Getting there

That's the thing about our party. Every spring (so far, at least) there's been a tremendous push to get one project or another done pre-party (first year the cleaning, last year the shed moved, this year the patio), but then once it's over, the whole rest of the summer is there spooled out ahead of us. We don't have any grand ambitious plans for this summer, which is nice, but there are a few things-- a few roof leaks, a considerable quantity of porch-sag, and a few wobbly foundation stones-- that need to be addressed. Those will be weekend jobs to tag-team, but during weekdays I've been trying to devote myself at least partly to the house exterior. The above picture was taken May 31st. 

I worked hours bubbling the old paint off those spindles with a heat gun. Then, scraping. Then, I primed. Now it's ready for colors.

Please don't mind the flamingos. I don't know if it's a national thing, but our chapter of Students Against Drunk Driving sends pink flamingos to peoples' lawns, then you have to pay "ransom" (donate) to get them removed. And if you donate, you get to name the next "victim," which is just so much fun. Pretty clever.

Anyway, this morning the sun is (blessedly) shining, for a change, and I'm going to get out there just as soon as I send this off. Oh, and finish my tea. And shake some more sleep out of my head. This is the time of year I have a really hard time getting enough sleep-- I can't fall asleep until nearly midnight, and can't stay asleep much past sunrise. 

Good thing the world outside is so dang beautiful. Oh, June.

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Story of a morning

I've been painting on our front porch, making one last stab at headway out there before the snow flies. We had such high hopes when we started tearing off the siding, back in April for goodness sakes, but summer life and its incredible full schedule intervened. Thanks to my father-in-law, however, I now have a mechanized awesome paint stripper dealie AND a legit man-lift (like the kind they use on telephone poles) on loan, so, in spring, I imagine, we can get back to it.

Aack, this post wasn't supposed to be about projects!

Ok, so, the point is, I was painting on the porch. I heard caterwauling from the neighbors' yard, went to discipline Pete (the culprit), and was walking over to get back to work when I came around the corner of the house, saw the above, and immediately went to grab my camera. Those property-line maples are stunners this time of year-- soon they'll be completely scarlet, a color only a tree could pull off without being tacky.

Then I saw our hydrangeas out front, and took this picture, because they have a pretty autumn coat, too.

So there I was, painting away on the window trim, and the chickens decided to visit. Boom.

I was out there painting yesterday, too, and they came to visit me. Twice. I have no idea why. They're really getting big-- not laying yet, but loving the free-ranging. I almost can't wait for frost, so I can let them into the garden and let them eat up all the bad grubs/rotten tomatoes in there.

 Patsy, the barred rock, is especially gorgeous. Our neighbors got chicks the same time we did, and one of theirs' has grown up into a rooster, which is interesting. Both of us have really small coops that won't be able to handle more than five or six birds, but both of us are at the same time a little intrigued at the prospect of hatching chicks.

When I finished painting, I headed off towards the garage, turning back first to see this: Olive, patiently watching the chickens through the window I'd propped against the doorway.

Then I remembered you haven't seen our new chairs yet, and though the front room is most definitely disheveled, I decided to go snap a picture of that. AND you can see our new front door-- not actually new, but wearing a shiny new coat of paint! It was burgundy before, same as the rest of the house "accent" colors-- and I absolutely loathe burgundy.

Anyway, the chairs are good, and growing on us. The pets love them; they're really comfy, and worlds better than the stiff little wicker ones we had before. Which we still have, and are planning to put someplace we don't sit as often as we sit in our front room. 

So anyway, those are my updates for the week. Painting progress outside (and in, which I'll show you next week!), porch chickens, and new chairs. That's a wrap. 

I am off to Ithaca for the weekend, and despite the cold gray weather outlook for both days, I am thrilled. Fancy cocktails and Vietnamese food tonight, apples and cider and bratwurst tomorrow, and who knows what sort of other social delights will fill in the gaps! Happy weekend, friends.

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Sunday

 

It's really not too strong a statement to say I live for days like these. Northerners, this is why we go through winter after grueling winter: summer, when it comes, is a gift. I've never been a fan of fantasy novels, because I don't need a novel to help me imagine a parallel perfect world. All it takes is someplace quiet and dreamy on a warm evening. 

