Kinds of Honey

Cherries are ripe in Colorado!

I felt so pleased to take home my first basketful from last night’s farmer’s market. Then woke up this morning to realize: no eggs! I am perpetually running out of eggs and butter. It will be good to have chickens and a cow one day.

So I went out to get eggs and found a recipe for pound cake and tied on my apron.

With the door open, in came the breeze and the rain. After two fires in the mountains yesterday these are so welcome. Even the sound of the cars driving by, with the water rushing from their wet tires, is calmer.

So when everything was done I sat to have a little cake and coffee. The rain stopped and the birds chirped from fences and branches.

Do you know what’s fun? This is how I’ve been amusing myself lately: looking online at farms for sale and imagining what I might do in that place. I have hardly any idea where I will end up . . . but a lot of ideas about what I will make there!

Nice summer afternoons, we will have picnics and tea parties on the farm. With cherries and cake, to be sure.

—

RECIPE (adjusted from Savoring the Seasons of the Northern Heartland, “Lucia’s Half-Pound Cake”)

Ingredients:

1/2 to 1 pint sweet dark cherries

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

3/4 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. salt

2 sticks butter

1 tsp. pure vanilla

5 tablespoons sugar

4 eggs

Directions:

Preheat oven to 35o˚F. Mix flour, baking powder, and salt. In a separate bowl, cream butter, vanilla, and sugar. Beat the eggs, then add to the butter mixture. Gently fold in dry ingredients. Note that the batter will be rather thick. Pour batter into a round pan (11″ diameter is what I used) and smooth it out with a spoon or rubber scraper. Press in cherries as you like. Bake for approximately 45 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool and serve!

I am so glad to have largely overcome my fear/frustration with baking at high altitudes.

Today I made a nice basic bread. The recipe comes from Earth to Table: Seasonal Recipes from an Organic Farm by Jeff Crump and Bettina Schormann.

The cookbook harnessed my attention for predictable reasons: a seasonal, organic emphasis combined with stunning photography. But it gets even better, as the book tells farm stories and – great news for those of us who don’t live in California – the chefs are Canada-based. (Check out their Ancaster Old Mill.) What this means is seasonal recipes for some of the most strictly seasonal of areas. That is, places with long winters and short growing seasons. Like my beloved Upper Midwest. Hooray!

While milk and honey bread isn’t all that seasonal a recipe, it did fit my mood for this afternoon. I wanted something light and comforting. Something warm and homey even in these hot, carefree, go-play-at-the-lake summer days.

If you track down this book to make some bread (and other things), take note: I did find that I needed to add more yeast than the 1 tsp. they recommended for the recipe, as well as additional liquid. The liquid makes sense at this high altitude, but generally higher altitudes should require less of the leavening agent. Go for at least 2 tsp. . . . even up to a tablespoon. Let it rise longer if you use less yeast.

Then, you know, bread ought to be eaten fresh from the oven.

And the baker deserves a slice all covered in butter and honey!

Today was one of those days to stay home and do the things you want to do.

For me, this meant browsing fabric on Etsy, thinking up article ideas, cleaning, doing laundry, and trying to make pain au chocolat.

Bread and chocolate. (Also the name of a very nice little bakery in downtown St. Paul.)

These are good things on their own. Chocolate wrapped in a croissant pastry? Oh, yes.

I had my first pain au chocolat while waiting in a train station in Paris to meet the girl I would be couchsurfing with before heading back to the States. I had been volunteering on organic farms throughout France. Now it was time to see this famed and magical city.

Sandie was my host, the girl coming to meet me. We only knew each other through the couchsurfing website’s profile pages, a few email exchanges, and a short phone conversation. So I had an idea of what she looked like, but not much of one, and I didn’t have my cell phone in Europe, of course. My train had been in for a few minutes and she wasn’t here yet.

I stood on a corner away from where the trains pulled in. And felt hungry. And there was the little bakery.

How good it felt to order the pastry, quite perfectly in French! Munching on that late breakfast helped me to feel less anxious as I peered around and hoped I was in the right place, that nothing strange had happened, that I would in fact have a couch to sleep on that night.

And so I did. Sandie came along with her dark curls and a ribbon in her hair and a big smile. We hopped on the metro back to her apartment – only a few blocks from the Eiffel Tower. I was so happy to find a friend my age who spoke English as well as I did!

