Homespun warmth

Several years ago I picked up a moss-and-stone hued braid of wool roving. It was from the fleece of a Bluefaced Leicester ewe, soft spirals shorn, cleaned, carded and dyed...tamed and ready to spin.

I'd been playing around with my drop spindle but this was my first big bunch of roving. The colors drew me in--ranging from celadon to olive, gray blue to stone.

I worked on it on camping trips, sitting around the fire with K and the girls, drafting the thick roving into narrow pencil widths, twisting the spindle rhythmically to the crackling sap that sent sparks skyward. It went with me on long drives to the east coast, K driving while I spun and navigated, balancing my iPhone/GPS map on my lap, and my spindle occupying both hands. A juxtaposition of old tools and new.

The resulting yarn was not consistently one weight, as it should be. It definitely runs the range of weights, from lace to chunky. Kind of a spinning sampler, I rationalized. I chose to leave it as a single, rather than plying it double for a more balanced yarn. I rolled it into a center-pull ball and waited for inspiration, which left it sitting for a couple of years.

I found a pattern for a scarf knitted with handspun yarn, perfectly designed to compliment an uneven twist. Perhaps it will look like I spun thick-thin yarn on purpose? The stitch pattern was simple: Knit two, knit one into the back of the next stitch, then purl one. Repeated over an odd number of stitches, it created a ribbed look, with enough texture to please, but not so much that the yarn got lost.

The scarf-to-be went with me to dentist appointments, dance classes, tutoring appointments, and camping. On car trips and as a rhythmic background for family movie nights. Finally, while M was dancing in a class the other night, I reached the end of the yarn.

I wove the ends in and regarded it. I still liked the colors, and BFL is a very soft, mellow wool. The uneven spinning is easy to see, and far from perfect, but it's like a double weave of the past: I spun it lightly to the spindle while the girls celebrated crossing the Tennessee border on a trip east, then passed the same fibers a second time with knitting needles, while shoulder to shoulder with the girls on the couch, watching the Nancy Drew movie.

It is a good feeling to hold a finished project, a useful item that had been organized out of lengths of wool furnished by one roman-nosed cream-colored ewe. But the journey (and time) from roving to scarf makes this project's weight warmer by degrees.

Grapes and Grasshoppers and Yogurt, Oh My

Violet. "What? Do I still have some yogurt on my beak?"

Gertie, right, wondering if Lacey would mind if she took care of that yogurt drip.

People tell me their chickens will eat anything. "Hang a cabbage up and watch them go crazy," said one friend. But my hens sort of peck at cabbages with half-hearted interest.

Grapes, however, can cause squawks and shrill "Mine! Mine!" clucks. Feathers fly when I toss out a handful of the round fruits. Blueberries are met with the same frenzied excitement.

Broccoli? Cockeyed disdain.

Tomatoes? Cornbread leftovers? Peaches? A feathered frenzy.

Lettuce? Disgruntled disappointment. "Oh, we thought you had food."

Yogurt? Messy, but good. They smack their beaks together, surface for air, wipe their beaks on the ground, then go back for more.

The other day I had several leftover lasagna noodles. I cut them into long narrow strips with a pair of scissors and took them out. Lacey picked the first one up, and before I could toss another out, they were all off to the races, chasing Lacey in a chorus of clucks, as she tried to flee with... well, she had no idea what it was, she just knew she had to keep it away from everyone else.

But, far eclipsing any kitchen treat I could bring them: grasshoppers. I tried very hard to get a photo of them hunting grasshoppers. But the hens move so quickly and unpredictably, and eat them so quickly, that all I get are photos of blurry feathers or fuzzy faces. They wait expectantly, a grasshopper appears, and they dart toward it. Then they stop, watch, run again. One of them catches the ill-fated creature and swallows it whole. It's like watching chickens playing tag.

Ick. To be honest, I have always had a grasshopper phobia. Those sticky, stem-like, hinged legs are Hitchcockian. The other day, I saw one on the tomatoes. I could not bring myself to touch it. Several days before, I'd tried to herd a grasshopper toward a chicken's attention as the grasshopper sprang hither and yon. That didn't work. It hopped right in front of Violet and she was so busy looking at me to see if I was holding something good that the grasshopper nearly bounced off of her and disappeared. She never saw it. So when I saw the grasshopper on the tomato, I grabbed the nearest chicken--Gertie, of course--and held her up to it, her yellow feet hanging down like landing gear.

