of flowers, and a teddy bear. There was a batch of cupcakes in there somewhere; the guy shared them with his friends during class. Ten minutes into the day, the Spartan Candygrams began—voices singing love songs, loudly, while delivering lollypops and cards to students in class. Their voices echoed down the halls all day.

Thursday night, Mark and I went to a house concert, which started me thinking about the nature of love and how we celebrate it on this holiday. The performer was one of my old students, playing at his father’s house, for people who had, as he said, “known him while he was in diapers.” The audience was mostly older couples who had been together for years and years, who had lived in Corvallis for long periods of time, who knew each other and the other audience members, well. There were no hearts, no balloons, although there was some fine chocolate.

Listening to the music, my mind wandered to classes I’ve had—the performer was one of them—when there was a real connection between teacher and students. It’s not unusual for a class to work together well for the duration of the semester, but, occasionally, one remains close afterwards. There’s a magic in certain combinations of students, teacher, and material that lingers in our memories, leads to smiles in the hall, watching out for one another, and caring for the rest of high school and beyond. It also leads, quite often, to wild bursts of laughter in class, creative performances, and excellent writing.

The next night, Mark and I were at our local vegetarian restaurant, tucked in a corner at 8:30 at night. We’d gone to a movie, so we were closing Nearly Normal’s. A dad and son were finishing up their dinner.  After dinner, he came over to introduce himself. He had been a student at CV when I taught there fifteen years ago. I never had him, but he remembered me. He thanked me for running for city council, for representing his values in local government. “I live in Portland now,” he said, “but I still vote here. I can make a difference locally.

Valentine’s Day celebrates the specific connections we have with a romantic partner and sets up, in my mind, unrealistic expectations for long-term relationships. But, this week, I have been thinking about all the forms love may take, when we live in a place for a long time.

February

I’m sorry. It is February.

It’s cold, and cloudy, and grey outside. It could snow, but probably won’t. If it did, it would melt before we could call a snow day. It will probably rain. Cold, wet rain. The backyard is a mud pit.

At school, we are in the middle of the year. No new classes, no new faces. Maybe we will shift seats, check out a new book, open the APUSH textbook to the twentieth century. Maybe something will happen to the building, or the weather, so we could sleep a little later in the morning, but probably not.

We are all wearing sweatshirts and sweaters every day. The same sweatshirt or sweater. I wore my newly handed down brown sheepy sweater for six days straight last week. No one noticed. Some boys have had the same wool beanie on for weeks. No one wants to know what their hair looks like under there. Occasionally someone denies reality and wears shorts, but they still wear the same sweatshirt.

The Short Winter, from November through December with its lights and food and presents is long over. The Long Winter is upon us. Rain. Mud. Clouds. Sore muscles. Damp basements.

Cats have mastered this season. Curled up on soft pillows or warm sweaters, they sleep. For hours. Kayli moves twice a day for crunchies and to scoot under the van to pee. Otherwise, she is dreaming of summer on the footstool.

There are ways to move beyond the February Blues. Stay busy—I’ve got that down. Order seeds and sketch out the garden rotation. Notice that the days are, really, getting longer. Read. Drink tea with a book. Go to a museum.  Plant kale and lettuce seeds. Look for snowdrops and small buds on the plum tree. Make soup and bake a cake. Take a long walk. But, I’m sorry. It is February. I need the sun.

Climate March: February. Turn Down the Heat!

In the Mid 1970s, Jimmy Carter installed solar panels on the White House and purchased some cardigans. “Turn down the heat. Put on a sweater,” he said. “Conserve energy.” We did. The Reagan took the solar panels off and the ideas of conservation fell by the wayside. But they are still valid—conservation is the best way to prevent Climate Change and save money. Energy that we do not use does not need to be generated. So, I am back to the original idea. Turn down the heat. But, when you do, you need to make some changes in your home so that it does not feel cold and unwelcoming.

Dress for the weather.

1.       When you come home, change your socks. They may not feel damp, but they usually are. Damp socks mean cold feet.

2.       Put on a light weight wool hat or a sweater.

3.       Eat warm, home made food for dinner.

Dress your house to feel cozy. Even as a renter, you can do these things!

1.       Have afghans and blankets around to pull over your feet or shoulders when you are sitting still.

2.       When you replace your lightbulbs, make sure that you are using warm light, rather than cool light. Many older LED lights are very blue, which makes the space feel colder. Pay close attention to overhead bulbs, especially.

3.       If you can, paint the walls warm clear colors, not shades of blue grey or bright white. If you can’t paint (and, as a renter, I painted regularly, not always with permission) then bring in warm colors in other ways.

4.       Light a candle in the evening.

5.       Close curtains at night to keep out the drafts. Open during the day for the light.

Insulate! Save energy and have a quieter home.

1.       Start from the top. Ceiling, then windows, walls, then floor. Plug the chimney.

2.       Weather-stripping is great to seal leaks around the doors.

3.       Clear plastic stretched tightly across windows helps keep the cold out.

4.       Curtains will also help keep the cold out.

Community

At four o’clock on Thursday afternoon, the city council took on a discussion of the strategic operations plan (also known as the Sop) for the coming year. It’s an important document. If the work is in the plan, it happens. If it’s not, it might. After a week of long, thoughtful emails, the climate board members filed into the room, sat down, mingled with staff, and listened. For over two hours. They had spoken, once, in writing. A second time with their presence. Where we go from here is the topic of our next meetings, formal and informal.

