cloth.paper.string

neighborhood hops

A few weeks ago a friend called to let us know that his neighbor's hops were doing their thing.  The house is rented by a bunch of college students who probably drink lots of beer, but were oblivious to one of the essential beer ingredients growing all over their porch.  A knock on the door and a promise of a six-pack of the resulting ale allowed us to pick all we wanted.

The essence of these beautiful sticky flowers lingered on my fingers well beyond the bit of picking the little one and I joined in with our brewer.  And the house smelled distinctly ale-like as they spent an afternoon and evening in the dehydrator.  It's not clear what variety of hops we now have dried and awaiting the brew pot, so they'll probably be used to add hoppiness to an upcoming ale. 

I'll get back to cloth and paper and string soon, I promise.  I'm noticing that I've taken to behaving like the squirrels -- hoarding all of the abundance for the months ahead. 

community supported

We spent a recent afternoon celebrating the harvest at our CSA farm, La Finca. Evidence of the hard work that goes into growing food for hundreds was all around.

Walking the fields I was reminded of the importance of community supported agriculture.  An investment in the farm at the beginning of the season allows for the farmer to share the bounties and the struggles of the fields each year - you pay upfront for your portion of the harvest, sharing the risk and the reward of farming seasonal produce.

Truly local and truly seasonal.  And too, specific to the nuances of this particular growing season.  This year we has salad greens all summer thanks to the cool summer.  And, while we had weeks of eggplants and melons last year, the cold spring and early fall of this year meant, sadly, that the entire crop of these heat-loving fruits withered on vines blackened by the early frost before they could mature.

I've been reading Plenty by the folks who dreamt up the 100-mile diet, and wondering how close I could get to this here in Minnesota.  Sure our growing season is short, but it's abundant, and much can be preserved.  Our local co-op has recently started labeling items that are locally produced, defining local as within 300 miles.  I'm continually surprised by the variety that comes from within a day's drive, and also more convinced that the vast majority of my food can, and will, come from the region.   

the duchess

She's hardy, but she didn't stand a chance. 

The Duchess of Oldenburg is an old Russian apple variety known as the "King of the Ironclads" for its extreme winter hardiness.  With the help of the brilliant peeler-corer-slicer passed down from my mom, a pile of these apples from the farmers' market was quickly transformed into sauce and dried rings.

This may be the last bit of our canning efforts for the season -- there isn't much more room on the shelves in the cellar.  But I know that the next trip to the market or the farm will tempt me into preserving just a wee bit more of the local bounty.

holding on

While we're now back home, I'm holding tightly to these past few days spent in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area wilderness.

The quiet and simplicity of our home away from home.

The smell of the cedars in the afternoon light.

The rocks and the way they tell tales of time.

The unmistakeable signs of the turning of the season.

The end of the day reflected over still water.

binding

I have a favorite glue brush.  It's pink, plastic and oh-so cheap.  I've had it for years and years, and I've never bound a book without it.  Each time I use it I end up washing it in the sink and leaving it nearby to dry.  In our last two homes it would find its perch on the windowsill behind the kitchen sink.  Here it dries alongside the toothbrushes on the bathroom windowsill. 

The brush usually sits out far longer than necessary once it's dry.  There's something about seeing it next to the dishsoap or the toothpaste that makes me smile, reminding me that creative ventures are indeed part of my day to day, even though it often seems otherwise.  It's 'drying' right now, even though the book I bound last week is hundreds of miles away, gifted today to my sister-in-law-to-be at her bridal shower.  

The book is another made using Paper Source's pre-made text blocks - this one a photo album with vellum sheets between each page.  The paper covering the book called out to me from the sea of fantastic Japanese prints lining the wall of their store.  Rich chocolate brown, as a backdrop for red, light turquoise and white plum blossoms.   Red bookcloth along the spine.  That beloved pink brush will surely be pasting more of this combination onto bookboard again.

forty seven

The end is in sight.  It began with a trip to the southern part of the state and the thought that we could get our canning tomatoes now instead of gambling that the frost wouldn't get the local ones before they ripened.  Four hundred miles.  Two bushels of organic tomatoes.  Over one hundred pounds for fifty-nine dollars. 

Two evenings spent peeling, coring and chopping of fruits; washing, sterilizing and filling jars.  Twenty-one quarts are lined up on shelves in the basement.  Another seventeen are cooling on the kitchen counter.  Nine more are processing in the boiling water bath.  Forty seven quarts in total.

I'm feeling excited about the tomato-based soups and stews, pizzas, pasta sauces, chilis that will start with these tomatoes.  And I'm feeling proud of the fact that this year it looks like we'll get through the entire winter without the help of Bionature and Muir Glen.  And too, I'm feeling tired.  Really tired.