Cukes in a Pickle

What I hope will be just the tip of the iceburg, these quarts are the start of the pickle season. The cuke on the right hid from me and demanded a jar of its own. Five quarts so far, and many babies on the vine. I am knitting nearby, but no doubt some will elude me again.

Unlike the cucumbers, the volunteer dill beg to be picked. They are threatening to go to seed if I don't choose them. The pickle factory is ready to go into full operation as soon as I can catch the cukes.


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A Watched Cucumber

For a spell of knitting in a lawn chair in the shade, I positioned myself where I could keep an eye on the cucumbers.

Most people do not believe that cukes have a sense of humor, but that is simply a popular misconception. What they like to do is look tiny and insignificant. Then, when my back is turned, they can get too big to go in a wide-mouth jar. Sometimes they think it's funny to hide under big leaves where I can't keep track of them until it's too late to make them into pickles. It is the height of hilarity for some to get huge and yellow before I find them.

This morning, I found this little guy, who one would think could not possibly be pickle sized by tomorrow. I'm taking no chances, getting the ingredients for pickles at the ready. I have some half gallon and quart jars lined up. I don't like little dills but I do like to have more than one to a quart jar.

In 1977, an elderly couple, Marshall and Mabel Coots,  gave me their fabulous dill pickle recipe. A couple of years ago, I'm sad to say, I somehow didn't measure the salt right in some I made. Actually, it was a gross miscalculation. The pickles shriveled, and rightly so. I shall be more careful this time.

It's very exciting to have both the cukes and the dill in the same year. I let all these dill  volunteers spring up in the now-defunct strawberry patch. Contrary to popular opinion, dill have no visible risible.
   
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Fear of Mowing

Since the bees joined me here, I'm hesitant to mow. There are so many wildflowers that they may be working in the field . They've been spotted gathering pollen from the potentillas and nectar from the sweet yellow clover.

Meanwhile, the grass is now up to my shoulder, which is about four feet. Where I've mowed, the red clover is thriving. Honeybees aren't able to use it, an old beekeeper once told me, but the bumblebees are working it. I've even seen hummingbirds sipping nectar there. It benefits red clover to finally mow it, when it's mostly past blooming.

What happens when the field is left completely unmowed, as it was when I first moved here, is the fescue grass takes over. I mowed the huge clumps and the red clover got a start, along with the pretty wildflowers.

It has always been hard for me to mow any wild flowers, but now I am even more loathe to run over them with Rosie. However, Rosie is a suburban lawn tractor, not really designed for such field work, so I do need to get on with it.

That's all very well, but my cold feet for mowing means the front yard is similarly getting out of hand. This clover surely would be good for the bees, if only I knew how to call them to come and get it.  It's hard to know where the bees are concentrating their efforts. I have never really seen one doing the "bee dance" they talk about. I believe it is the pollenaise.

Company at the Mulberry Tree

While snacking on mulberries, I heard Beau get into a frenzy under the other mulberry tree.

I wasn't the only one who found the mulberries irresistible. We worked out an arrangement, the raccoon got the ones in the top of the tree that I couldn't reach, and I picked the lower ones. He seemed to prefer the highest branches anyway.

With his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, Beau had lots of fun barking, leaping and exhausting himself. He is, after all a coon hound.

Here We Go Round the Mulberry Tree

                                         Next on the wild and free menu: mulberries.

The best way to enjoy them is grazing directly from the tree. The two trees in my field, by the road, are laden with goodies this year.

They are sweeter than the strawberries this year, more prolific and definitely were less work. No weeding, no watering, no neighbor dogs coming in the open garden gate (Beau was in the house) and munching away while my back was turned. When I picked strawberries later, I wondered how many had been licked.

The only problem with mulberries is they leave my fingernails looking like I've been working as a truck mechanic. Black nails are worth it, a memento of a brief season's foraging. They do grow out.

                                              Meanwhile, Down at the River

After a dry spring, some dark clouds opened as if they had zippers on the bottoms, pouring rather a lot of water on one locale. The house gutters couldn't contain it when three inches fell over a short period.

This view is from the bridge, looking upriver. My place is on the right. Fishing Beach and Clam Beach are seriously underwater. Earlier in the day, the river was about a third floating logs and debris.

Lissa and I were glad we were not on the Grand River, which now is living up to its name. It would be okay to float down it now, if we could borrow some sort of amphibious landing craft from the Army.

