Homemade Bread and Curing Onions

Now those are two things that make me very happy. First off, I always get a warm, cozy feeling when looking at a picture of homemade bread. (It doesn't even have to be MY homemade bread.)

I don't even care that these loaves are lumpy and bumpy. It's rye bread, and I'm just so happy they rose as much as they did. (Flavor's pretty darn good, too.)

Next, you've all been with me through my onion trauma. I do now have about a gallon and a half of dehydrated ones put by. When dehydrating the onions, I purposely picked through all of them choosing ones that looked like they didn't have a snowball's chance in h-e-double-hockey-stick of curing and drying on their own. So then I noticed a couple of days ago that darned if the ones remaining didn't look like they were . . . could they be? . . . well, for heaven's sake! They looked like they were doing a good job of curing and drying . . . even stacked up on top of each other in the big cardboard box (that I'd been trying to avoid).

So I smooshed some furniture together and spread a tarp on the floor and laid out the remaining onions to give them every possible chance of further curing so they might turn into real storage onions . . . and last into the winter. Of course, they're now in a spot where we have to step over and around them about a hundred times each day but they're lookin' good, and I'm so thrilled I don't have to go through the dehydrating process with any more of them!

Rye bread that rises and onions that cure . . . life is good.

Meeting Mr. Wolf

The tale I'm going to tell (and it is a true one) took place thirty-some years ago when we were homesteading on the first piece of property we bought here in Minnesota.

It was about this time of year, in the fall, and we had our milk goats housed in an old log barn that had originally been built on the land when it was first homesteaded in the early 1900s.

That particular late afternoon, my husband was about a mile down the road at a friend's who owned and operated a saw mill. Our daughter was three or four years old. As I got ready to do outside chores, I gave her the choice of coming with me or staying inside. She knew that when neither her dad nor I was in the house with her and she chose to stay inside, she had to gather together some books and stay in a designated comfy chair to "read" while we were outside. Fortunately, that day she chose to stay inside.

The barn was a ways away from the mobile home we were then living in, and I always had my hands full when I took the hike down to the barn to do the milking. That day I had the wash bucket, the milk pail, and another bucket of apple peelings to give the goats. The door to the barn was on one of the short ends. It was a dutch door, and I had closed the bottom part of it earlier in the afternoon because it was windy out and all the goats were snuggled down inside the barn. I had to walk along one long side of the barn and then take a left hand turn to get to the end the door was on.

As I turned that corner, I stopped in mid-step when I came within three feet of one very large, beautiful white and gray wolf sitting on his haunches in front of the closed bottom part of the barn door.

Silly me. My first inclination was that he was someone's AWOL sled dog. There was a family living about two miles away that had a small team for mushing, and I immediately thought of them as occasionally one of their dogs would get off his chain and the whole neighborhood would be alerted to be on the lookout for the escapee.

I said out loud, "Well, whose sled dog are you?" Other than to tilt his head and look at me inquisitively, the wolf didn't move a muscle. We looked at each other for a few seconds before it slowly dawned on me that this was no runaway domesticated dog. This was one honking, huge, healthy timber wolf.

Starting to talk to him in a very calm voice, I slowly backed up the way I had just come. "You shouldn't be here so close to the barn. We have big goats and little goats in there and you would really scare them if you were to jump over that door into the barn. You need to go back into the woods now and stay away from our buildings."

I walked backwards about halfway up to the house before I had the nerve to turn around and scurry the rest of the way up to our porch. When I reached the house, I saw the wolf trot up along the same path I had just taken. Gulp. He was a big one. About a third of the way up the path, there was a road going off to the right we had made by driving across one of our hay fields. This road eventually led to the thick woods where it became one of our ski trails.

Mr. Wolf ambled down the road until he disappeared from view. I got on the phone and called the house where Roy was. The nine year old daughter answered the phone and I told her to go outside to find Roy and tell him it was no emergency, but I'd like him to come home as soon as possible which he did.

I related my story to him. He took a gun (not to harm the wolf but rather to scare him away if need be) and went down the road to see if he could spot any evidence of the wolf. He was gone about ten minutes when we heard one shot fired.

