Who would have believed?

Off to market

Had you told me even a year ago that I would be selling produce at a farmers' market, I would have called you insane, but that's exactly what I did this weekend. I have an abundance of invasive perennial herbs in my garden--mint, chives, pineapple mint, oregano, mint--as well as non-invasive but overgrown (as in can't see to get out of the driveway) rosemary and thyme. It's far more than two people can use, and I hate to see anything go to waste, so I asked the farmer with whom I have my CSA share for ideas. He suggested I bring a basket to his booth at the weekly famers' market and split the profits with him. Ever on the lookout for additional sources of revenue, I agreed.

 

The farmers' market this time of year is on Saturdays from 10 to 3. So after work on Friday, I went out into the garden with basket, scissors, and scale to gather my herbs. The mint and rosemary were easy to harvest, but the more delicate chives and oregano were rather a mess. In all, it took nearly two hours to cut, weight, and tie up the bundles (hope I get better/faster with practice). I put my lovely little bunches of herbs into bowls with a little water and popped them into the refrigerator overnight.

On Saturday morning, I met the farmer at the market at 9:30 to drop off my wares. It was fun being there as the vendors were setting up, and chatting to real farmers. I have the advantage of coming from a farming family and can relate anecdotes of weather-related crop disasters with the best of them. When I got my cut of the takings at the end of the day, I had earned just enough to pay for this week's eggs and two tomato plants I got from other vendors.  If I look at it in terms of hourly rates, I made less than minimum wage, but it was fun and cost me only two hours on a Friday night that I otherwise would have wasted online. Not a bad trade, in my opinion.

Spring marches on, and one of the rhododendrons finally burst into bloom, thought the others are nowhere close. I saw a hummingbird one evening at dusk, testing out the dogwood blossoms.

Feeders for hummingbirds and other birds have been cleaned and filled by my darling husband, and the fountain is back in service, provided a birdbath and a drinking fountain for birds and kitties. Now the challenge is keeping Baxter the Mighty Hunter from using these amenities to ensnare victims.

One of the things I love is seeing the daily changes in the garden. This year they have come more slowly than usual, but the pace is beginning to quicken. I realized today that one of the most difficult things about winter in the sameness day to day. In our valley, winter means grey skies and rain, with temperatures generally hovering within about 10 degrees of 40° F. Let me be the first to admit that this is in no way a bad winter by any stretch of the imagination. It's just boring--nothing changes for what seems an age. Spring, summer, and fall, there is near-constant change in the garden: seeds sprout and grow, flowers bloom and fade, fruit ripens and is harvested. I love that.

The garden path, with bluebells

Sundays are special days to me, a day to pause and take a deep breath before the cycle of the week begins anew. When economy made it necessary for me to give up my daily pot of espresso for tea, the "sacrifice" had an unexpected benefit. My Sunday morning coffee became a special treat, something to look forward to and to savor--usually with a croissant from the local bakery.  Since present circumstances require frugality, I find myself more mindful of what I have, what I do, and what I buy. Wasteful and unnecessary expenses have been cut out, and far from miss the way things were before, I find I get more satisfaction from daily life, small pleasures, and simplicity.

The Planting of the Bulbs

Misty morning

The autumn rains have arrived, just at the same time as the spring bulbs I'd ordered. Friday was our one sunny, gorgeous day this week--all of which I spent at work. I was thrilled to wake up this morning to find it merely foggy, not raining. I've been missing my morning walks, so I got up and headed off for a tramp through the neighborhood. The leaves were lovely, the jack-o-lanterns were out in force, and the kitties were relishing the lack of rain as much as I was.

Cat on a Subaru. Pretty much sums up my neighborhood.

After a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs with leftover salmon cakes and a croissant, I headed out to the garden to plant bulbs. I go crazy ordering bulbs every year--I can't help myself. There is no such thing as too many daffodils, a strong contender for my favorite flower. When I was growing up in South Carolina, they were sometimes in bloom for my late February birthday. Later, when I was grown up and had moved away, Mama sent me a pot of daffodils for my birthday every year until she died.  I always thought they looked like ballerinas in yellow tutus and green tights.

Pretty overhead . . .

and underfoot.

So anyway, I had ordered a grab bag of 25 daffodil bulbs to be put in the beds out back for cutting flowers, three heirloom Rose of May daffs for the white garden, 50 blue and white anemones to go around the fountain, some winter aconit out front for a mid-winter splash of yellow, 10 dark, dark purple heirloom crocus bulbs, and 25 bluebells and 25 snowdrops for the shade garden. The heirloom red and white flame tulip bulbs are cooling in the fridge for another couple of weeks, since our winters usually don't get quite cold enough for them.

