Full day

There is a delicious crispness in the air, the one that the poets among us wax, well, poetically about. The shifted hour means there is a wee sliver of light when the alarm rings (for I can no longer rely on the sun to wake me), and the warm man next to me makes me yearn for hibernation. But it is evening for my Parisian client, who is waiting to hear from me so she can head towards her own duvet, so rise I must.

Bleary-eyed, I wake the sleeping devices on my desk and they beep and blink to life. The file has arrived unharmed from its transatlantic trek, and looks to be in good shape. (Would that it were that easy for us!) I will work, but it will not be long hours of drudgery. Very good news indeed. There is time to join the waking men folk for breakfast.

I suppose I should put on lipstick, don a frilly apron, and produce fresh croissants, but this is a work week, so the toaster will have to do. Little One opts for toast flooded with butter and topped with cinnamon sugar, washed down with cocoa. Darling Husband does the honors, heating up a mug for himself, laced with peppermint syrup (he is no fan of pumpkin spice). I snuggle into his back, and make my own, laced with coffee, for I must be alert to understand the vagaries of smart buses and on-board telemetry (hey, isn’t that what my car has?).

But I am peckish too, and note that the boys’ foray in supermarket hunting has brought home my old friend Crumpet. Toasted twice, smeared with butter, I take a bite. Something is missing, I think, and wonder if there is an open jar of last year’s blood orange marmalade. No, but there is that grape jelly that didn’t quite gel that the boys keep asking for in their lunch. Sure enough, it is perfect, a tangy, sweet foil for the cool crisp morning.

But lest you think this is just a poetic snippet, and that my family treks out into the dawn with full bellies and perfect love in their hearts, a plot emerges: Little One shouts out, "I lost my tooth!" And indeed, there it is, the second this week (I pity the poor parent who will have to deal with two coming in in quick succession, but she will have to take it up with the Tooth Fairy). My day is now complete, with a wry smile for my husband, who knows tonight's date will take on a whole new dimension when we get home. Kisses all around, a trek back into the house for the forgotten bits, and off they go, as the breeze turns to splatty rain.

A perfect start to the day.

In the can

He was in my dreams last night, uninvited, but certainly welcome, as it has been too many years since I have seen him. He looked relaxed and happy, relieved of the suffering that plagued the last years of his life, and clearly enjoying the sweet monologue of Little One, the grandchild who barely remembers him, as he held hands with my mother, who was uncharacteristically silent, not making any comments about why I was tying gingerbread ornaments on the cello teacher's laurel hedge. I still haven't figured out the ornaments (perhaps because we are headed into the holidays?) and the hedge (the cello teacher's house doesn't have one), but I welcome visits from those who have passed over the rainbow bridge, and am comforted to know that I will still be able to visit every now and then after I have made that journey.

So, it seemed a perfectly normal thing to do, making pancakes for the boys' breakfast on this crisp autumn morning. It was, after all, my father who taught me to make pancakes on a morning similar to this, to use bacon grease in the cast iron pan from freshly cooked bacon and the can for that perfectly golden edge.

Yes, I did say can. You see, my parents came from a time where no one could afford to waste, and one of the things that is still present in my mother's home is an old tin can next to the stove with bacon grease in it. The heavy cast iron pan lived on the stove (never made it into the cupboard), and the hot grease was poured straight into the can, to be used for pancakes and any other dish that might need a bit of grease to preserve the cast iron's cure and add a bit of flavor.

At some point, I realized I was using olive oil by the case, but was having to add back the odd bit of bacon or prosciutto to flavor the base of whatever pot-au-feu was bubbling on the flames. At some point, I caught myself pouring bacon grease into the food waste container (our municipality composts food waste, including the grease that would attract too many rodents to our cool heap), and stopped dead in my tracks.

How could I lament industrial processes like refining flour that take out the good and then have to put chemically extracted vitamins as artificial, if I was essentially doing the same thing to my own coq au vin? I set down the hot pan, rummaged through the recycle bin for a tin can (looks like Number One had chili for lunch--again) and poured the grease in there instead.

As a child, my parents had bacon for breakfast nearly every day, so the can filled faster than it could be emptied. In our household, where bacon is a weekend affair, the can never empties all the way, but it never seems to get very full either. I'd like to think my father would smile at that as well.

