HoopSquareFestDance

Bermtopia has done it again. We've got the National Square Dance Convention and Hoopfest, the world's largest 3-on-3 outdoor basketball tournament, sharing downtown this weekend. There is only one word to describe this conflagration:

EPIC. . . . Epic. Epic. Epic.

Somehow it always kinda works out.

The square dancers got here Wednesday and leave Saturday. The ballers began streaming in today and will play to The Death Sunday. . . unless you're chucked on Saturday. Which is a total bummer if you are a kid, but kind of a relief if you're a parent, especially if the forecast is for temps in the 90s.

Saturday will be the perfect storm of crinoline and organza (I marvel I can spell these words) and Nike and saggin'. You have been warned.

Wild Rice-Molasses Wheat Bread

My bread-making hiatus is over.

Two weekends out of town does put a crimp in domestic pursuits, especially baking. Ditto for an allergic reaction to Italian Walnut-Raisin Wheat Bread – my most recent culinary triumph. But I couldn't post about it -- I was too busy taking hits off my inhaler.

Let me clarify: It wasn’t actually the bread. More like the walnuts. Which was unfortunate because it was a damn fine batch of bread that I would probably make again. If only it didn’t send me into acute respiratory distress with each slice consumed. Ah, the sacrifices we make in the name of health. And an interesting postscript (well, at least to me): This new-found sensitivity seems to extend beyond walnuts to the entire nut family.

Needless to say, two inhalers later, I am now living in a nut-free zone. And hating it.

ANYWAY. I perused “The Bread-making Bible” for a worthy substitute and came up with Wild Rice-Molasses Wheat Bread. Yes, the ingredients sound a little bizarre, but oh mama, this is good eating. I think that whole cube of butter the receipe calls for might have something to do with this.


First you mix butter (melted), molasses, whole wheat, warm milk and yeast mixture together. Yes, I know it looks like poo -- but trust me, it's much more pleasant in person.


Then you start adding flour -- just 1/2 cup at a time. Your goal is "tacky" dough. Love it! How trailer park. I'm sorry. That just slipped out. Won't happen again.

Two risings later (in the laundry room, of course -- darks and whites done, thank you very much), our loaves of love are ready for the oven.


And 45 minutes later, perfection. Seriously.

The toilet habits of dogs

I know this isn't a particularly "appropriate" post, but as a daily dog-walker, I have accumulated some interesting intelligence on the subject, which I feel compelled to share in a few short, and hopefully tasteful, paragraphs.

First, most urban canines are fairly well organized in their toileting habits. (Not all, my friends, but most.) They have favorite times and places. Our dog Ben, for example, won't "go" in our backyard, hence he gets two walks a day. (There IS a method in his madness.) And dogs do have particular "styles," if you will, of making their deposits. Here are a few of the most common:

The Stop-and-Drop
These carefree pups (Labs, in particular, come to mind) hit the park, lope around cheerfully, chase squirrels, fetch sticks, gambol with doggy friends -- then suddenly freeze, squat and, well, drop. There's no art nor science to this approach: Grass, gravel, rocks, concrete, playground sawdust -- when you gotta go, you go. End of story.

Note: If you have ever discovered dog poo on a sidewalk, which I personally always find a little disconcerting, you can most likely thank a Stop-and-Drop.

The String-along
String-alongs leave many dog owners scratching their heads. For some reason known only to themselves, these dogs feel compelled to keep moving while carrying out their defecatory duties.(Note: Yes, I know, I don't think "defecatory" is a real word either, but it DOES trip off the tongue nicely.) This is not a dog's finest hour in general, but String-alongs look more than comically pathetic as they crab across the park leaving a questionable trail behind them. It's got to be a real pain to clean up after them.

Mt. Vesuvius
These dogs must have amazing cargo capacity because when they unload, it's a payload of truly epic proportion. Steaming canine versions of the Kilauea Volcano if you will. Seriously.

