Winter May Have Arrived!

I knew it was morning.  The large red numbers on the bedside clock indicated that it was after 7.

There was light filtering through the shutters, a cold grey dawning of the day.

I heaved myself from under a great pile of slumberous cats and padded along the hallway to peer out the windows.

I trudged to the basement and stoked the furnace, adding slabs of wood to glowing coals.

I dished out cat breakfast, scooped coffee into the machine and flicked the switch.

And then....I scurried back to the bedroom, opened the top shutters and huddled under a heap of quilts waiting for the coffee to perk and the furnace to belch warm air.

Outside, hard little pellets of snow were flung on a bitter wind.

They rattled onto the dried heads of sedum and nestled among

fallen leaves.

The wind was from the north, promising a cold day.

The glossy leaves and scarlet berries of nandina glow bravely in a landscape that seems huddled and waiting to be buffeted.

Inside today we have kept both fires going---the livingroom fireplace--

and the squatly efficient "furnace" in the nearly finished family room in the basement.

We spent nearly two months looking for a suitable woodburning stove.

We needed one which would hold enough wood to burn most of a night, have a removable ash pan, and an electric fan.

We looked both locally and on-line, finding many which were rather stylish, but not practical.

"Burton's Tin Shop" housed in a dilapidated building just off the courthouse square had the best assortment of stoves we had seen.

This one, previously owned, has the features we need.

J. has thoughts of removing one of the heat diffusers on the top and piping it into the existing ductwork.

We took our coffee mugs down to the warm room--which utterly confounded the cats--

and sat there cozily, sipping, talking, planning.

Later while J. went out to feed Pebbles, I made a breakfast of potato cakes,

with "flatiron steaks" from the creature who used to be known [not so fondly]

as Butt-Head. 

The flurries of snow didn't stick to the ground.  I was outside briefly during the afternoon and noted that the temperature was 36 F.

The sun tried to break through but was defeated by a sky full of wind-driven clouds.

A low of 17 F is predicted for tonight, the coldest night thus far.

The wood fires, although they require tending, are a tangible and visible source of lively heat.

We have been sustained by hot spiced tea, a thick and hearty stew.

[J. kindly dug carrots from the garden, washed them under the hose and gave them a preliminary scrape.]

Hot, simple food, warm quilts, layers of snuggling felines--what more could we need for a cold winter's day and night?

Holiday Dinner

I used to tell myself [and anyone who would listen] that one of these years I would do it all properly: tablecloth starched and pressed to crispness, candles lit, a "centerpiece", relishes and pickles all in the heirloom dishes.  At this point I realize that is not going to happen.  We are not a formal family.  I didn't want a formal eating area in this small house and this is my favorite of the kitchens I have helped to design in the houses J. has built.  Here you see SIL carving the turkey, while J. and grandson D. fall upon the food, which I set out on the island behind the small table.  Daughter G. is feeling recovered from the illness which caused her to miss a day or two of work--thankfully not a full blown flu. She didn't "dress" for the occasion, but came down in jeans and a warm "hoodie." She stirred the gravy while I arranged condiments and J. mashed the potatoes with more butter and cream than I would have done.

I feel that I cannot invite guests who don't like cats!  D. caught our old Raisin on the sink counter top licking  the drippings in the pan. Raisin has always been a bit fragile and prone to a delicate stomach.  She is looking old and frail and boney, so we indulge her in whatever [and where ever] she fancies to eat.

Charlie [left] the dad cat, loves to have anyone come in.  He makes a nuisance of himself looking for attention.  D. stooped to pat Maisie [right] and Charlie immediately rushed in to push her out of the way and hog the limelight.

Charlie in full possession of the hassock and draped in D.'s napkin.

Oh yes, the napkins: I realized I had no paper napkins in stock, remembered this fabric which I bought several years ago meaning to make harvest themed placemats.  So, fabric sliced into squares and folded.  I'll do some sort of hem finish on them and put them away til next Thanksgiving.

We enjoyed our meal, but didn't over eat, and decided to save the dessert pie for later.  D. appeared for his just as I finished putting the kitchen to rights an hour later, J. and I had ours for tea.  D. appeared again, grinning, at suppertime with a variety of small containers and the "orders" for various leftovers--perhaps the best part of such a meal.

