FIRST FARM TRIP OF THE SEASON

Cottonwood Butte from the pond

If you read here often, you may recall that when we closed and winterized the farmhouse, there was so much snow that we had to park the pick-up at the neighbor’s driveway. Mike then walked in and came back for me on the 4-wheeler. We had to leave a lot of stuff behind, including our packing crates. We were unable to enjoy a farm Christmas due to continued snow and cold temps.

Anyway, fast forward to spring, and we were anxious to check things out at the farm. We wanted to go two weeks ago, but a neighbor discouraged it, saying that the roads were soft.

“If we don’t go to the farm on Tuesday,” Mike said thoughtfully as he studied his weather app, “then we might not be able to go for weeks. It’s raining as far out as I can see.” I’m skeptical that it will ever rain again, but we have to give some heed to the weather forecast. To ascertain whether or not conditions at Gilbert were favorable – or at least not unfavorable – we called Neighbor Pete Monday afternoon. He wasn’t home just then, but he said he would “go back there” as soon as he could and let us know.

At 6:20 a.m. Tuesday morning, Mike’s phone rang. “I’m sitting in your yard, Mike,” Pete said. And he said that we would be able to make it into the farmyard with no problems. The last thing we want is to be stuck.

So, we loaded up the old pick-up with stuff for the farm, the largest of which was the 4-wheeler blade. It was late morning before we could get away because Mike and Bess had a care visit at a nursing facility. We found the lane just as Pete had said – washed at the bottom by running water but passable and otherwise okay. It was overcast and 45 degrees.

After unloading and a quick lunch, we set to work. I went upstairs to locate a few sewing items while Mike set to work in the yard. We found three mice in traps and the yard is riddled with rodent holes, though not mounds. We discussed enlarging the vegetable garden – a rather daunting task, but we’ll see what we can do.

The wind had blown more limbs out of the maple tree, and Mike cut the larger ones into firewood which we stacked at the woodshed. I picked up pine cones in the grove to use as fire starters in the town woodstove.

The pond is not overflowing its banks, and it was easy to hop over the spillway. Maybe April will bring more water. We can hope.

A large limb broke in a pine tree at the pond. It isn’t high, so Mike will be able to saw it off and pull it to the burn pile. We’ll probably add some of it to our lifetime supply of firewood in the barn.

The daffodils are up a good six inches or so, and I was delighted to see the rhubarb poking through.  

At 2:30 we packed up and headed back to town.

Our plan to begin a spring clean-up of our town yard today was cancelled by rain. Yippee! I have other things I want to do. KW

MISMATCHED SOCKS

Nina and Charlie Portfors

Bending over in a fold during our yoga session, I got a good look at my socks and noticed that they were mismatched – one gray, the other tan. Naturally, this meant I had a pair exactly like them in the drawer. So as not to make the same mistake twice, I took the mismatched pair out of the drawer and laid it on the dresser. Then I promptly washed the pair I was wearing and corrected the problem. (I’m fastidious about some things.)

Mismatched socks reminded me of my Grandfather Portfors. He was color blind, so dark blue, brown, and maroon all looked black to him. In order to match his socks, he would lay them on the tea cart in his kitchen, which was directly under the light. Then he could tell them apart – maybe. He would ask Mother to doublecheck.

Grandpa owned the Ford garage in our town, and I would say his one and only extravagance was his car – always a Lincoln. Mother told me that once when his new Lincoln was delivered, he seemed reserved in his reaction. “What’s the matter, Pop,” she asked.

“Well, doggonit,” he said, “I didn’t want a black car.”

“Pop, it’s not black. It’s maroon,” Mother replied. And she said he was quite happy knowing it wasn’t black, even though he saw it as black.

But I think he did prefer white cars. His last two Lincolns were white. The very last one was a 1956, and he drove it for ten years or so until he quit driving altogether. KW

[Note the white car on the left -- undoubtedly Grandpa's Lincoln.]