Yesterday, we splashed around in the brook, got ice cream, integrated the little chickens with the big chicken (so far, no fatalities!), and improvised a pretty stellar dinner on the grill. Then, we sat in our camp chairs on the lawn (by the chicken run) and watched the fireflies and the moon rise... My goodness, this is it. This is what it's about. The customary pre-dinner stroll in the garden for ingredients, bare feet on the front porch and cracking up watching the chickens over a few beers at twilight. Living, loving, and eating. And chickens.

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How revealing

 I'm a little surprised to find us diving into another big project for this summer, truth to tell. This summer already includes brick paths in the garden, moving the shed, building a patio, planting more trees, and raising chicks-- and I thought that would be enough. Right? That's enough.

But then I got this bright idea to spend part of Saturday scraping porch trim. And it takes about fifteen minutes of that for me to say to Patrick, "Hey, want to tear off a piece of that aluminum?"

A ladder was procured. A screwdriver was applied. And, like all other quick and revealing home improvement projects (pulling old carpet, stripping wallpaper) we couldn't take down just one. In other words, once we popped, we couldn't stop.

This house is beautiful. This house is historic. This house, for fifty some years, has effectively been George Clooney in a t-shirt tuxedo. Wrong. I pulled off some aluminum, and rubbed my fingers across that beautiful yellow wood underneath. Even the cracks and the nail holes are pretty. I found myself having an imaginary conversation with whoever built this place, in 1858. I know what he was going for, and let me tell you, it was not a mildew-covered aluminum sided subdivided rental house. I was playing out something like that scene in Catch Me if You Can, where Frank writes his bankrupt dad a letter promising, "I'm gonna get it all back now, Daddy. I'm going to get it all back." Exactly. I'm going to get it back, house. Your beauty, your charm. Everything you were meant to be, in 1858. All of it.

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Just a little addicted

This is what I found at that marvelous antiques store I showed you yesterday. Not the flowers, silly, the pot!

This is a McCoy jardinière in my favorite translucent bluey-green glaze. And unlike most of the items in the shop, it was underpriced. I wasted no time.

I'm dreaming of a wide sunny windowsill in our next house, and how it will be populated with begonia-filled McCoy planters. Dreaming, dreaming.

Time was, people would ask me if I collected anything, and I'd say, "Yes. Everything." Now I have just one thing I collect, and it's McCoy pottery, preferably in my favorite translucent bluey-green glaze.

Sweet and sour tempeh "ribs" with wilted cabbage

I'm having a great week, and for no particular reason. Last night, I sat on the porch and quilted, watching a downpour blessedly drench everyone's flowers and poor, scorched lawn. Tonight, we're going to a ballgame. Tuesday, we had a slightly lavish dinner out, for no better reason than it was Tuesday, and it had been awhile since we'd had a lavish dinner out a deux. In between, I've been reveling in the treat of long, empty evenings without work or craziness or things to prepare for. The last few weeks have been so crammed, I got pretty good at fitting in housework around obligations. Laundry/scrubbing counters/clearing clutter. Dishes/cooking/writing. Weeding/talking to mom/picking lettuce. This week it's a luxury just doing one thing at a time.

Of course, what would a good week be without a minor meal triumph? Monday night, this emerged from our kitchen, the glorious confluence of tempeh, shredded cabbage, and not much else.

Sweet and sour Tempeh "Ribs" with Wilted Cabbage

Tempeh:

2 blocks tempeh, each cut into 6 strips

2 cups sweet and sour sauce of your choosing. Mine is canned, from this recipe.

Preheat your oven to 350. Combine tempeh and sauce in a 9 x 9 baking dish, and bake for 45 minutes, turning every ten minutes or so.

Cabbage:

6 cups shredded cabbage

2 tsp sesame oil

1 tbsp soy sauce

Heat oil in a large frying pan. When the oil is hot, add cabbage and soy sauce, and cook, turning often, until uniformly wilted. Try a piece. Is it tender enough for you? If not, keep cooking.

2 cups cooked brown rice

To serve, spoon some rice onto a plate and top with cabbage. Arrange six "ribs" over, and follow with some of the pan sauce. Enjoy! Serves four pretty darn hungry people.