Mt. V dog owners rarely pick up these gifts of love, leaving it to the rest of us to carefully navigate around them, strangely curious about the behemoth canines responsible for these notable landmarks. I am a strong believer of cleaning up after your dog, but I have to admit, I don't think they've yet developed a biodegradable REI poop bag up to the challenge of a Mt. V.

Privacy Please
Our dog Ben is a Privacy Please kind of guy. These dogs painstakingly seek out (we call it "spottin' up") the best tree, shrub or rock that affords them shelter from the park paparazzi while doing the deed.

Except it doesn't. And that's funny.

Ben's butt inevitably sticks out, tail in full extension (not unlike the needle of a compass pointing directly at you-know-what), and I know exactly what he's up to. He senses this, shoots me a reproachful "Do you mind?" kind of look, and then finishes his business.

I'm sorry. It always cracks me up. I just can't help it.

Optimism

I think I have a bulb coming up. A grape hyacinthe. Muscari.

I'm not surprised, but a little nervous. January, for the most part, has been weirdly sunny and mild, temperatures in the high 40s with one day even hitting the low 50s. We had snow yesterday, but it turned to rain by mid-morning. Still, if I hear one more person at work or at the store observe "It feels like March," I might do him/her physical harm, fearing the frivolous weather gods will take up the challenge and reverse gears.

Let me honest. January has been heaven and then some. I've even thought about trying to find a golf course with an open driving range.

But then there's February, ahh, February in Bermtopia can bite you in the butt. I can clearly remember several frigid arctic cold fronts that paralyzed Bermtopia in years past. Closed schools even. I'm not sure how well my optimistic little Muscari friend will fare should that happen.

Nevertheless, I plan to borrow a page from this tiny sprout, and it's titled "Optimism." Come what may, it's a little bit lighter every day. We've been more than blessed with sunny days. I haven't slipped on the ice and done a face-plant on some neighborhood sidewalk while walking Ben.

Life's good.

Whole wheat basil bread

This post isn't about whole wheat basil bread per se. Well, except to say that I made two loaves yesterday to go with the spaghetti and meatballs we were serving to the fam who were over watching God's Basketball Team (aka Gonzaga) play San Diego. (The bread is excellent, by the way.)

This is more about why I, a self-avowed no-bake-nik, actually really enjoy making bread.

It's wonderfully tactile. I love slipping my hands into the warm batter, watching it envelope my hands with a new, yeast-fragrant skin.

I get time to think in a free-floating, James Joyce-ian kind of way. The rhythmic, repetitive process of kneading is excellent for this. When else in the course of a day do you get 10-15 minutes of time where you have nothing else to do than push a gummy blob of dough around on the kitchen counter? I plan my week, think about books I'm reading, watch the finches feeding outside on the seed socks, listen to the dog "huff" softly at some unsuspecting pedestrian strolling by the house, remind myself to call an elusive handyman for about the 40th time, make a couple of mental notes about garden tweaks I want to do in the spring, remember I need to return a guide book on Spain to the library this week, and start to construct a post about Ben and his border collie friend Wally. You get the picture

Bread baking also is the perfect culinary avenue for multi-tasking. Unlike many other types of cooking endeavors, you're not chained to the stove or oven needing to make split-second decisions about the fate of the free world. Dough goes together, dough is kneaded, dough rises. On to the next activity.

Unload the dishwasher


Load the dishwasher


Tidy up the kitchen


Do laundry


Start eggplant parmigiana


Watch iceskating


Finish egg parmigiana


Tidy up the kitchen


Watch iceskating


All in all, a perfectly satisfactory way to spend a Saturday in January. With two loaves of fresh-baked whole wheat basil bread to show for it.

Italian country-style bread

All formalities aside, this bread is A.MA.Z.I.N.G.

Crusty on the outside, dense, chewy and I-should-be-sitting-in-Italy-right-now on the inside. It is rustic perfection. Brad and I stood at the kitchen sink and tore through a half loaf minutes after it came out of the oven. Like a pack of wolves came to mind. Except not.

I was forced to deviate from "The Bread Bible" with this recipe: Unfortunately, I didn't have the ceramic tiles to line the top and bottom of my oven that "Bible's" Tuscan bread recipe called for. Go figure.