I couldn't help thinking of the innovations which would have amazed our grandmothers, maybe even our mothers.  I used a package of cubed and seasoned "stuffing mix", adding dried parsley grown in Heidi's mountain garden, a pinch of celery salt, some dried apple I had on hand. [After realizing that J. made applesauce last week from all the fresh apples.]  The turkey, stuffed and seasoned, was gently tucked into a "roaster bag" which kept it moist without basting, there was no messy pan to scrub.  I'm almost ashamed to say that I bought a package of rolls to heat at the last minute, rather than making them as I usually do.  And, perhaps most astonishing, the dishes, all but the few kettles and pans used, went into the dish washer.

I'm probably sounding by now like an advertisement for all sorts of "modern conveniences"---but I have to admit that this last minute feast went well, mainly because I took advantage of available short cuts. With everything cleared away, family dispersed to their house next door and J. tinkering outside in the slanting afternoon sunshine, I sat down with a lovely and leisurely mug of tea.

Ordinary Things

Three of my co-workers have birthdays this week. Our boss treated us to lunch this noon at a nice local restaurant, then back at the shop we had dessert--a lemon meringue pie I made by request.

Charlie watches early morning bird visitors. He finds the flickers quite exciting.

Teasel washing her paw.

Pebbles is on her feet more the past two days, which is good. She would like us to know that she is starving on her new diet. [Wretched Horse!]

The flickers were busy this morning. You'll probably have to enlarge the photo to get a glimpse of this one. There were four of them avidly bashing on tree trunks.

J. set down an empty carton and Charlie thinks it is his. He is not pleased that Teasel has appropriated it. A moment after I snapped this she reached out and gave him a good whack.

Charlie claims the box.

There was only a dusting of new snow overnight, less than predicted. The day came on grey and chilly, but an afternoon sun melted away some of the snow. With such an early onset of winter I shall be quickly tired of posting photos of snow!

We feel that we are in a waiting mode, a time of hunkering down, dependent to a degree on decisions that others will make.

I had to be up extra early, which delighted the cats. They have used considerable energy ushering in the stormy weather this week, so they were content to loll about after their breakfast.

At the quilt shop this is a busy time with special orders to make up and stock items to have ready for Cowboy Christmas, a huge sales event held in Las Vegas in December concurrently with "rodeo finals."

Corn chowder simmering for supper---chopped onion, bits of turkey bacon, potatoes, corn and some evaporated milk to make it creamy. It doesn't get much simpler than that!

Comfort Me With Apples

Apples sliced and heaped in a pastry shell with sugar and spice, ready for the top crust.
Apple pie, which will be cut before it cools.

My Grampa loved apples. He grew up in a time when every small hill farm had its fruit trees: pears, plums, apples, the varieties nameless after generations of benign neglect. When I was growing up there were perhaps half a dozen apple trees remaining of whatever home orchard had once flourished on the west-facing slope across the road from the farmhouse. It must have been decades since any pruning or care had been given. The old trees with their scaly grey bark, were twisted, their branches awry. May brought sweet blossoms, in September the gnarled trees yielded a few small apples, most of them sour and unappealing except to worms or wasps. One tree still bore early, soft-fleshed, yellow-skinned globes and we collected the soundest of these for a taste of apple flavor weeks before the several commercial orchards in town were open for picking.

The yellow apples were too watery for a proper pie, but Grampa liked baked apples. Nothing was simpler for a young aspiring cook. Gently washed, the apples were crowded into a tin and poked into the oven of the wood range. An hour later they emerged, mis-shapen, tender, and squatting dumpily in their own juice. These were served as a homely dessert--plopped into a sauce dish, the juice spooned over and drizzled with maple syrup from the syrup jug which lived at one end of the table.

In later years, I became fussier with baked apples, carefully removing the stem and core, stuffing the center with raisins or currants, sprinkling on cinnamon. It was some years before I mastered a perfect pastry.

Once in town with Grampa for the monthly provisioning, I was surprised when passing the bakery next to the "Greek's" shop where he had stocked up on Prince Albert for his pipe, Grampa paused to look at the pies and cakes lined up so temptingly. With only a moment's hesitation, he entered with me at his heels, and stated that he would like to take a pie. When asked, "What kind, sir?" he replied that apple pie was the best for a farmer like himself.