SPRING BAKING

Typical March weather

I went shopping by myself the other day. Mike and I often go together, and that’s fine, but he tends to shop with blinders on – just goes to the store to get what he’s after and that’s all. Sometimes I like to poke along just to see what’s there.

A clump of daffodils needs to be dug and divided

The head baker at one of those upscale expensive baking product companies opined that he could afford to buy eggs and butter even if they are costly. I figure the same way, although I’m taken aback at the price. Nevertheless, I have experimented with some substitutes for eggs. For instance, the other day I made zucchini bread by substituting ¾ cup Greek yogurt for three eggs. I was also careful not to overfill the pans, and for once, my bread was done in the middle without being overbaked. It was moist and delicious even without the eggs.

A daffodil among the crocus in a weedy garden

I also baked a Duncan Hines’ Swiss Chocolate cake mix. Interestingly, the fine print said I could substitute Greek yogurt for the vegetable oil rather than the eggs. I made no substitutions, but I took the cake out of the oven two minutes early, and it was nicely moist and not overbaked.

I thought that maybe after 50+ years I was finally figuring out how to bake. Then I walked out of the kitchen to take a shower and scorched my apple pie. Mike keeps insisting I’m a good cook. It’s a good thing he’s the only person I have to please. KW

SLOWLY WARMING INTO SPRING

 

A few crocus bloom in our yard

Temps have been up and down within a warmer range, but Friday, March 17, the high was in the low 60s, even though it was 26 when I got up. The world seems brighter – and happier. Sometimes it even smells like spring. Friday evening, for the first time this year, we decided not to have a fire in the little stove.

Yes – and looking at the forecast, it appears that the danger of frost is mostly over, but that’s here in the valley. We could probably plant spinach and peas and get away with it. In the upper country, like at the farm, hard frosts are still inevitable.

Speaking of the farm, we thought about going this weekend, but Mike called a neighbor who said the ground is still really wet. We decided not to take a chance on getting stuck. You know, mud season is worse than frozen ground.

As for daylight savings time, our adjustment isn’t going particularly well. “Are you going to take a shower before we eat supper,” I asked Mike the other night. He answered in the affirmative but didn’t move from the rocking chair. He was surprised when I told him to get a move on because it was 6:20. The trouble is, we still go to bed when the clock says 9:30 – even earlier. I don’t like to eat so soon before bedtime. KW

LATE WINTER GEOCACHING

Fix Ridge Cemetery -- Juliaetta, Idaho

 

Will I ever see him again?

Monday afternoon (March 13), Mike announced that he wanted to hike to a particular geocache that he had missed on a previous trip, so I went along and waited in the car. It was a long wait. We were out all afternoon, but he did find the cache.

 

Looking east over the Clearwater to Hwy 12

The next afternoon (Tuesday), we went to Troy. Sister Joni is leaving the area to live nearer to her son. She gave me a couple of family heirlooms, and we hugged.

Looking west over the Clearwater River & Hwy 12 near Arrow

 

From Fix Ridge Cemetery

And on the way back home, we geocached again. We got one at the Juliaetta Cemetery and another at the Fix Ridge Cemetery. But we agreed that it’s really too soon to geocache in the upper country. While the snow is mostly gone, here and there piles remain on roadsides, and the ground is soggy.

But at least we got out, and I took a few pictures of a world that’s beginning to awaken from its long winter’s nap. KW

IT’S LATER THAN YOU THINK

We all might say it from time to time: “It’s later than you think.” Today as we switch to daylight savings time, it seems especially appropriate.

So, where did the phrase, “It’s later than you think,” come from, I wondered to myself. Turns out, it’s a song title. “Enjoy Yourself (It’s Later Than You Think)” was published in 1949. You can hear various renditions on YouTube, and apparently it’s still in popular use. I wasn’t so impressed with the song, but the saying has been around my whole life – literally. KW

ALWAYS READY FOR PIE

Mother's recipe 

It was this time of year in 1990. My mother was ill and alone in her house some 40 miles away. The days were slipping by, and she was not eating. I was worried, but I also had three children (12, 10, and 8) and a job. Sister Harriet checked on Mother daily, and I trusted that this was enough.