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Up a Lazy River

The Grand River, which I own, was up for a float trip.

In this file photo dated August, 2013, Lis loaded up our tubes into her Jeep. At that time, the river was so shallow that we gave up the idea of a float trip. This year, we aired up our River Run float tubes and stuffed them into her Toyota that she got to replace her gas guzzler. We set off  to the access point to the north, just up the road a ways.  We thought it would be a little outing, taking a couple of hours to float back down to my beach. After all, how many wide curves could the river make? We were to find out.

At two-thirty, we slipped down the muddy bank. Lis was holding my trusty tube. The current looked a little swift as I stared down into the muddy water. Lissa reassured me it wasn't fast at all, which turned out to the be the understatement of the day. The river was still shallow. Splashing into the nylon mesh seats of the tubes, we launched ourselves for a relaxing afternoon's float.

The sky was deep blue with interesting cumulus clouds constantly changing shape. High in the sky were bald eagles. The water was warm. It was pleasant to drift with the current. After a while, we realized we couldn't be napping, because there were branches sticking out of the water that were not good to impale our tubes on. We had to keep paddling with our hands to turn the ever-rotating tubes so we could see where we were going. Then we had to paddle away from the limbs.

After some time, we floated under the double bridge where the interstate highway crossed high above us. There were many swallow nests on the underside of the bridges. Swallows were drinking and bathing at the water's edge. The flying birds were thoughtfully keeping the mosquitoes in check for us. It was no doubt their life's work on the off chance some humans would drift by underneath their mud nests.

We took no cameras or cell phones, on account of them not being waterproof. The day was hot and mostly sunny. I regarded my pale legs stretched out to the sun and hoped the spray-on sunblock we'd used was waterproof. Soon, my wish for a cooling rain shower was granted. It was refreshing but I no longer had any dry cloth on me to wipe my glasses. My sun visor helped a bit but became rather heavy when it was saturated. I retrieved my  white handkerchief from my shorts pocket and found it brown and sodden.

The trouble with uncharted waters is a person doesn't know when they have reached the halfway point of the trip. We expected to arrive at home a few hours into the journey. Each wide bend in the river was followed by another one. I checked the position of the sun when it was not covered by clouds and breathed a sigh of relief. We had hours of daylight left.

 Lis spotted a beaver slipping into the water, and pointed out a coyote along the shore downriver. We saw deer and many Great Blue Herons. The birds let us get a certain distance away before flying off. Probably they never saw a soul visiting their fishing spots. The river is not navigable. We saw a couple of water snakes, who looked at us with curiosity. I believe they swam off to check a reference work to identify us. No doubt they looked at pictures of our species and decided, yes, those were two females, one in its grey phase. Extraordinary!

Sometimes, we got off the tubes and waded or kicked with them as floats. It would have been better if we'd been wearing swim flippers instead of mesh tennis shoes. Lis pulled my tube's rope while she waded. Every hour or so, one of us would think we'd walked that far upriver last year when the water was low. "Isn't that where we came upon that dead deer?" I asked about a dozen times.

Our shoes became full of  wet sand and had to be emptied out every now and again. Lis stepped on a big catfish or a turtle, that wriggled out from underfoot.

The scenery reminded us of boating up the Inside Passage to Alaska. There was water and there were trees on both sides. The only difference was the availability of something to eat while on board. We'd brought only a bottle of water each.

"It's around this next bend," we said so many times it became a joke. When I said I didn't recognize some rock formations, Lissa said it wasn't helpful to mention it.

The river, which I thought was supposed to get deeper or bigger as it flowed, inexplicably got more shallow. Possibly it was evaporating in the heat. With an eye toward the lowering sun, we found it expedient to get up on the sand bars and carry the tubes until the hard surface ended. Lis said she had to get out of the water occasionally because she could feel her body starting to decompose.

The sun sank lower. Yet another bend was around the last bend in the river, and yet another. The sluggish current seemed to be barely moving now. It took rather a long time to move from one long bend to the next disappointment. I wondered how long we could keep going around the bend without going around the bend.

One of the things I was holding my breath about was the seaworthiness of our craft. True, the water was only waist deep in most places, but floating did give us a break from walking on sand or wading in water in sand.