She hung there in my hands, and cocked an eye at me as if to say, "Uh, OK." She didn't see it. I touched her beak to it. She didn't move, wondering why I'd picked her up and was holding her in the air sticking her head in a plant. And then, all the sudden, the light went on. Before I knew it she'd nabbed that crunchy leggy insect. I put her down and she ran off with it, happily gulping it down.

From an evolutionary standpoint, that probably wasn't fair to the grasshopper. He was camouflaged and hiding high on the plant as the rules of survival dictated. One didn't count on a hen hovering in the air four feet off the ground. Gertie, however, wasted no time on pondering the complexities of the food chain. She was off busily looking for another snack.

Apple Tart

How autumn tastes.

My recipe box is a memory box of sorts. When I'm sorting through it for recipes, I'll come across one in my mother's hand, or one in my friend Molly's familiar script. Or I'll find a recipe I copied from someone else, and it will send my mind back to that time and place. A potluck at work, a baby shower, a dinner with friends. Holiday meals and traditions. Everyday favorites that bring back memories of simple weeknight family dinners.

Shared recipes are memory fragments that one can recreate--like conjuring an item from a photograph and rendering it into reality.

One of my favorite recipes came from my friends, Kathy and Terry. It's a fruit tart recipe that has never failed me, no matter what type of fruit I've tried. Kathy made it for K and I when we had dinner at their house one time. We had returned from a trip to England and were sharing photos and stories over a delicious meal. They are both accomplished cooks, and the tart Kathy made was memorable.

I had a handful of leftover apples from my applesauce making. I have made cherry tarts, huckleberry tarts, peach tarts, and plum tarts from this recipe. I think peach and plum are my favorite, but I haven't tried an apple tart with this recipe.

But it's a perfect fall day, and an apple dessert will spice it nicely. I'll include Kathy's recipe below. The only small change I made (because of the tartness of the apples) was to take about 1/4 cup of apple jelly, heated to melt. I added a 1/2 tsp. of vanilla to the jelly, then glazed the tops of the apples with the mixture, followed by the crumb topping.

Fruit Tart
 1 1/2 c. flour
1/4 c. sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 c. butter (very cold or frozen)
1 egg yolk
2 T. milk

Mix dry ingredients. Grate butter through cheese grater into dry mixture. In a small bowl, beat egg and milk together and blend into flour mixture, then press into 11" tart pan with removable bottom. (I start with the sides, then work toward the middle.)

Lay on approx 4 c. sliced and pitted fruit. (Optional, if using very tart apples: Heat 1/4 c. apple jelly to melt, stir in 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract, then brush mixture over fruit.)

Crumb topping:
1/3 c. flour
1/2 c. sugar (or 1/3 c. brown sugar)
1 1/2 tsp. cinnamon (use nutmeg w/peaches or nectarines)
1/4 c. butter

Mix dry ingredients, then cut in butter with knife or pastry cutter until pea-sized clumps form.

Top apples with crumb topping. Bake at 375F for about 45 minutes, until crust is brown and fruit is tender. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Feeding the Neighborhood

K and I were both working in the backyard when suddenly, a corncob fell from the sky and landed at my feet after nearly hitting me on the head. I looked at K suspiciously, but he was innocently busy on the other side of the yard, completely unaware. I looked up through the ash tree above me, and saw a squirrel scurrying along the branches. He'd dropped the cob, much like my children drop their socks, anticipating that someone would come along and take care of clean up.

Birds on the run door, waiting for scratch grains.

The cob was picked clean with surgical precision. I'd made a batch of corn relish, but there was still plenty left on the cob so I'd dropped a few in the yard for the chickens. The hens were doing a pretty good job on them, but apparently the squirrels had claimed a few cobs and carried them to the treetops. I tossed the cob into the compost bin and considered that we were inadvertently feeding the squirrel population. And others.

We've had a big increase in bird traffic. I scatter scratch grains out for the chickens, and have seen small flocks of birds clustered on the ground after the hens have had their fill. At one point, on a warm day, there were so many birds in the bird bath that it looked like the wave pool at Water World.