Autumn bouquet

I was going to write about how the bouquet of flowers from the CSA this week was significantly smaller than in weeks past, and how the colors are deeper, gold and purple, than the bright yellows and blues of August.

I was going to write about the pile of spent tomato vines piled outside the hoop house, vines that had once climbed high to the ceiling on red string, also now tattered and hanging forlornly from the ceiling.

I was going to write about the spots of fungus and mold on withering plants and fruits, speckling the ends of beans that got too close to the ground and stems that can't give any more. That weekend of rain (2" by my rain gauge) left a scent of decay in the air, so unlike the sweet smell of summer rain.

I was going to write about all this, but then the radio announced that the Chilean miner rescue operation had started, and I turned my attention to the video feed, transfixed like many others around the globe. At a time when our winter is looming, it is early spring below the equator, where hope is in the air in more ways than one.

I am reminded that the life force we see so exuberantly exhibited in the dog days of summer is still very much there: the flowers have filled the hives with honey, and the bees are feathering their nests for a winter of either sugar water (what the beekeeper "pays" them for the honey he takes) or sunnier climes (our supplier is heading to the orange groves of California in anticipation of a harsh winter); the withered heritage tomato vines have produced ample fruit and seed that will incubate, ready to propagate the species next season (they don't know we've consumed the lion's share of the fruit, or maybe they do…) and will give the rest of their corporeal being to the compost pile; the mold and fungus on late and fallen fruit are themselves a form of life, transforming what remains imbued with vitality into the most important crop on the farm: a living, vibrant soil.

As the Fenix 2 descends down the mineshaft, so the life force of the farm descends into the earth; both will emerge in their time in a process uncannily similar to rebirth.

Too much to drink

The rain finally let up a bit yesterday, and the water in our neighbor’s driveway subsided. I can’t say the same for some of the freeways and arterials around town, and certainly down south. They finally have a picture in today’s paper of I-5 through Centralia, the halfway mark between here and Portland, and home to outlet stores and other diversions for drivers passing through.

The last time we were in Centralia, though, we eschewed the big boxes and strip malls and headed to the old part of town. The train station had looked interesting from the tracks when I went down in September, and sure enough, we found a lovely, restored train depot, still functioning as a stop for Amtrak twice a day. Nirvana for Little One, and we came home with a pocket of smashed pennies. Soaked from the rain, we headed to the old downtown right across the street, and found a dark, warm pub (The Olympic Club) for a bite to eat and some hard cider.

As I look at the aerial photo of Centralia splashed across the front page this morning, I note that the old part of town is perched just high enough that it remains above the floodwaters: the soulless boxes and even the interstate freeway, however, are still underwater, two days later. Almost as if the founding fathers had decided to work with nature instead of arrogantly trying to master it.

We are thankful to be largely unaffected (there was a small mishap with a puddle, but it only resulted in a bit of extra laundry). We are grateful to be free of the huge task of mucking out from the storm, able to indulge ourselves in small seasonal tasks: filling the bird feeder, making up a batch of potato leek soup, lighting the first candles of Hanukkah. And wrapping presents for my brother, who is hoping the waters recede and the road is repaired before he plans to trek up for Christmas.

Golden sunshine

The sun is shining today, but it is a weak light, barely able to warm the floor where it casts its rays. We have turned the corner into deep autumn, and Old Man Winter is waiting in the wings. So it is no surprise that the part needed to make our boiler produce hot water did not arrive in a timely fashion. Friends have provided us with space heaters, though we have learned that we can’t have heat and run the microwave at the same time.

The effects of living in a cold house, though, are showing: Little One woke pulling and rubbing at his ear this morning and we suspect his cold may be becoming an ear infection. The windows in our bedroom have condensation on them, and the room needs airing, something we dare not do, lest we lose any precious warmth. We have not sat in the living room as a family for a week, and our stringed instruments refuse to stay in tune.

Upstairs, suitcases are out, piles of clothing are mounded on our bed, and my desk has been cleared. We shall pack our bags and decamp to California, to the city of my father’s birth for the rest of the week. A professional conference is our official reason, but the forecast of 68 degrees and sunny, typical fall weather from my childhood beckons us.