Therefore, I resorted to my new Favorite Cookbook of All Time -- "The Food of Italy: A Journey for Food Lovers." Some things just have a way of working out.

This recipe calls for making a starter -- yeast, honey and milk -- that sits overnight transforming itself into a sticky fragrant pile of, well, yeast goo. I had to toss out my first attempt because the recipe said to IF the yeast, honey and milk didn't bubble in 5 minutes. Of course, they didn't, so down the drain it went. Picky, picky, picky.

But the second round did fine and, after percolating for 24 hours, it was ready to go. Much to my delight, you mix the flour into the starter, plus some warm water and MORE YEAST, with your hands. There's nothing more fun being up to your wrists in warm, sticky bread dough that feels like it won't come ever come off.

Both risings were uneventful, except with that extra shot of yeast, my laundry room took on the delightful scent of stale-beer-frat-house-meets-fabric-softener. I felt like I was in college again.

And the result, after baking for 30-35 minutes -- simple, rustic perfection. I think there may be a couple more loaves in my future.

Waiting for snow

The National Weather Service assures us we'll be getting 1-3 inches of snow later today and maybe another inch or 2 tomorrow. But, suprisingly, I'm approaching this snowfall vigil with uncharacteristic equanimity, especially given my basic aversion to anything white, wet and cold with an annoying tendency to accumulate.

I think it's because, overall, the weather has actually been quite nice. It's amazing what a little blue sky and sun will do for a gal.

Christmas week was drop-dead gorgeous (if not a little chilly) -- and, looking back, the 3 or so inches of snow that fell around the middle of the month was quickly disposed of, thanks to several days of rain. Then, there was that week with sun and temperatures in the high 40s, low 50s. I can live with this.

My mom, who was here visiting over Christmas, also had a good point: Any snow that falls now might "only" be on the ground for a couple of months as opposed to 3 or 4 months when it falls in November-December. Thanks, mom. I feel better now.

Ulimately, I find the greatest consolation in the extended forecast -- temperatures in the mid- to high 30s and rain by the weekend. Works for me.

I've got plenty of indoor recreation planned in the meantime: A stack of new Christmas books. . . a house-cleaning blow-out after 10 days of guests. . . replenishing our homemade bread inventory. . . and, TAH DAH, making fresh pasta. Yes, Santa brought us a pasta machine. Nice. More on that later.

So, let it snow. And let it rain. Works for me.

O, Christmas Tree

 

Someone has decorated a small tree in Comstock Park. That's where I walk my dog, Ben, almost every morning. My dog-walking friends, The Amazing M's, and I discovered it December 21, the shortest (and darkest) day of the year.

The dark, stark background of the city park in December accentuates the tree's quirky simplicity. A few strands of beads and Christmas ornaments. Christmas chains made of out of aluminum foil. One frosty (real) pine cone suspended from a string on a skinny, calloused branch. And, at the bottom of the tree, a small plastic snowman stuck in the ground on a stake.

We stopped dead in our tracks when we saw the tree for the first time, faintly shimmering just south of the baseball field at the upper end of the park. It was so out of context, and yet so perfect. None of us could ever recall a Christmas tree in Comstock Park.

We walked up to the tree and stared, admiring its humble trimmings. Speculating about who might do such a wonderfully whimsical thing. Our dogs, Ben and Wally, seemed to sense that something unexpected and oddly lovely had happened in their park.

Two days later, the tree is still decorated, unsullied by Comstock's dog walkers, joggers and occasional grafitti artist. I smile when I walk by it. I think we all do. I can't speak for others who visit Comstock each morning, but "our tree" reminds me to slow down and appreciate the fact that it doesn't take much to generate holiday cheer. It can be as simple as a Christmas tree in Comstock Park.

God rest ye, merry tree-trimmer(s). Whoever you are.

Happy anniversary

Today, Bermtopia celebrates its one-year anniversary.

Conceived during the mother of all snow storms, Bermtopia started out as an experiment -- a middle-age woman exploring blogging, aka social media, as part of her job as a public relations writer. And, well honestly, there wasn't much else to do because we were snowbound.