Roy had followed the road to where it crossed a small creek before going up into the woods. Near the creek bed he heard some rustling behind a huge boulder and then saw two big, fuzzy, pointed ears slowly showing over the top of the boulder, and then a forehead, and then a pair of healthy, sparkling eyes. (All the better to see you with, my dear. Hee-hee.)

He fired his gun into the ground, and shouted at the wolf that we'd appreciate it if he'd stay away from our animals. The wolf turned tail and loped off into the woods.

Roy returned and told us what had happened and remarked, "That was one big, beautiful specimen of a wolf!"

When my heart rate finally returned to normal, I realized what a truly unique experience I had just had. The wolf didn't feel threatened by my presence nor was he in the least aggressive toward me. Because he was so calm, and inquisitive, and beautiful, I didn't think to panic when I came upon him.

That was the last time we ever had any problem with wolves being so close to our buildings or animals. Well, except for the time our ninety pound, bear-like Bouvier dog, Max, was lured out into the field by a female wolf in heat and her husband/boyfriend/significant other came charging out of the woods intent on having Max for lunch.

But that's another story.

Construction Project

Okay, here's the straight skinny on the big mess in our back yard. A few years ago we added an addition on to our tiny abode. First floor level was a room that we had originally planned to be our livingroom with a room above as an office for Roy. (If you could see his area, you'd know why I didn't want it on the main level. Sorry, hon, but we do understand you creative geniuses just aren't bothered by untidiness.) Right now our present living room and kitchen are both squeezed into one tiny, inadequate area.

Beyond this "middle room" added, on the south side we put up the framing of what may someday be a good-sized greenhouse, and on the north, my quilting studio. My quilting area is the only part of this addition that is truly finished.

Good thing we waited a while to finish the remodeling because now we've realized it would be much wiser to make the (middle) room we thought would be the livingroom, the kitchen. So when we're done, the kitchen will be out of the area it's in now, with that whole area being made into just livingroom. Totally confused yet?

Back to the huge hole in the back yard. Originally, we though we would use that little area on the north side of the house as a small, shaded deck. It was constructed with the roof attached to the house and posts holding up the outer edge.

It just so happens that this little deck area is on the north wall of what will now be my kitchen. In designing the layout of the kitchen, I couldn't get in as much storage area (cabinets) as I wanted/needed. A pantry. I need a pantry! So we decided to close in the area of the small, shaded deck (didn't really need it), put a doorway on the north wall of the middle room (now kitchen to-be) leading in to the pantry. Wahoo, am I excited. A walk-in pantry right off my kitchen!

The posts that held the roof of the little (now no more) deck up were set on pads. It was evident that every winter with the freezing and thawing, they moved more than was a good thing. So Roy's plan to give me maximum room in my new pantry was to move the posts out closer to the edge of the roof line, and sink them five feet down (yes, that's how far down our winter frost line is).

So we had our neighbor come over last Sunday with his handy-dandy little digger machine and dig the deep trench for us. One slight problem encountered: For good drainage when we put on the addition, we filled five feet down around the perimeter with washed gravel. It spilled into the newly dug trench. Much of the soil we have up here is what the locals call "rotten rock." It has no structure. It fell into the trench from the other side.

Good neighbor had to be called back to clean out the trench before Roy could start working again. And that's where our big hole came from. I'm trying to convince my husband that at least he has ample room to work in now. And actually, when the posts are in place, it will be easy for the gravel and soil to be put back into the hole with the help (once more) of our neighbor and his equipment. Roy says even if he has to shovel it all back in by hand, it will go back in a LOT easier than it would have come out by the shovel full.

So although things don't always go quite as smoothly (and quickly? . . . that's an understatement) as planned, it's coming along and after spending the whole day today down in the depths, Roy assures me the worst is nearly done. Whadda guy. Ya gotta love his optimism. (But, boy, is he dirty!)

Monday Again

Happens every week, doesn't it? I'm still holding on to my fantasy of being free of any obligations except laundry and ironing on Mondays. I was yammering on about this to my dear husband a couple of hours ago. He glanced down at the dog and said, "Well, Zoe, looks like we won't be eating much on Mondays, huh?"