And then Harriet called me. “I’m leaving for Arizona,” she said. “I want you to come and get Mother.” This was the first and only time that Harriet ever demanded something of me, and I knew I had to obey.  

And so, I brought Mother to my house, and she immediately benefited by regular meals and socialization with my family. I was proud of my scrappy children who closed doors silently and avoided arguing.  And Mother admitted that she loved watching the birds play in the pine trees outside the living room window and looked forward to the activities of the household. 

Her appetite gradually improved, and one day she announced that she was hungry for a lemon chiffon pie. It required a pre-baked pie shell, and I wasn’t sure I could do that decently. I could just see the crust crumpled into itself on the bottom of the pie plate.

“I’ll make it,” Mother said, and off we went to the kitchen, she in her nightgown, robe, and slippers, to make a pie. And while she was in the process, Harriet called from Arizona. “How’s Mother?” she asked, in a tone of concern.

“She’s making a lemon chiffon pie,” I said.

“She’s making a pie!” Harriet exclaimed into the phone, clearly not expecting to hear that Mother was so much better.  

The pie turned out just fine. Mother had not lost her touch. KW

MUSINGS ON BEING GRANDMA

Time to get ready for St. Patrick's Day

When I see a reference to “grandma,” I tend to think of my own grandmothers rather than myself. I got excited the other day when I saw the blog title, “90 Recipes that Grandma Knew by Heart.” I know that my grandmothers cooked by heart – or maybe I would call it “by feel.” Whatever – they didn’t always follow a written recipe but just added this and that until the mix felt right. I search for my grandmothers through recipe history, so I wanted to see that article. I opened the blog and began to read.

“Wait a minute,” I said to myself. “These aren’t my grandmothers’ recipes. These aren’t even my mother’s recipes. These are MY recipes!” Hence, once again I am startled by the fact that I am indeed “Grandma.” In fact, it would not be out of the question for me to be “Great-Grandma.”

I will say, though, that my mother (1909-1997) mostly referred to written recipes when she cooked. She was more scientific about her cooking, whereas my grandmothers, born a generation or more earlier, cooked as they were shown by their mothers. I say that, but my Grandfather Portfors said that he taught Grandma everything she knew about cooking.

Another comparison that startles me is “dress your doll like Grandma when she was young,” and the patterns are from the ‘80s. It’s not unreasonable that today’s grandmother was young in the ‘80s, but it makes me think twice. And my dolls aren’t interested. They prefer outfits reflective of the 1930s, ‘40s, and ‘50s.  

I wonder if our grandson Silas will have fond memories of my cooking. Maybe not. His mother still makes sure his food is age appropriate, and he doesn’t miss meals. He doesn’t even miss snacks! “Mmm-mmm-mmm,” he says, as he munches a healthy muffin or bits of fruit.

And when family visits these days, cooking seems to be a community effort rather than a meal prepared by “Grandma.” Mike grills. Hallie and Nick make soups and chili. Murray and Clint also contribute.

A favorite memory is of stepsons Murray and Yancey making fresh salsa with tomatoes from my garden. They worked together adding a bit of this and that, then tasting until they deemed it just right, never saying a word. It was such good salsa! KW

ON THE BRINK OF SPRING

"Dogs were born to lie in the sun."

Here we are in the last weeks of winter, and despite the chilly wind, I can tell our world is moving toward spring. Even though I have watched the days grow longer since Christmas, it still seems like it happens all of a sudden. And along these lines, we return to daylight savings next Sunday, March 12. 

Daffodils in need of thinning

I love to watch the early bloomers, but my crocus seem to have disappeared. Perhaps I’ll replant some this fall. But the daffodils are pushing up, including a dozen or so that I wanted to take to the farm last fall but couldn’t find. I will place stakes while I can still see where they are and transplant this coming autumn.

Well, all danger of frost is not past, but today is a lovely “spring” day. Mike and son Murray are tearing apart Murray’s old Vitus bicycle to refurbish its components. It’s a good time when a bicycle enthusiast has a project like this. KW