But over the months Bermtopia has become much more than an experiment.

I've rediscovered the pleasure of writing. Without deadlines and stylebooks. Without "messaging" and marketing gimmicks. In essence, I've rediscovered the joy of "recreational" writing.

I've always secretly considered perfection vastely overrated, preferring life's silliness instead. Some people may call that shallow -- I call it Bermtopia. The small, silly things in life inevitably create the richest, most memorable moments. It's a pleasure to experience life in Bermtopia, then write about it -- the smaller, the sillier, the better.

And as you no doubt have figured out, I also am hopelessly, haplessly in love with my digital camera. I love photography in general because of the way it captures both the mundane and magnificent -- all through the same lens. Carrying a camera reminds me there's a lot to see in the world and to be mindful of "the moment" -- the perfect shot that tells the perfect story. Obviously, there are whole lot more mundane than magnificent moments in Bermtopia, but it's a pleasure to find those moments and share them visually as well in writing.

So, happy anniversary, Bermtopia. I'm glad we found each other.

Oatmeal wheat bread

With the great pumpkin project completed -- and the garden put to bed for the winter -- I need something comforting and confounding to keep me occupied during these next dark months.

Bread making.

I am a decent cook, but the art of baking, in general, has eluded me over the years. Ultimately, I think it's the precision of ingredients and choreography of blending and cooking that frustrate me. I like to improvise and there's not much room for improvisation in baking. But this winter, I will rein in my culinary "wild child" and I will bake. Beginning with bread.

I don't have an uber mixer or oven -- just me, a nice selection of wooden spoons and a white Frigidaire self-cleaning wall oven circa 1992. I should also mention I have lived in old, drafty houses -- 80 and 68 years respectively -- since we moved to Bermtopia. It's hard to execute the instruction, "raise bread in a warm area free of drafts," when you don't have warm areas free of drafts. And finally, the chemical conundrums of yeast completely mystifiy me.

Nevertheless, off we go. I can do this. Bread #1 -- oatmeal wheat bread.

I start off with a little pep talk from Beth Hensperger, author of "The Bread Bible," laying out the basic theory behind bread baking. Then it's time to take plunge into that mine field known as making homemade bread.

The first land mine -- proofing yeast. I'm using the "direct method" -- throwing together a little yeast, some type of sugar and warm water. I'm supposed to end of up with a bowl full of foamy, fragrant yeast love.

In the past, my attempts in this department have been less than inspiring, resulting in a product far different than foamy, fragrant yeast love. Instead, think cold water with despondent yeast pellets floating aimlessly around in a bowl.

This time, I measure the yeast and honey with the painstaking precision of a mad scientist. I pull out my trusty deep fry/candy thermometer and make sure the water temperature is between 105 to 115 degrees. Check.

Five minutes later -- WTF! It bubbles, foams and expands. I have foamy, fragrant yeast love.
Now on to land mine #2: Kneading. Hensperger says kneading "transforms dough from a rough, shaggy mass to a soft and pliable ball." Gluten is formed, which is"strong enough to contain the expanding carbon dioxide gases that are a by-product of of the yeast's reproduction."

There's carbon dioxide in bread? Who knew? and duly noted. Bread and global warming -- is there a connection?

I knead for 10 minutes and voila! I have a "soft and pliable ball." But now -- where in a 68-year-old house that, even with new energy-efficient windows, still feels chilly do I find someplace that is draft free and 75 degrees?

The stars, serendipity and Saturday laundry align: My laundry room, adjacent to the furnace and with washer and dryer chugging away, is the perfect room for raising dough. Works like a charm. Plus I get all the laundry done. Brilliant.

Two risings later, it's all over but the shouting . Well, until I partially deflate my perfectly domed loaves while brushing on the egg wash -- the last step before baking. A minor setback. I'll do better the next time.

Thirty-five minutes later, I open the oven door oh-so-tentatively -- there, in their mahogany-brown glory, are two loaves of bread. A little more rectangular than your traditional loaf of bread, grant you, but lovely to my eyes and -- as we discover once cooled -- actually edible.