MacIntosh and Cortlands were the stock apples grown commercially at the time, ripening in September, sweet/tart and red-skinned. It was a yearly family excursion to "pick up drops"--ripe apples fallen from the trees. We were cautioned to check them carefully as we piled them into bushel boxes and baskets. Any that were too bruised or smashed were left for the greedy yellow wasps. These apples were the short-term supply, good for a glut of pies, cobblers, or for "putting up" applesauce. For winter keepers Grampa returned to the orchard for boxes of hand picked Northern Spies, which ripened at the end of the season. These were stored in a cold back bedroom, "looked over" frequently in case one should go bad and start an epidemic of spoilage. During a spell of particularly cold weather, the boxes of apples wore layers of old blankets to prevent freezing.

These Northern Spies were the mainstay of winter eating and cooking--large, with yellow flesh and a firm texture. When I stopped at the farmhouse on my walk home from the one room school house these apples were part of an anticipated afternoon snack. School let out just before Grampa started the evening chores. He could be depended upon to trudge up from the barn, rummage out the box of Royal Lunch crackers and a wedge of cheddar. Two or three apples were peeled, the red skins slipping off in an endless spiral. Cored and sliced, the pieces were offered, turn about, on the point of the jack knife which might moments before have been used to cut the twine binding a burlap grain sack or to flick a bit of mud from a horse's hoof.

When J. and I married, his parents owned a farm in the next town from my grandfather's. It too, had its few old apple trees. Several trees were the Wolf River variety. Typically the trees "rested" every other year, but since at least one tree was usually off cycle, we could look forward to a crop of these huge knobby apples.

I have since learned that this variety was first cultivated from a "sport" noticed in the 1870's in Fremont, Wisconsin. Tradition states that a William Springer on his way from Quebec, Canada to take up land along the Wolf River brought with him apples, either purchased along the way or carried from his old home. They are thought to have been a vintage variety called Alexander. Mr. Springer thriftily saved his apple seeds, planted them along his stretch of the river, and noticed that one or more of the resulting trees produced a very large apple. [History seems to gloss over the length of time needed for these apple trees to mature from tiny seedlings!] As cultivation of Wolf River apples became more widespread in Wisconsin and Minnesota, the saying sprang up, "One apple for a pie!" As I recall, that is a bit of a stretch, but surely the pie maker didn't have to handle many apples they were so big. [During the farm years I had learned to make fine pastry, so while I rolled and fitted crusts J.'s mom peeled and sliced the apples.]

During the 1970's and '80's a greater variety of apples began to appear in New England orchards: Paula Reds, Red or Golden Delicious, Empire, McCoun---not new hybrids, but the cautious Yankee orchardists were branching out!

I continued to buy apples at the same orchard my Grampa had patronized until the owner sold out and retired. The property changed hands several times I beleive and the once bountiful orchard was neglected.

The Champlain Valley of Vermont and upstate New York is apple-growing country, and it was never far to a "pick-your-own" orchard or to a farm stand. I brought home Cortlands for cooking, Red Delicious to eat out of hand, and the Northern Spies for the winter months. Good as they always were, they were never quite as special as when passed on the point of a Barlow jack knife to be savored with sharp Cabot cheddar and flaky Royal Lunch crackers.

Nearly Perfect Pie Crust

4 cups unbleached flour

1 3/4 cups shortening

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup cold water

I egg

1 Tablespoon vinegar or lemon juice

Blend the flour, shortening and salt. Add the egg and vinegar to 1/2 cup water and whisk until blended.

Lightly stir the liquid mixture into the flour mixture until it is absorbed. Form into balls, roll on floured surface with a floured rolling pin.

This recipe was published in the Vermont Home Extension Bulletin in the 1970's. Several years ago a variation using butter in place of shortening appeared in one of the glossy "country" magazines.

I use butter-flavored Crisco, or a combination of shortening and butter on occasion. This will yield two 9" pies or, if you roll your pastry thin, there will also be enough for a one crust "shell."