Before we leave, we’ll finish up the leftover lentil soup and the last cucumbers and tomatoes from the Redmond farmer’s market. The doctor will swing by this evening and look in Little One’s ears, and British Neighbor has promised to turn on the space heaters if Jack Frost threatens to freeze our pipes.

Our local South 47 Farm shutters for the season tomorrow, but we know there’s a bountiful farmer’s market across the street from the hotel in the Ferry building this Saturday. We’re ready for a little warmth.

Nipping at our toes

The frost is on the pumpkin this morning. This is usually one of my favorite days, a decisive turning of the season. The leaves have been changing color and dropping for so many weeks now that it hardly seems special anymore, just as we take the green leaves for granted by July. But today it is clear that there is no turning back: the tomatoes that we thought could take a few more days to ripen must come out, the flower containers should be tucked in unless we want leggy impatiens.

But Jack Frost beat us to the punch this year. I have been informed by the Boiler Guy that our boiler is in need of a new gas valve, and that I should be ecstatic that they even make parts for it anymore. I’m used to discussions like this with my Volvo mechanic, but the boiler is only half the age of my car. It was installed when I was pregnant with Little One, and he’s not old. And like the Volvo, the part has to come from New Jersey, and won’t be here before Monday.

No heat, and and Frost rapping at the window. We broke out the long underwear, filled the hot water bottles and bought a couple of space heaters, but Jack is laughing at us. Little One’s cough has turned all chesty, so I’ve kept him home, even though it’s warmer at school. We’ll add another layer and go hunt pumpkins this afternoon, but will plan to spend the evening eating out where it’s warm.

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

Autumn wind

The autumn wind blows open the gate,
St. Michael, for you we wait.
We follow you, show us the way,
With joy we greet this autumn day!
Good morning! good morning!

Just as I was ready to tuck in my computer for the night, I heard it. Plink, plunk on the new shed roof. Yes, the rain is finally here. And tomorrow’s Michaelmas festival? No worry, for it is merely autumn rains, torrential, then clearing enough to let a few sunbeams sneak through before it starts again. We think rain boots are an important part of any school event, and the children will slay the dragon come rain or come shine.

A smile breaks out as I look out the kitchen window this morning: everything is washed clean, the valley on the neighbor’s roof is brimming with leaves from their big-leaf maple, and our garden has a light dusting of golden cedar needles. The cedar tree smiles back at me, waving its handfuls of needles turned color but not yet dropped. We know we will mulch the flower beds together, he and I. I am content with life, warm in my home, the beauty around me, and the love in my life.

We will eat as a community today, one of the few chances we have to break bread as one. First grade will supply the bread: baskets brimming with little rolls, big rolls, crusty and soft, homemade and store-bought, and one mom will surely bring her excellent gluten free ones. To me has fallen the task of making salad dressing, as I balked when asked to purchase some. A double batch of Number One’s first teacher’s dressing will be our contribution.

Place in a jar with a lid

1½ cups extra virgin olive oil
1 cup lemon juice

Add ½-1 tsp each of the following (to taste):

Chopped parsley
Crushed garlic
Chopped onion
Celery salt
Salt & pepper

Shake to blend and serve.

Manly oatmeal

It was cool enough this morning that it was hard to get out of bed for school. Number One Son, the less cuddly of the two, dove under our covers in search of warmth after the alarm rang, and there was simply no goading Little One, newly branded first grader, out of his nest. Friday, oatmeal day, and no one could face the prospect of the instant stuff, no matter how much sugar they add to it. So I grabbed a sweater to pull over my nightie (I’m not ready to give up on the white cotton of summer yet!), and traipsed downstairs.

A good sized pot, two heaping scoops of oats, and lots of water soon boil and turn into that thick, lumpy mixture that Number One has dubbed ‘manly oatmeal’ (said, of course, with a deep, manly voice and much flexing of arm muscles). He likes his studded with raisins and liberally sprinkled with demerrara sugar. Little One needs lots of jam added to his to entice him from under the warm covers, but it works, once I add a lake of sweet soy milk.

And send my two manly boys off to school, this cool autumn morning.