Archive for August, 2018

For once, I had few plans for Saturday. Since I no longer have a huge garden and switched to a few raised beds, spending my days off weeding and/or canning are days of the past. Still, I wanted to make a batch of giardenieria (hot Italian pickled vegetables with olives) and since my raised bed cucumbers were producing well, perhaps a jar or two of refrigerator pickles. I had stopped at the farmer’s market on Friday and picked up a head of cauliflower, fresh garlic, and stalks of dill that were almost as tall as I was. My generous neighbor, who let me come and pick enough green beans from his garden to can a few jars for winter, dropped off a large bucket of cucumbers, and since a real Farm Woman never lets anything go to waste, I now had plans for Saturday. Big plans. From past experience, my canned pickles are so bad that even the chickens won’t eat them, but my refrigerator dills are delicious, do that’s all I ever make. I turned on a TV series I have been taping to keep me company while I worked. The original Perry Mason series is a film noir type of murder mystery/lawyer/detective show in black and white and is one of my favorite TV shows of all time. Season two, which I am currently watching, is from 1958, the year I was born. I watched and listened as I sterilized jars and scrubbed cucumbers. The voices of Perry Mason, Della Street, and Paul Drake were so familiar that I didn’t even have to have my eyes glued to the TV screen. After the first gallon of pickles was packed, I realized that I had enough to make another gallon, and was amazed that Perry and private detective Paul Drake could figure it out so well without smart phones and computers. After that gallon was packed, I realized I had enough to make four quarts of a fermented New York style dill pickle recipe that I had been wanting to try. After they were packed, I took a break to make the giardenieria, wondered if Della Street ever went home, then sliced more cucumbers and onions for a quick pickle for supper. If I didn’t know better, I would swear these cucumbers were multiplying as quickly as the corpses that Perry always seemed to find before Detective Tragg got to the crime scene. Two gallons plus four quarts plus six Perry Masons plus a quick pickle plus a half gallon of giardenieria plus two bags of leftover cucumbers in the fridge. District Attorney Hamilton Burger always lost his case, and still showed up every week to try again. I should use his example and try canning dill pickles one more time. After all, it will use up those extras and nothing will go to waste. It is no mystery that it must be a good year for cucumbers and that after all that work, this Farm Woman needs a nap. I hope I dream in black and white.


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Twenty Questions

A recent fishing trip with our grandson made me realize something. Five year olds learn by asking questions, and they certainly ask a LOT of questions: “Why do fish breath water to live and die when they breathe air?” As the daughter of a biologist, Google and I could have easily explained the anatomy and physiology of the lake perch, which happened to be all we were catching that day, but Max was already busy thinking of the next question: “When we fish with worms, do they really want to die?” Tough one. It is really too bad he doesn’t like to answer questions as much as he likes to ask them, though. A recent exchange with his mother went something like this: Max’s Mom: “What did you do at preschool today? Did you learn anything new?” Max: “Mommy. I just. I just can’t answer all these questions. My brain needs rest. It’s too many questions. I just gotta sit in quiet with no more questions.” When I was a young night shift nurse, my five year old niece thought about it a long time before asking, “So, if I sleep at night when you’re awake and if you sleep during the day when I’m awake, when you have a bad dream, is it called a daymare?” That curious young lady grew up to be a college professor of anatomy and physiology. I think Max will grow up to be a successful veterinarian who talks to animals, just like Dr. Dolittle. How do I know this? He spent a lot of our fishing trip laying in the bottom of the pontoon talking to the container of worms and using his best squeaky worm voice: “You don’t really want to die, do you? ” Sigh. I think the next time we’ll use artificial bait. Maybe we’ll even catch something besides perch.

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