My arms are a little short for paddling the big tubes, but I had a new concern: darkness. I paddled enthusiastically, trying to remember to keep my fingers together and wishing I had some ping pong paddles.

My fingers had become pruney after the first couple of hours.

Because we had no flashlight, I imagined us floating on through the night in the quiet dark country, unaware that we'd missed our stop.

After six (yes, six!) hours, Lis said she was starting to get tired. I was, too, but didn't want to admit it. I felt the need to make her laugh, so I said, "Well, we'll just have to turn back."

Then we saw the power lines crossing above the river. There are power lines a ways upriver from Fishing Beach. At that point, we heard voices and the sound of a pickup truck, so knew the bridge by my place had to be close. Unfortunately, the terrain under the power lines didn't look familiar. More floating was in order, and we could swear the river was deliberately standing still by then.

The sun had set and the light was fading, but they were the right power lines and the bridge was ahead. Lis deflated the tubes at Fishing Beach (my fingers were too pruney to unscrew the caps) and we went up the path through the woods to home.

Shaking hands, we congratulated ourselves on our first float trip success. It was not your typical Mother-Daughter Outing. Before I drove Lissa back to her car, we hosed off and then had most welcome hot showers before getting into dry clothes.

Not in the least restful, but fun, we proved we could be troupers. We'd been on the river for six and a half hours, had kept our senses of humor and had not resorted to cannibalism.

Ironically, the next night a good rain brought the river up and gave it a little pep. I emailed the pics to Lis so she could have a good laugh.
   
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One Disappointed Dog

                                      This pic of Beau says it all.

Throwing myself into spring gardening has left him looking for a new best friend.

Where before I was good for long walks in the woods, now I am spending too much time digging in the dirt, something he is not encouraged to do.

I did get down to the river one evening. That gave Beau a chance to explore the woods. The banks were muddy and at one point I came close to making my own slide next to the beaver slide. Both my jeans and the river had a muddy bottom. Catching a nice catfish for dinner made it all worth while.

Lissa and I found tasty morels in the woods. That was good for more exploration for the dog.

It's not that I keep him on a chain, but he seems to need to be close by. I envy him dozing in the nearby shade while I sweat and weed and sweat.

What's happened is the poison ivy, my arch enemy, has taken over the woods. I dare not go back in there now, with those meanies already four feet tall and growing. The best I can do is keep the paths open to Fishing Beach and Clam Beach.

The weather has not been cooperative for my gardening efforts. A late frost on May 16 had me hastily erecting my fencing hoops over the tomato and pepper plants. A couple of tomato plants that were in another part of the garden were cruelly slain.

The strawberry patch had to be tucked in for the night with odds and ends of old sheets.

The cabbages and broccolis were at a vulnerable stage and suffered some damage, from which I'm hopeful that they may recover. I'd read about it in the Stokes catalog for years but forgot they were not always frost-proof.

When Beau sees me clad in my bee suit and veil he knows he will be staying in the house while I check on the hive. Apparently, I've become a big no-fun.

This is just a terribly busy time of year. I'm put in mind of the old adage Never Get a Place Bigger Than Your Wife Can Handle.  Even though I'm no longer a wife, it's possible I have spread out too much here. I planted some sweet potatoes up at the Remote Garden, in hopes of adequate rainfall.

Many hours of weeding the grasses out of the bed were required for the planting of seven new daylilies. Lis dug up some Bridal Wreath Spirea for me, and Izzy let me have some plants. All that was not the work of an instant. There were some pussy willows and weeping willows to plant, plus some buttonbush starts and some hostas to divide. Beau got lots of nap time.

Close on the heels of the Killing Frost came hot weather and enough road dust to choke a horse. Living on the north side of the gravel road turned out to be not good, since the wind is generally from the south. It was 91 degrees yesterday, less than a week after a record low of 32.

My daughters always ask me if I have been lying on the chaise and eating bonbons. What are bonbons, anyway?

Beau is going to be delighted today, because it rained. That put a stop to all the mowing, mulching, digging, deadheading, thinning  and planting for today. I'll be going down to check on the river. That always makes him smile.

May 23

Here is one happy dog, after we had a lovely long walk where Beau could sniff the wind and follow the deer tracks.  Speaking of deer tracks, when I went fishing, I should have noticed  the places on the river bank where the deer had lost their footing in the slippery mud. They have better traction with four legs and sharp hooves, compared to my puny two legs and slippery old garden shoes.