Pigeons have been congregating on the coop roof and cupola. And I've seen a few squirrels hurrying by like fluffy-tailed looters with tidbits that the chickens have left. I've seen a few mice, which I assume is a change that pleases the neighborhood cats, who've also increased their visits to our yard.

Often, I see dozens of sparrows inside the chicken run. Some line up socially on the roost we'd put up for the hens. Others gossip noisily along the frame and perched on the coop door. When they see me they fly up in a whirling cloud--reminding me of the aviary at the zoo. Some are small enough to squeeze themselves through the chicken wire, but when I disturb them, most of them shoot arrow-like out the front door of the run, roost in the tree above, and watch me. Once I leave, they return to their perches, resuming conversation.

An interest in having fresh eggs has turned into an illustration of the food chain. I've noticed my neighbor's cat taking delight in the sudden smorgasbord of birds at her disposal. But the birds won't be the only ones drawn in by scraps and snacks. I really don't want to draw in skunks and raccoons (though they seem to be kept at a distance because we have dogs). And I don't want to attract bigger birds--who may find the chicken scratch a whole lot less interesting than the chickens themselves. 

Five impatient hens, wondering why I'm not letting them out right away.

So, while Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom is entertaining at times, we're taking a more measured approach to feeding the chickens. Instead of tossing scratch grains in the garden for them, I toss them in their (closed) run, and I give them a little less. They clean it up almost completely before I let them out to free range. Tasty treats are given in moderation so that no scraps get left behind, and bigger items--like corn cobs and melon slices--get placed in the run with the door closed, then cleaned up and covered in the compost.

It does mean that they spend more of the morning in their run. But that's not all bad. In fact, it's actually had a positive effect. Most of them lay their eggs in the morning... which might mean our free-spirit-lay-my-eggs-in-the-great-outdoors Marigold may decide the nesting box is an acceptable place to lay an egg. One can only hope.

2011's Best Jam

I go a little overboard with jellies and jams. I can’t seem to help myself. I start out in moderation. A few half-pints of your basic rhubarb jam starts the season off. Then I wonder what would happen if I extracted the juice from the excess rhubarb I have, then let lemon balm leaves steep in it for several hours. Answer: It makes a very nice subtly sweet-tart rhubarb lemon jelly.

I just can’t seem to keep my jelly simple. I’ll make a batch of plain old sour cherry preserves, but I've discovered that if I add a tablespoon of almond extract to the pot just before ladling it into jars, it tastes even better. I add cinnamon or chili powder to peach jam—just a touch. Sometimes my experiments fail miserably (chocolate sour cherry preserves sounded good in theory, but not so much in reality).

Last year I made several experimental jams and jellies, but the best one was the peach peel & pit jelly. Not only was it delicious on biscuits, but I felt good about using peels and pits thoroughly, squeezing one more use out of them, before they headed to the compost pile.

Raspberry Peach Jam

This year, I made 12 varieties: rhubarb-lemon jelly, sour cherry preserves, almond cherry preserves, chokecherry jelly (with almond), spiced peach jam, cardamom peach jam, cardamom plum jam, apple cider jelly, apple peel jelly, red pepper jelly, yellow tomato preserves, and raspberry peach jam.

The raspberry peach jam has been named this year's winner by an expert panel of judges (K and the girls). The yellow tomato preserves, sunshine gold with bits of lemon and orange, were surprisingly a close second.

The peach softens and mellows the raspberries a little bit, and adds a tint of gold to the berries.

Raspberry Peach Jam

(makes about 10-11 half pints)

About 1 lb. raspberries (I used three 8 oz. containers so that pureed, it equaled about 2 c.)

2 lbs. peaches (skinned, pitted, and pureed or chopped fine)

½ c. lemon juice

two boxes powdered pectin*

8 c. sugar

Puree raspberries, place in large pot. Puree peaches or chop fine, and add to raspberries. Add lemon juice and pectin, stir to combine.

Bring to a hard, rolling boil. Add sugar. Bring to a boil again. Boil hard for 3 to 4 minutes or so. Pour into sterilized jars, clean rims, add lids and rings, then process in water bath for 15 minutes.

* I’ve made this with one box pectin, boiled hard about 6 minutes, and it sets up as soft jam.

Hen Picked

Marigold behind the morning glories

Marigold has decided where she wants to lay her eggs. She’s new to this whole egg laying business, but she will not be convinced to use the nesting box. She has picked her own best spot.