First, there were two blueberry bushes that had to be transplanted to a sunnier spot. Then, the gargantuan cosmos--seriously, these things were taller than I am--had to be chopped out of the bed they had commandeered, and the always opportunistic mint brutally ripped out where it isn't wanted. Then compost had to be worked into the soil, and only then could bulbs be planted.

It took more than four hours, but I got them all in. Then a hot shower and 800 mg. of ibuprofen before putting together a big pot of chili to simmer for dinner. It's a recipe from a friend who grow up in Texas, and the spices and peppers did magical things with simple beef, tomatoes, and onions. Shout-out to SFL for the best chili I've ever had!  With some homemade cornbread (look Ma, no Jiffy mix!), it made the perfect Halloween supper.  Darling husband was in charge of handing out candy to the Trick-or-Treaters, whom he also entertained with his Elmo and Grover had puppets (he has the voices down).

My husband's dream is to own his own vineyard and winery, and he's often asked me what my dream is. I've never had an answer, until today. My dream is to create a beautiful garden. Not a fancy formal garden, but a simple cottage garden filled with old-fashioned flowers, herbs, and some fruits and veggies.  Not a very exciting dream, but my own, and one I can chase after forever.

Happy Halloween!!

Peace and Quiet

Today has been an especially lovely Sunday in the Valley. The weather--cool and overcast in the morning for gardening, sunny and 70s in the afternoon for walks and reading in the sun--has been nothing short of perfection. It has been particularly peaceful in contrast to yesterday's trip into the city. I'm becoming quite the little country mouse--I find the traffic, noise, and crowds more than I can bear. The city has much to offer, but for me it's sometimes a bit too much. Quite unintentionally, I ended up at one of Portland's famous farmers' markets---acres, it seemed, of beautiful organic produce, artisanal foodstuffs, and crafts--but I was too overwhelmed by all that was on offer, and by the crowds and the noise, to appreciate it. Too many choices, too much stimulation. I was happy to escape to a quiet lunch with an interesting companion.


Growing up in the country, all I wanted was to escape to the big city. Now, as I near the half-century mark, I long for the quiet of the country. Noise is the pollution I find most stressful, and I have a hard time dealing with more than a few days in a large city where it's never completely quiet. Even living in a small community, as I do now, there are the sounds of cars going by, radios blaring, children screeching, dogs barking (I admit to a very wicked moment of hoping the dog was in fact going to eat the screeching children). But there is also the soothing sound of the fountain in my garden, and the purr of the cat in my lap. I try to focus on that and shut the rest out. Quiet, for me, is the greatest luxury. My husband and I dream of one day owning a few acres in the country, where we can plant a small vineyard and a house that overlooks it. For him, the future winemaker, the allure is agricultural. For me, it's the quiet, away from other people, that most appeals.

It was a day of simple pleasures--working in the garden, going for a walk, getting a chocolate dip-cone at the Dairy Queen, baking a blueberry-raspberry pound cake, reading a good book. (A very good book indeed: The More I Owe You by Michael Sledge. Most highly recommended.) Tonight we'll grill fish, sit outside and drink wine, and enjoy the peace and quiet.

It's all about timing

I waited too long to head  out into the garden to weed, and no sooner had I settled in with gardening stool and weeding fork when it began to rain. No gentle drizzle either -- massive, cold rain drops. Cats and I ran for the door. Let's hope tomorrow will be fair. In the meantime, let's consider some rainy Saturday indoor pursuits. Perhaps a cup of tea, some blueberry scones, and a good book--nothing like the classics, right? I could start baking Winning-Hearts-and-Minds Chocolate Cakes and freezing them for next month's wedding fete, but I'm not feeling that ambitious. Besides, I think I'm out of parchment paper to line the pan. Yes, that's it. Reading it is, then! I am about a quarter of the way through Colum McCann's wonderful Let the Great World Spin and am astounded at how beautiful and yet how exciting the writing is. It is not terribly common for me to find a piece of modern literary fiction that is so engaging that I can't wait to see what happens. Prize winners, particularly, are sometimes so terribly clever or "meaningful" that one can appreciate the writing without really enjoying it. McCann's National Book Award Winner is, however, a thumping good read. I think I'll dip back into it now.