So the sweet and hospitable Sandie introduced me to her Paris pals and took me all around the city. To the museums, along the Seine, to the famous sites and little bistros. We went to a Palm Sunday service and met her neighbor on the Pont des Arts and watched the moon rise. We talked about dreams, Europe, art, family, God and humankind.

How fun it is to make a new friend in a new country! And to experience the place together.

(Sandie also gets credit for this shot of the Eiffel Tower. I just love it. Someday I’ll frame it.)

So pain au chocolat is Paris, and all those things, to me. I want to take the people I love there so they can see it. Especially the way the Eiffel Tower twinkles after dark, at the turn of the hour. How had I never known that?

At least I can make myself some pain au chocolat right here. And watch from my patio as the clouds turn the sky into art.

Sunday’s fun: a hike to Lost Lake.

The fabulous Amy Clark – one of my graduate school friends – happened to be in Colorado last week. So on her way back to Iowa she swung by my place and we ventured into the mountains together. Happily she has a Subaru so we could cruise confidently along those windy roads.

The Lost Lake hike is a popular one in the Indian Peaks Wilderness, so we had to squeeze past lots of other cars (mainly Subarus and a few Jeeps) on the narrow dirt road leading to the trailhead.

Before we even got to the trailhead, a woman told us we wouldn’t make it to the lake as there was too much snow.

We shrugged and supposed we might as well go as far as we could.

We didn’t wear the appropriate footwear. But the snow wasn’t so bad! Though the path became a pebbly stream at one point. Ice water and snow on our toes. Our feet turned numb for awhile.

But the lake was beautiful.

And so were the rushing rivers. Lovely, lovely water! Miss T. kept wanting to get in. She ran across rocks to look at the water tumbling down the mountain. Come here! I don’t want you to get swept away.

All that nature. And we did make it the whole way! Only a bit chilly and thoroughly exhilarated by the time we got back to Nederland, a little hippie mountain town near the trail. We ate Indian and Nepalese food and got chai for the drive back down. The cups were warm in our hands even if the chai wasn’t as spicy as we wanted.

Miss T. fell asleep in the car. Everyone was happy.

Back home in my little apartment, I held on to that wild, open feeling of being up there.

The red-winged blackbird didn’t move

from his perch on the wooden post,

.

even though I walked steadily and

my dog ran away and back for tennis balls.

.

Down over the hill, across the water

and the marshes, others of his kind

balanced on the tops of reeds.

.

“Aren’t you afraid, fellow?”

I finally had to ask him, when I stood only a foot

away, admiring the creases of his feathers.

.

He unfolded and resettled himself,

the red shoulders flashing.

.

Then he spread his wings wide,

but the pause had been long enough

for me to know what he meant.

.

I live here.

.

I watched him fly down to the marshes,

where the light faded into blue and shade.

.

Then we walked on, dog and person,

tossing the tennis ball like two children

in the neighbors’ big backyard.

I am helping some friends put in a garden. They have a few acres north of where I live and the more I have chattered about on the farm this-or-that, the more they seemed to think about putting in a nice garden on their land. And so they generously let me be a part of it.

We got a bit of a late start. But that’s okay.

Mostly, I helped plan the layout of the garden and plant the starts and seeds. Several lettuces, carrots, radishes, onions, kale, peas, peppers, tomatoes. Rosemary, oregano, thyme, and of course cilantro. Squash. Corn. Cucumbers. Strawberries!

My friends are watering and monitoring. Though this weekend I might go up to do some weeding and perhaps to tuck more compost around some of the plants.

They also have big dogs. And a fence to keep the dogs out, fortunately.

Peas are so photogenic.

And the rows are just satisfying to look at. I don’t know why.

It is going to be fun to see how this garden grows. And to share its produce. Thanks, friends!

Memorial Day weekend took me to . . . Iowa! And Nebraska. We crossed the state border (i.e., the Missouri River) many times over the course of five days. We made sure to stand with one foot in each state on the long, fancy, curvy pedestrian suspension bridge.

My parents and brothers and I crowded into my little brother’s one-bedroom apartment, caught up, knocked elbows, and still managed to make some good food: sloppy joes and very fresh asparagus from the home place!

And bless them, my grandparents drove two hours to see me for a day. We decided that we needed to do something outside, so off to the botanical gardens we went.

It’s like a forest of roses!