Next week: White mountain bread. Bring. It. On.

The finches push back

It's Veterans Day. And as a slave to the state, I have the day off.

I actually love this holiday. Not everyone gets the day off, so when Veterans Day falls on a week day, you can get all kinds of things done -- like shopping at Fred Meyers and getting a hair cut -- without a crush of people around you or ahead of you in the appointment book.

It's also a day I set aside to make Johnny's Spaghetti Sauce with Meatballs. This is not a difficult recipe, but it does require about five hours of your day, starting with its assemblage and concluding with 4 hours of fragrant simmering. It is worth every nanosecond. And on the stove as I write.

Since the recipe involves making, shaping and browning about 8 zillion meatballs, this gives me plenty of time to stand at the kitchen window and watch life unfold around the birdfeeders.

Today started normally enough with our shameless flock of sparrows dominating anything and everything edible. A relative newcomer to our garden -- a house finch -- appeared in all his scarlet glory but was raucously rebuffed by a team of these incorrigibles. Really. Sparrows are the most impossible, yet entertaining, birds.

Grrrrrr. Note to self 1: Must learn how to get rid of sparrows. Note to self 2: Ha ha ha ha ha.

Next on the scene: Our regular little male goldfinch appears, who I will call Leonardo for the sake of the story about to unfold . He tries politely -- several times -- to grab a ride on one of the nyjer seed socks only to be firmly dismissed by the sparrows.

Grrrrrr. Note to self 3: Must learn how to get rid of sparrows. Note to self 4: Ha ha ha ha ha.

Leonardo retreats to a branch, calmly surveying the ongoing sparrow orgy -- somewhat sadly, but (I have to admit ) with a bit of calculation in his beady little eyes. Exit Leonardo.

What happens next becomes an unexpected, but epic, avian version of "The Gangs of New York." Leonardo returns about 15 minutes later -- with about 6 to 8 of male goldfinch ganstas in tow. The most we've ever seen in our backyard. They flock to the seed socks, staking their culinary claim in defiance of the sparrows. The sparrows respond, wings beating furiously, pecking madly at any seed sock interloper.

The finches push back -- giving as good as they get. And then, as if some magical switch was flipped, the melee stops. Suddenly, sparrow and finch, in harmony, go back to the most important business of the day -- feeding. Together. Sharing seed socks. Making room for each other. Playing well in the proverbial birdfeeder sandbox.

Damn. Maybe the surge COULD work. If executed by goldfinches.

Later, satiated with nyjer seed and the satisfaction of peaceful coexistence, the sparrows and goldfinches depart for their respective nests and perches.

And once assured the coast was clear, our faintly perplexed house finch, in all his scarlet glory, returned for a quiet afternoon snack.

This is not Bermtopia.

And neither is this.

Just in case you were wondering.

Almost one year ago to the day today, you would've found me sitting outside at a cafe in Venice, footsteps away from Piazza San Marco, alongside one of the city's legion canals, eating the most amazing gnocchi and pesto cream sauce. Ever. We lived en plein air in Venice before moving on to Florence, Verona and a handful of delightful small Italians towns. We could've stayed in Venice forever.

Today, it's grey and toe-curling cold in Bermtopia after three nights with lows in the high teens. There's a slight threat of snow and sleet in the morning.

The conversation about our next trip has begun in earnest. The decision-making is almost paralyzing with potential. Do we go back to Venice because you will never, EVER see the same Venice no matter how many times you visit? Do we explore Spain because a six-hour layover in Madrid made us wish for 60 more? Do we golf in Ireland? Back to the beaches and howler monkeys of Costa Rica? Ahhhh, as soon as we say oh-so-definitely -- "Let's go back to...." -- a new map or word of mouth sets us off on the possibility of a whole new adventure.

The conversation has indeed begun in earnest.

Amputating a pumpkin -- Finis

P3 is off life support, discharged from ICU and has been reunited with his family. They do make a handsome trio, don't they?