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Wild Diet Food

During the winter, my pants seem to have shrunk. To lose some of the long nights hibernation fat, I am eating less. It's a wild idea I thought I'd try.

My elderly farmer neighbor years ago extolled the taste of spring nettle greens. It sounded a little scary to me, to actually put something in my mouth that caused blisters on the skin. Well, this spring I got brave and tried some.

Cutting the greens with scissors, while wearing gloves (I'm not all that brave) I then checked online to see if this really was a sensible thing to do. Imagining it would require sixteen changes of water, I was relieved to see that the painful parts of stinging nettles disappear after a mere thirty seconds in boiling water.

They turned out to be not only tasty, but a fabulous way to lose weight. Right away, I could feel my pants getting looser. That was last week.

Just knowing that I had access to that miracle diet food cheered me immensely. I thought about its slimming effects as I cut firewood with the chain saw. It was in the back of my mind as I pulled the little wagon loads through the woods, then loaded the wood into Rosie's cart, down on the river bottom, and as I unloaded it after finding I had a flat tire. Ditto for when I hauled the chain saw back up the steep hill in the little wagon. Then, too, I was grateful for it when I planted the strawberries, which won't bear for a year. As I ran Tillie in the garden and planted the early veggies, which would take weeks to be ready for eating, I was content, knowing the nettles were available without delay.  I admired the nettles for their perfect properties as I dug up plants to exchange with Izzy. I ruminated on their life-giving goodness as I planted my gift grasses and shrubs. Hacking out several years' growth of irises, carrying them in buckets to the big compost heap, I revered the slimming nettles, not available in stores.

This afternoon, while down on the river bottoms, looking for early morel mushrooms, I spied more of the nettles. Hiking back up to the house, I armed myself with the gloves and scissors and a big bowl.
It was the third time today that I climbed the steep hill from the river. It was worth it, for such great diet fare, and free, too.

Unfortunately, today's greens were a little more furry and the stems were not as tender. So that may be it for this season's diet delight. 

Next on the woodland menu are the morels, which taste best fried and served with beer. 

When the Clouds Roll In

All winter, I've been baking bread in the Sun Oven. What I never thought would happen is it's better than the stove oven. The even heat makes a moister loaf. Now, I'm only baking bread outside.

However, I recently underestimated the clearing of the clouds, and lost a loaf when the sun failed to continue shining.

I guess that the cost of a loaf of this honey wheat bread is probably about fifty cents, so even losing some ingredients was still less money than the three dollar stale stuff at the store.

                               The chickens loved this big doughy bread pancake.

Undaunted, I made this better loaf the next day, when the skies were sunny. It's beautiful!



It makes great sandwiches like this PB and H  "sammy." Next year, I hope to have my own honey. My bees will be here around the first of May.  The weather has been so cool, twenty degrees the other morning, that a delay is good. One should never live without honey.

Still in Missouri

Damaging tornadoes nearby lately sent me down to the fruit cellar, to hang out with the two bats.

After a sunrise rain shower, this beautiful double rainbow seemed to promise less destructive weather.



I'm still waiting for warmer and drier days so I can plant the garden.


Lots of interesting wildlife sightings lately. The local dogs had something up the tree across the way. I went over to see if Miss Naughty Kitty needed rescuing. It turned out to be a fat groundhog, which chattered at me and Beau.

Last evening, I saw a flock of geese flying low over the river. I believe they were daredevils, flying under the bridge.

Then there was a formation of six herons that flew over me another day. It was quite a surprise, since I have rarely seen more than one of those huge birds at a time.

One small Painted Turtle is now sunning on the limb sticking out in the pond.

Less welcome animals were the SEVEN large calves in my front yard. When I called the cattle guy, he told me they fixed the fences, but these black critters proved otherwise. Beau loves to chase them off the property.

These daffodils are so bright and cheery.

I'm making myself cut more firewood for next winter. After such a bitterly cold long winter, I feel like Scarlett O'Hara. "As God is my witness, I'll never be chilly again. If I have to run the chain saw, split wood and carry it, I'll never be chilly again."

Osage Orange, known locally as hedgeapple, is full of BTU's and looks so pretty when cut. Thank goodness I have an electric log splitter; this stuff is extremely dense. As must I be to cut and haul it.