Saturday morning was socked in with a deep and cold fog. I rode my bike out to the Farmer’s  Market around ten, thinking that it might lift, but it did not. I could see about fifteen feet in front of me, so people and animals kept emerging from the fog. First, about five white egrets against a green field. Then the alpaca herd moved towards the road—and there was no dog in sight. Ahead of me, three bright bike lights called out, then about fifteen people in bright yellow-green jackets passed me laughing hellos. A few minutes later, two small girls on bikes pedaled ahead of their mother, shrouded in a hijab, far behind and out of sight.  Somewhere, there were hills, trees, houses—but they were all, for the moment, gone in the fog.

We had the Winter Pie Social yesterday. By three fifteen, people were arriving, carrying pies, calling out to one another, gathering in the living room and dining room with cups of hot coffee, settling down for a long winter chat. There might have been, buried in the talk of summer hikes and gardens, some talk of civic action, letter writing and showing up.

Newport and the March

January is a busy month; everything is starting up again, including school. On Friday, after a wild week on meetings and piles of papers, Mark and I fled to the coast. It was our 24^th anniversary and we have a standing two nights at the Sylvia Beach Hotel. It was pouring out. The Ark needed air in her front right tire, so it was pulling to the right, and, in the confusion, I hit the hazards without thinking and we crept to the gas station with all of the blinkers on. Once everything was sorted out, we drove over the coast range. It was a dark and stormy evening, to be sure, and I never knew exactly where we were. We collapsed in our room, ate dinner, and went to bed. Outside, the wind and rain blew around the building. We had the window open and the curtains and door rattled until I stuffed a washcloth into the door to silence it. It was not a restful night. I woke up four or five times to consider how to deal with climate change and the SOP. How do we move from sustainability as a hobby to an integral part of all of our actions?

The next morning, all was still. The storm had blown over, leaving a deep white cloudy fog over the coast, much like my sleepy brain. The world was quiet. The ocean, under the pull of a full moon, was high. Waves crashed on the sand higher than I have ever seen them. We walked out and the foam swirled around my rain boots, adding to my sense of dislocation. Watching the water, my head spun. A small tent was tucked in the dunes. Someone was living on the beach in the middle of the winter.

At 12:30, we walked over to the Lincoln County Women’s Rally and March, starting at the courthouse. It is good to go to someone else’s rally. No one knows who you are, but there is still a feeling of welcome and solidarity. An older man was singing as people milled around, wearing pink knit hats, admiring signs, patting dogs. At few minutes past the half hour, the leaders mounted the steps, laid out the route, and reminded us to not engage with trouble. The head organizer was a tall woman in her fifties with grey and black curls, a rainbow pussy hat, and strong stance—impressive and warm at the same time. She led the group in the pledge that they spoke every year, nodded to me as a comrade as she passed, and led us out and down highway 101.

I’d never thought about the power of walking down the sidewalk of a major highway. Our marches are always in town. We were more on the edge, more prominent, more noticeable. People honked, waved, thumbs up, thumbs down. The Marchers, as always, walked slowly and fairly quietly, chatting with their neighbors, waving at cars, not chanting despite several attempts. “The president is speaking,” someone said. “”Tweating?” another asked. But no one cared to check their phones to see what was up. We were together, walking. This crowd, because it was the third year, knew that marching, although fun and a chance to talk, was not the most important action they could, or would, take. Several used the time to update each other on other actions, like banning pesticides being sprayed on logged over areas. People referred to voting, letter writing, persisting.

After the march, we headed back to the hotel. The sun was trying to break through, but the sea was still stormy.  I didn’t have better answers to my questions about climate change and the SOP, but I had been reminded, once again, about the power of community and the need to speak up.

Winter Compote

  figs, plums, apples, pears, blueberries…the dehydrator works overtime for a few weeks every summer. We reap the benefits all winter long. There is dried fruit for munching during class, on backpacking trips, in oatmeal on Wednesday mornings, mixed in with spicy greens and pasta for dinner. Dried fruit is tastier than “ripe” fruit that has traveled thousands of miles to the grocery store, too. Occasionally, though, we miss a juicy tidbit. When that happens, I make compote. My new, lidded, bowl makes the process even easier.

One of the benefits of eating local food is foot foraged, home dried, absolutely ripe and sweet when harvested

1.       Fill the bowl with a mixture of fruits. I like the plums and figs because they are bulkier. Then I add pears and apples for a smaller bite. I also break up a cinnamon stick or crack open a cardamom pod.

2.       Pour boiling water over the fruit. I don’t quite cover it because more water just creates more juice.

3.       Cover the bowl and let it sit overnight. I used to cover my bowl with a plate, which worked fine. Now, with my new, lidded bowl, I snap the lid on.

4.       Move the bowl into the fridge. The new bowl is perfect for this step, too.

5.       Eat with yogurt, or oatmeal, or on pancakes, or on its own.

6.       You can add to the mix after it has set. If you add bananas or nuts, eat it all. If you add citrus, it can sit for several days all together.

7.       Repeat.