They have old trains at the gardens, rather randomly, but also rather appropriately considering Omaha was once a major train hub. If you ever visit Omaha/Council Bluffs you must go to the Durham Museum/Union Station, near the Old Market/Downtown area. In addition to hosting exhibits, the museum is a flash to the past sort of place, drawing from a time when the train station was a frenzy of activity. It’s the sort of place where you (if you’re like me) feel nostalgic for a time period you never actually experienced, and kind of wish you had.

Did you also know that Omaha has a castle? I bet you didn’t.

Joslyn Castle (a.k.a. Lynhurst) was built in 1903 by George Joslyn, owner of the Western Newspaper Union. It’s now owned by the State of Nebraska. And yes, you can have your wedding there – just make sure, ladies, that your gown is princess-y enough. If you want to be truly thematic, the groom should wear a kilt in keeping with the castle’s Scottish Baronial style. (Personally, I prefer men in trousers.)

It was hot and humid and windy and storming a lot of the time and yet so wonderful to see everyone and the familiar landscapes. And it made Colorado both difficult and better to come back to. Today I bought more plants for my patio and T. and I went to the lake and I tried (and failed) to make bread rise (I knew that recipe left out a step!). Right now the sun is hot and cottonwood fluff is floating around in the air. The lady with five little Mexican-named dogs just walked by and the mountains are misty gray in their same silhouette against the sun-bleached sky.

Is this, actually, home? Well. For now.

Miss T. and I have found a new favorite spot.

It is a little lake not ten minutes from our house. A water-haven for the two of us water-lovers.

Dogs are allowed off-leash here with the Boulder County sight-and-voice command tags. T. and I have started coming several times a week so she can run and swim, and so I can sit on a rock out in the water and watch as the sun makes evening shadows. Listen as the wind and the trees talk. Smell the water and the weeds.

I like the mountains here, how blue they can get, the way the clouds contrast and camouflage with them.

There is a path around the lake, and trails that wander off for hiking, and all of them seem to have just these startling picture views of the mountains, the kind that make you feel like you’re looking at a book.

Letting my feet hang into the water, tromping around through the shallows, leaning against the trunk of a tree hanging out over the lake, this all is so familiar and good feeling. Everything about it reminds me of – of me and mine, I suppose. The things I’ve claimed as right, the things I love and want to keep as a part of my life and the person I am. The smallest of these things can matter. The habits, the patterns.

It is wonderful having a place like this. T. and I will come here, and summer will be full of the blessedness of common things.

Two weeks of rain and all I can think about is how glad I am for spring.

And this morning the sun shines.

Today is my birthday and I am not near my best friends and beloved family. Part of me wants to sulk. The other part looks around for what comfort and joy can be found here.

How I might be grateful for life on this day.

Among those things: les belles fleurs. It is perhaps among the girliest of things to love them, but so be it.

Every day I walk past small lilac bushes, just beyond the door to my apartment. They are so tiny and in such a shady spot that they’ve started opening their purpleness and fragrance much later than the others around the complex.

That scent is always a gift. It reminds me of Minnesota summers, lying in the grass in the shade of the huge lilac bush to read, and keenly aware of the bees buzzing busily overhead – back and forth between the luscious flowers and wherever their hive might be.

On impulse and self-indulgence (it is my birthday) I bought two mini rose plants. A neighbor moving to a home in the mountains left me three terra cotta pots and so I spent a few moments filling them with the darling new buds, tucking the roots into their new abodes.

I am a wildflower Iowa girl. On my farm I will have meadows full of wildflowers, doing all the good they can for the soil, and the bees, and me.

And yet I so love roses.

My new rose plants give me hope and company and a little of my old romantic self on this birthday. Flowers didn’t need to be beautiful and interesting and yet they are; they exist; they are a part of the world’s richness.

I am happy to be here and to share this place with them.

So we hung our heels

in that dark water

with the sheen of night

on it, spilling silver

over our heads, so many

young God-seekers.

.

This was the time when

campers slept and we, the staff,

came here to rest, to speak

in whispers of things

we weren’t sure of. Things

we feared, things hoped for.

.

Sometimes of confessions,

one to another, sins unforgotten,

lingering scars a challenge

to the kind of forgiveness

we sang about. Or dreams

in colors that might be only

for books, or for the best of people,

and the wondering if it was

wrong to hope so deeply.

.

And, so often, the old question,

in the knowledge of, despite grace,

common human judgment:

.

“Who will love me?”

.

Trace a toe in the water.

Wait for assurance. The weight

of the moon must be enough.