27 days till Halloween and counting.

New shoes

The weather window has finally cracked, letting cool fall air settle down over Bermtopia. Mornings in the mid- to upper 30s -- and a burgeoning calendar of meetings with college faculty and administrators -- has resulted in the perfect storm that can only result in one thing. Shoes.

My beloved Keen sandals are back in the closet. . . tennis shoes in the garage, on call for dogwalking in the park. And I've cracked open my supply of socks and "grown-up shoes."

(I refuse to wear socks with sandals. It just seems to smack of some ancient hapless, hippy lost in the 70s. I have met the 70s and they are me -- just not wearing socks with sandals.)

I don't mind wearing shoes. Done it all my life. But, after living in sandals all summer, there is something out-of-body about wearing "grown-up shoes" for the first time. And my first out-of-body shoe experience this fall occurred during a meeting at work a few days ago. I was bobbing my foot up and down (probably wondering whether the damn pow wow would ever end) and suddenly realized my foot was -- well, HEAVY. That there actually was something attached to my ankle. Surrounded by warm, rigid leather. Fascinated by this unexpected sensation, I wiggled my toes, feeling the bunching of sock against the upper part my shoe. I rotated my ankles, tapped one foot on top of the other, reaquainting nerve and muscle with the concept of "grown-up shoes."

I probably looked like a 3-year-old about to pee in church. But that's another topic.

Why do I write about this? I'm not quite sure.

Maybe it's yet another acknowledgment that the seasons are changing -- and so must I. Along with my shoes.

Soup night

About seven years ago, I read a magazine article about a couple in Pennsylvania who host a weekly soup night for their friends and neighbors fall through spring. They provide the soup -- the friends and neighbors provide breads, salads, desserts and beverage of choice.

Intrigued by the concept, I copied off the story and fired it over to a good friend.

Do you think this a weird idea?

Hell no -- when do we start? was her response.

I made up a flyer, attached the article and dropped it in the mailboxes of some 15 or so good friends. And waited for the first night. The house buffed and polished. Soup and chili, warm on the stove. Would anyone show?

Show they did -- and continue to do so. Tonight, year 7 of Soup Night begins at our house.

Some things have changed. For example, our hoard of high school-age boys are gone, some graduated from college, some just finishing up, but now scattered across the state and beyond. I miss the way they'd lumber in and sidle up to the soup pots (after saying hello, of course) to check out the night's offerings. They'd arrive in groups of 2 or 3, sometimes with unexpected friends in tow -- always welcome and always grateful for free food. And lots of it. Once their plates were loaded, the boys disappeared downstairs to watch sports -- until it was time for seconds. And thirds. Or to check out the newest arrival of bread, salad and dessert.

We've added new Soup Night friends and said good-bye to others. We rotate through homes now instead of using ours exclusively. And we are little more sedate than the early years, when a Soup Night head count could approach 40+.

Other things never change. Friendships begun on gymnasium bleachers and soccer sidelines have been forged and strengthened over bowls of soup and chili . We've gotten kids through high school and college, shared their triumphs and struggles, and laughed together at their "extracurricular" antics (which thankfully we all survived -- and still do). There are new daughter- and son-in-laws -- and grandchildren. We've worked through lost jobs, illness and death. We've celebrated and cursed the Zags, Cougars and Huskies. We've offended each other with our politics, forgiving and forgetting over the following week's serving of chicken noodle soup. We've attended Mandatory Meetings, school musicals, movies and gone on road trips together -- often first proposed or conceived over a bowl of soup at Soup Night.

Soup Night friends have become Soup Night family. And these special dinners are starting once again.

Welcome home.

Amputating a pumpkin 2

P3 is turning orange.

I'd like to think it was because my heroic horticultural efforts a couple of weeks ago, starting with deciding to fight the odds (no pumpkin death panels on my watch, Sarah Palin), setting up a pumpkin IV, creating an outdoor pumpkin ICU, etc, etc, but honestly, I think this miracle on the vine is simply nature is taking its course. An amazing series of days in the mid-80s to low 90s -- with a few more on the horizon -- hasn't hurt.