Pies

Blackberry Pie in one of the King Arthur pie plates

I was barely in the door from work this evening when J. informed me that the freezer had been off for an unknown time and as a result there were packages of thawed fruit. I checked meat and frozen goods near the bottom of the freezer--still solid, but a big package of blackberries on top of the stack was completely thawed. I announced that supper was going to be leftovers---the thick and hearty potato soup which I made to cheer us up after a cold dreary Wednesday or the remains of a chicken and noodle casserole. I chose the potato soup and took a bowlful out to the front porch. How much longer will the porch be warm in the evening?

J. had an errand at the other house after supper, so I decided I would make pies while he was gone. Five pies, two small and three large. There are now three in the freezer and the two I baked are being enjoyed here and next door. Grandson came down to say that the pie was good--he had two large pieces.

Baking berry pies always reminds me of a story told to me by great-Aunt Julia. Julia was sister to my Grampa Mac.

Mac, his brother Andrew and his little sister, Julia, grew up in the little hamlet of Graphite, NY. His father, who had worked in his youth on the building of the Union Pacific railroad, came back to NY to work as a foreman at the graphite mines. Like so many men of that time and place, he was chronically ill with "black lung". By the time Mac had finished the 6th grade at the local school, the family needed him to help work the hill farm which his mother had inherited. Times were hard for everyone, the boys and girls of all the local families were expected to do their share to maintain the household. Mac hired out to other farmers who needed a smart, strong lad to help with haying. In the winters he drove his team of horses hauling logs to the lumber mill. Andrew found work at one of the livery stables in the village. The family raised a big garden and Julia helped her mother put up vegetables and fruit against the long cold season. They had cows, chickens, a pig.

Graphite was only a few miles from the resort hotels down in the village of Hague. Mac's mother grew extra produce to sell to the hotels and boarding houses. Once a week she packed eggs, freshly churned butter and whatever could be spared from the garden. Mac loaded the wagon, climbed in and "pedaled" the goods in town. Mac also picked berries. The farm was tucked against the base of Tongue Mountain and Mac ranged over the steep hillsides, filling clean lard buckets with wild blueberries. Some of the berries went to feed the wealthy summer visitors at the hotel, some were kept at home to be picked over and set in the cool pantry.

One morning when Mac had hitched up his team, loaded the produce and set off on his pedaling rounds, sister Julia decided that she would make him a blueberry pie. Julia had been helping her mother in the kitchen and was just learning to put together a meal or do a bit of baking on her own. She stoked up the wood range, brought flour and lard and sugar from the pantry, and happily began to create the surprise for her beloved older brother. She rolled the pastry on the clean pine tabletop, mixed the dusky plump berries with sugar; a dash of cinnamon, the top crust fitted and crimped and the pie was ready for the oven. Julia tended the fire carefully, keeping the oven of the old black stove at just the right temperature. From time to time she peeked in at her pie, satisfied that the crust was browning nicely, the rich sweet juice beginning to bubble through the slits in the top. She heard the wheels of the wagon crunching on the gravel of the dooryard, knew just how long it would take Mac to unhitch the horses and rub them down before turning them into the pasture.

The pie was ready to take from the oven, golden brown, a triumph of cookery. Mac's boots clumped against the steps leading from the woodshed to the kitchen as Julia bent, hands wrapped in a folded kitchen towel to slide the pie carefully from the oven, to place it on the broad pantry shelf to cool. The kitchen door clicked open, Julia half turned, a smile of welcome on her sweet round face. The hot pie elluded her grasp and landed, upside down, at Mac's feet. While Julia gazed woefully at the mess, tears of humiliation smearing her flushed face, Mac snatched a clean china plate from the cupboard, slipped it under the fallen pie and flipped it back into the tin. "Nobody will know the difference," he assured his sister. "It will taste just as good and we won't care how it looks!"

Julia grew up, married, raised her two daughters on the farm her husband took over from his parents. She kept the house a picture of neatness and cleanliness. Her kitchen sparkled, she gardened, canned, pickled and baked. Each year, early in December, a dark moist fruitcake, neatly wrapped , arrived in my Grampa Mac's mailbox, sent across the lake from his sister's home.

When I think of Aunt Julia the verses from Proverbs 31 seem fitting: "She arises while it is yet night, and provides food for her household..She watches over the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her."