I started journaling for the first time when I was eight years old. At that point, most of my entries consisted of descriptions of what Mom made for dinner. And many of my entries started like this:
"Sorry it's been awhile since I wrote . . ."
I don't know who I was apologizing to, since my journal was private, but I feel the same way now. Life has been hectic lately, and I haven't had the focus to sit down and write about it. I haven't known where to begin. Since my last post wandered all the way to el Caribe, let's start back at home with a pumpkin house check-in.
The chickabiddies are growing girls, and a few weeks ago Chris and I moved them out to the coop with the old hens. It was easier than we'd thought it would be to make a chicken-wire barrier that lets them get used to each other without letting the big ones peck the little ones to death. This may be unnecessary since there's been no threatening behavior since the first few days, and no signs of violence when we do supervised visitations; but better safe than sorry.
The hens were pecking and eating their eggs for awhile, and it got to the point where I was making death threats ("If you don't stop eating you're eggs, we're going to eat you!) until I stuck an easter egg in their nest. Since then there have been no more broken shells. I guess the theory is that they try to peck on the plastic eggshell, and since it kind of hurts their beak it helps break the habit.
Spring has sprung. With it come nettle pesto, fiddlehead ferns, and lots of weedy wild greens. I tried lacto-fermenting some fiddlehead ferns with carrots, and then forgot about them in the back of the cupboard for almost a month. This photo was taken when I first put them in the jar with some whey, water and pickling spices. Now the water is a light yellow color, and fizzed up like crazy when I opened the jar. I tasted a fiddlehead, and it was very pickle-y, fizzy and a bit peppery. I think I like it, but I haven't decided yet, and I'm going to wait a while and make sure it doesn't make me sick before offering it to anyone else.
I've been doing some flower gardening in northwest Portland, which is great fun; I dig getting paid to play in the dirt, and it's novel and refreshing to work in a garden whose sole purpose is beauty.
Meanwhile, the garden at home is plugging along -- the alliums are happy, the kale is getting a bit slug-eaten, and the tomatoes have yet to journey beyond their kitchen table window home.
Also the camas is blooming, which means it is time to harvest it. What is camas, you ask? Well, it looks like an onion, tastes like a cross between potato and baked pear, and once upon a time it blanketed the prairies of the Pacific Northwest with a sea of starry blue flowers. Traditionally harvested from what is now Vancouver Island to northern California, blue camas was among the most important plant foods in the region. It cohabitated unique ecosystems with Garry oak, bear grass, a multitude of butterflies, deer, and, importantly, indigenous peoples. Today, only about three percent of the original camas prairies still remain (The Nature Conservancy).
That was the opening paragraph to a final essay I wrote about it for an environmental policy class a few years ago. I became slightly obsessed with learning about camas when I realized it was an incredibly important native plant food that had never even been on my radar before.
Anyway, I got some bulbs last fall and now it's blooming in our raised beds.
The only catch is that I tried some prepared the traditional way, steamed in a pit fire, and I wasn't a big fan of the flavor. So I have some serious research and experimentation ahead of me if I want to enjoy the taste of camas.
Some pizza Chris made awhile ago, served with
miner's lettuce and kefir cheese salad. I miss him and his pizza.
So that's the news from the pumpkin house farm, where all the women are sleepy, all the cats are needy, and all the men are up in the Seattle suburbs house-sitting for their parents.
(I'll save the part about why life has been so hectic lately for the next post, by which time maybe the chaos will have settled down a bit.)