Pizza with Chard

A good time to bake pizza it was emphatically not. We've been in the throes of a no-holds-barred heat wave smack-down since Sunday, with temps consistently in the low to mid nineties. I'm pretty sure you could roast a chicken in our attic. Even the downstairs of our house, which ordinarily stays pretty cool, has turned sweltering, despite the open basement door. To whit: yesterday, the temperature said 92 in the kitchen. That was before I turned on the oven. But pizza was on the menu, and so pizza there would be.

I mix my pizza dough in quadruple batches in the bread machine, freezing the extra lumps until they're needed. In our house, they never last long. Pizza, we've found, is a tenet of kitchen economy. Got leftovers? Put 'em on pizza. Got garden tidbits? Put 'em on pizza. Got moldy cheese? Scrape off the mold first, and put it on pizza. Though last night's pie didn't feature moldy cheese, it was definitely a case of culinary ingenuity.

Sautéed chard from the garden, feta, kalamata, and slivers of red onion, plus a liberal dusting of black pepper, made a tasty, fortifying meal. When combined with a large porch, an oscillating fan, and an ice cold bottle of chardonnay, it was quite the perfect summer dinner.

Stay tuned tomorrow, for Sweetfern's Famous Attic-Roasted Chicken!

(I might be kidding about that last part.)

Precious time

Periodically, I do this. I dream an occasion, a guest list, a menu. I load our house with cantaloupes, black cherries, bags of summer squash. Patrick handles the beer. I consecrate an entire weeks' worth of after-work home time to scrubbing, slicing, and baking, for the heady joy of making the people we love full and happy.

The Menu

Pita chips with baked eggplant dip

Grilled Veggie Panini

Sweet Potato Salad with Rosemary

Black eyed pea salad

Dilled White bean and Tomato salad

Tropical fruit salad

Cabbage-Cucumber salad with tamarind dressing
Cashew Butterscotch bars

Our big second-story porch was filled to capacity. Bottles and glasses clinked. Cats and dog scurried underfoot, snatching crumbs and making new friends.

The cherry bowl dwindled. Twilight descended. The hydrangea flower centerpiece was lit by the glow of citronella.

Entertaining provides this great opportunity to smile and take stock, to say, yeah, we're happy, we're doin' alright. It's a perfect little social snapshot, an attempt at creating a pocket of memory. Here, tonight, this milky June twilight, these hydrangeas, this bowl of black cherries, this circle of friends, this is what is worth remembering. This is where it's at. This is love.

Mom's birthday

It was everything it should've been, and then some.

When your own mother is having a prestigious birthday, you want perfection. At least, I do. As I planned and made lists and scrubbed and sweated last week, I examined and re-examined the interior of my mind, and why I was driven to such a minor frenzy. The answer: it's my mom, silly, the woman to whom I owe my existence. Of course I'm cleaning with Q-tips, double-steaming the rugs, applying lemon chiffon frosting in patient, studied curves with the blade of an offset spatula. At five, it was piles of crayon hearts; at fifteen, red geraniums planted in her flower pots. Now, at 27, it's dinner parties and calico buntings and lemon curd layer cakes with chiffon frosting.

The Menu

Asparagus and Mushroom tarts
Spring Vegetables
Couscous with Fennel and pine nuts
Spring green salad with creamy chive dressing
Lemon curd layer cake

Beforehand, there was the requisite Grandpa Time for Diesel. (My Dad, lover of all dogs small and large, is quickly becoming Diesel's favorite grandparent.)

Dinner is served. This why I garden: the recipe called for pea tendrils, and pea tendrils I had. And plenty.

I cobbled together a bouquet of chive flowers, lily of the valley, euonymous, and rhubarb stalks. Has rhubarb ever been used in a bouquet before?

Haaaappy biiirthdaaay tooo yooouuu...

After cake, we went out to a bar with an oldies cover band, and Mom stayed groovin' and on her feet until after midnight. Her happy and proud daughter (that's me) was right there groovin' by her side.

Being an only child isn't always a picnic. In fact, as I get older I find myself wanting a sibling more and more. But this, I will say, is a definite perk: feeling more like a friend or sister than a child, and knowing her appreciation and love and approval is all for me.

Happy Birthday, Mom.