Make the days count

Yesterday was a gorgeous gift of a day, and probably the last dry one in Seattle for a long time to come. 

I got in some yard work, then gathered up this scrappy fall bouquet of odds and ends. In the mellow afternoon light, it looked like a Dutch master painting. 

 

And why wait for a cold, damp day in December for this chore? 

The new arbor isn't as tall as the old one, much less, crumbling to pieces, so the job was easier. I also put blinding white LED lights in the greenhouse window, so we are lit up like Las Vegas when we eat our dinner in the kitchen. Let's just call it cheerful. 

That's about all the November news. 

Pear creativity

 

 

In a nutshell, that's how to make spiced pear butter, an unusual and expensive treat. I found a online specialty store selling little jars for $10.

Made just like the old fashioned apple butter, except this recipe is spiced with cardamon and nutmeg instead of cinnamon, along with ginger and lemon juice. (An Indian spice, I know our Grammy never heard of cardamon!)  

John did the milling, then the pear puree gets cooked down like jam to the tricky gel point (my job) making a nice mess of the stove top as it blurps away. But well worth the trouble. Think apple pancakes (above) or toast or cornbread or biscuits or even ice cream.

Hopefully the first of many delicious pear concoctions from the family orchard.  

Gettin' it done

 

It took eleven strong lifters (good friends all) to get this heavy chicken house hoisted up on a borrowed flat bed truck yesterday. Then the hens made the six mile trip over to the new farm in the back of Tom's truck. 

Their next door farm neighbor helped get it situated on the property with his tractor. How kind and helpful people are-- just a tiny rural community on the edge of the wilderness. 

As of last night, the hens were settled and apparently none the worse for wear. I don't know about the humans! This last moving crunch has been really tough on everyone.

But look at that perfect fall weather-- a real blessing how the snow is still holding off this month. Which probably means the first blizzard when we go over for Thanksgiving. 

Marching along

 

The middle of November is already in sight and we're just over a month away from the winter solstice, that happy day when we slowly tip back to more light. Speaking of light, after the deluge yesterday, what a surprise to see an actual sunrise this morning and a bit of blue sky.

Snow is falling in the high mountains but has fortunately held off so far in the Methow Valley. Amanda and Tom are on the final countdown to get everything out of their old house in town, then cleaned up and ready for the renters on the 15th. That last stage of moving is always such a mess on both ends. 

The cats are now moved (one happy, one not) but the chicken house with its inhabitants is still a big looming project. Those 12 hens are worth their weight in gold, laying a dozen or so perfect eggs every couple days. They're useful not just for the food, but the amount of kitchen scraps they consume daily. Anyway, I hope they can get them safely settled for the long upcoming winter. Maybe Amanda will send some pictures this weekend. 

Speaking of fowls. John is excited this morning because I gave him a WHOLE chicken to cut up. He's been watching YouTube videos and I'm sure has the perfect knife to break it down with surgical precision. A yucky task I've done hundreds of times, just because whole chickens were once much cheaper than cut up.

Have a good weekend. 

 

  

 

Drawing in

 

"The nights are drawing in." That's an old English saying, meaning the days are getting shorter.

Good reading weather. I'm looking forward to Irving's new novel, hot off the press. The last full price hard cover novel I purchased was Irving’s "The Last Chairlift," and it was a big slog at 912 pages. 

Well, hope springs eternal. Supposedly Irving "gets back to his New England roots" in this one, whatever that means. I've been an Irving fan since the 1970's, and during the pandemic, reread just about everything he wrote. The violence (and downright cruelty) in some of those early books took me by surprise once again. Irving is famous for the long "story within the story" plot, which drives some readers crazy.

I haven't read any "Esther" reviews yet and don't intend to until I finish it. There won't be a publicity tour either. John Irving, longtime resident of Vermont, lives in Toronto.  Quote from a recent interview he did with the NYT:  

“I could not, would not, in good conscience go to my birth country,” Mr. Irving said, “when there is such an authoritarian bully in the White House, and when the craven Republicans in the House and the U.S. Senate are complicit in their silence.”

OK then. Still opinionated at age 83.

Not much news here, just one atmospheric river after the next drenching the northwest. I haven't been to ukulele for a few weeks but will go today, out of practice of course, but no one cares or notices. In the winter we meet at The Bridge restaurant on a covered outdoor patio, where the temperature is something between warm and cold. 

 

Wordless Wednesday

 

 

Portrait of Dora Maar, Picasso, 1937