We have the yard divided into three sections: The garden/coop section, the patio section, and the side/front yard. Marigold prefers a hollowed out spot behind the morning glories, next to the bay window. That means that she has to hop to the top of the gate between the coop and patio, then work her way across the patio, and hop another gate that leads into the space between the patio and side yard.

Several times yesterday I went out and picked her up, carried her to the coop/garden area, and thought the matter solved. Every time I went outside, she was gone again. After several tries at relocating her, I went back inside, to hear her bock, bock, bock, bi-gocking noisily next to the bay window, announcing the imminent appearance of an egg. Only after her egg had been deposited behind the morning glories would she consent to staying in the coop area.

It bothers me to not have all the hens together—I worry when one of them becomes separated and I feel the need to gather them all together. This morning, I went outside and counted only six hens in the garden. Marigold had gone AWOL again.  Olive, my gray cat, was following me as I went through the gate to the side yard, where Marigold greeted me, chased Olive, then eyed me imperiously. If chickens had chins, she’d have been sticking hers out.

I went inside. But it really bothered me to have her separated from the flock. And I wanted to go get some work done, but would worry about her.

I went outside, picked her up from the path where she was snacking on clover, and carried her back to the garden area. She waited all of five minutes before I saw her hop to the top of the gate, trot across the patio, hop on top of the second gate and into the side yard.

“Bock, bock, bock, bi-gock!” she announced seconds later, then settled herself behind the morning glories smugly. 

I waited awhile, then checked in with her. She was out pecking at weeds, and there was a nice, latte-colored egg sitting exactly where she had placed it. I picked the egg up and slipped it into my pocket, then picked her up to carry her back to the coop area. On the way through the patio area, I noticed Paprika, roosting behind the ornamental grass. The small red hen looked at me, then adjusted the grassy nest she’d made for herself and pointedly ignored me.

The Prodigal Chicken

A sleepy Marigold. Sometimes, life is confusing when you're a chicken.

Twice today, I’ve returned Marigold to the flock. This morning, when I went out to offer a snack, I was greeted by Gertie, Lacey, and Violet.  Usually, all seven of them come running, so I looked around. A quick check of the coop showed that Oreo and Clover, the two Bantams, were both vying for the same nesting box. (There are three boxes, but all of them want to use the same one.) I found Paprika roosting contentedly in the garden.

But there was no sign of Marigold, the smaller Buff Orpington. I walked through the backyard, and found an oddly shaped egg sitting on the gravel path—it looked like it might belong to a hen just starting to lay. Clearly, one of the girls has not gotten to the “lay your egg in the nesting box” chapter on hen etiquette.

I continued my search for Marigold, looking under bushes and clucking to her. Violet, who seemed concerned, followed me around muttering as if to say, “Nope, we already looked under there.”

I finally found her in the front yard, on the other side of the fence from her friends. She clucked and fluffed herself indignantly when I picked her up, and chirped noisily as if annoyed with me. I returned her to the backyard.

After closing the gate and heading back to the house, I discovered another light brown egg. This one was sitting in a patio container beneath a tomato plant. Since Marigold was the only hen in that part of the yard (and I still don’t know how she got through the fence) I assumed it must be her egg, but was beginning to feel like I was on an Easter egg hunt orchestrated by one golden chicken.

Later, I went out to work in the garden. I found Marigold and Gertie happily fluffing themselves in a bag of potting soil I’d half emptied earlier. They had decided it was the perfect place for an afternoon siesta. Happily tossing the dry soil around themselves, they curled up like cats, nearly turning themselves upside down. Marigold drowsed in the sun, her pale eyelids covering her eyes as she propped her beak on the edge of the fabric. All seemed well.

I left them to nap and went back inside to work. A little while later, I heard a chorus of alarmed clucks. I went out to see what was up, and again, Marigold was missing. It took me awhile, but this time I found her behind the morning glories next to the house, again in the front yard.

She was standing next to yet another egg. I picked her up, along with the egg. She muttered at me again as I returned her to the backyard. We're both confused—I have no idea what is going on with her. But I’ll be happy when she figures it out. Hopefully, she’ll decide to start using the nesting box, or it’s going to make egg gathering a game of hide and seek.