It's not the most attractive element in our backyard right now. But certainly the most interesting.

September 1

I can't tell you the number of Bermtopians who are asking, "How can it be September 1 already?" They seem vaguely perplexed by this turn of events.

It's not a rhetorical question. Here in Bermtopia, I think it's safe to say many of us are simply stunned that summer proper ended last night. Schools have already started. Halloween inventory is popping up everwhere. Football and soccer practice are underway. Where did summer go? And who are these people who seem so intent on shoving it out the back door with an undeserved -- but well-placed -- kick in the patoot?

I think the rank and file of us handle the change of months quite well. We understand the concept of days, weeks, months and years. But September 1 pulls you up for a moment.

September 1 means the bona fide summer months of June, July and August are gone and unretrievable -- except in photos madly snapped at barbecues and family weddings.

Yes, yes, I know all about Indian summer (aka September and October), how beautiful it us, the gorgeous colors, apple picking at Greenbluff, football games at Albi, blah, blah, bloody blah. It's all somewhat romanticized. The reality is, I have to turn on lights around the house in the morning and I'm losing valuable daylight each night, the light I use for gardening and hitting golf balls. And most of the time now, I'm wearing a long-sleeve cotton shirt when I take Ben out for his morning walk. We all know what September 1 means.

Nevertheless, I am pulling up my seasonal big-girl pants and getting on with it. There are soup nights to plan, pumpkins to harvest, holidays to anticipate.

But -- we all know what September 1 means.

Turning into a pumpkin 5

I knew it.

I just f-ing knew it.

I KNEW there would be another pumpkin. Hidden in the mess of pumpkin vines, cherry tomatoes, sunflowers, lady's mantle and yarrow we now call the northeast corner of our backyard.

And. lo and behold, there it was. Brad discovered it yesterday while watering.

Sissy is smaller than Junior as you might expect of an August cum September latecomer. But she's perfect. Still green, but ahh, we have a few more warm days and nights ahead of us. Enough time to find her orange pumpkin vibe.

Sissy's little bench awaits.

Turning into a pumpkin 4

My somewhat newly discovered pumpkin is turning orange at an astonishing rate. It was only about 10 days ago when I first detected a faint trace of orange gracing Junior's crown. A check this morning reveals more orange than green. It's sort of an awkward combination, a little unattractive, really. But I know from years of as a purchaser of carving pumpkins that full-on Halloween orange is just around the corner.

As is fall.

It's the middle of August, and true to form, the last two mornings have had a distinct chill. The air is clear. The lazy haze that days in the 90s leave behind each night is gone for now. My roses have perked up, enjoying a respite from the heat.

Thankfully, there will be more days in the 90s before the leaves (and snow) fall, but a cool warning shot has been fired across our seasonal bow.

There are other little signs. My sedum blooms are beginng to go from chartreuse to dusky pink on their way to a brick red that melds nicely with autumn colors. A rogue sunflower has taken up residence in what use to be my night garden. The goldfinches' bright yellow feathers are giving way to a darker, more somber tone more in keeping with winter.

And there's my pumpkin. Turning orange. Just in time for Halloween.

P.S. And see what I mean about our cherry tomato plant?

Turning into a pumpkin 2

It's been a little over two weeks since our little pumpkin plant went to ground. And it's not so little any more.

Leaves are peaking -- well, almost leaning -- over the sides of the whiskey barrel and it's slowly but surely spreading out, testing its boundaries. And we have the start of blossoms -- at least five or so.

I'm proud of my pumpkin nurturing. At the recommendation of a dog-walking friend, I water about every other day (seems the cherry tomatoes are liking this too) and will give it another round of plant food tomorrow. So far, so good, and so much bigger.

However, I must confess to a little mental "gulp" this a.m. I stopped in and had a quick cup of coffee with friends while walking the dog. They regaled me with the story of their year of the pumpkin-- when one plant took over a flower bed, grew over a fence and proceeded to take up residence in the neighbor's yard.

I'm looking at my pumpkin plant with new-found respect.