"Oh, don't worry, I'll have all meals for Mondays made ahead of time," I assured him.

"Gosh," he said, "Doesn't that all sound a little bit . . . "

"Impossible?" I supplied.

Well, it's my fantasy, and I'm sticking with it.

What would I do with my Mondays in between switching loads of laundry in washer and dryer? Probably spend the time in my quilt studio. Or sprawled on the couch reading. Nah, most likely quilting, I think.

Tonight, after dinner, I'll get all the ironing done while watching Dancing with the Stars. (Yup, I'm hooked and can't miss a show. I think it's because I can't dance for beans [picture someone taking the step right AFTER the beat . . . that's me] and do so admire anyone that can. The pros are SO in shape and have SUCH body control!)

Our weather continues to be colder than normal for this time of year, very gray and wet. We have no snow cover (currently) but seems if it's not raining, it's fogging, or sleeting, or just being generally bone-chilling damp and gray.

Perfect weather for a pumpkin pie! Even though over the weekend Roy requested an apple pie, I went the pumpkin route this morning. (Don't feel sorry for him. He'll get his this week, I'm sure.)

This spring I planned to grow pumpkins for which to supply us with our own pumpkin for winter pies, cookies, bars, cake, etc. "The best laid plans of mice and men . . . " strikes again. Lost all of our started pumpkin plants and then the seeds I (foolishly) put in after that. Next year. That's the ever and always motto of all gardeners.

Even though I love making, baking and eating pies, I'm not overly fond of actually making the pie crust. That's why I spend a couple of hours now and then making up a big batch of them and plopping them in the freezer. Then it's just a matter of pulling out one or two balls, letting them defrost on the counter and rolling out. So simple as compared to starting from scratch with crust making every time a pie is desired.

Well, I could post a picture of our clean underwear all folded and put away to prove that the laundry is done for another week, but somehow that just doesn't seem proper for a blog post. You'll have to take my word for it, I guess.

Oh. Our construction project? It's been raining since the ditch was dug. Isn't that what always happens when you make a big hole in the ground?

Oh, Applesass!

I dove into my big box of apples this morning and just now (nearly 4 PM) took the last batch of applesauce out of the canner. I can now say we have a nice supply of applesauce . . . and I'm pooped. You wouldn't think sitting, peeling, and prepping apples would be so exhausting!

I could have frozen the applesauce, which is less work, but then it's not very convenient when I spontaneously decide I want it as a side dish to a meal or to use in making applesauce cake or applesauce muffins or such. A frozen solid block of applesauce just doesn't cut it on the spur of the moment. I much prefer having it canned and a little more readily available.

When I started I had no intention of working up all the apples today but I had a good audio book on tape to listen to, Roy was working outside the whole time and before I knew it, I was more than halfway through so decided to go for it. I saved out a dozen apples as the man doing hard physical labor around here today has requested a pie, but the rest made 16 pints of sauce with a small tester dish left over. (And, no, sorry hon, but I'm not going to get the pie made today. Keep your fingers crossed for tomorrow. Maybe.)

Good feeling to have them lined up on the counter cooling now and know they'll be on the pantry shelves for use this winter. I haven't canned applesauce for a few years and even though I kinda pushed on the project today, I'm glad I did it.

Now if I can summon up enough energy, I'm gonna stagger into my quilt studio . . . and pretend I've forgotten we'll be needing something to eat for dinner tonight.

"Applesauce, anyone?"

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jog

Wednesday and Thursday of this week found Roy and me logging about 4,539 miles on the highway. Okay, it wasn't quite that many miles, but don't try to convince my still-numb butt of that.

We drove to the mid-part of our great state on Wednesday for a couple of appointments in the hustle and bustle of too much concentrated population, vehicle snarls, noise, and assault on all of our senses. Not to say there is anything wrong with that metropolitan life. It's just that we've been in the woods way too long to remember how to function in such surroundings and still maintain our equilibrium.

While my husband drove, in order to keep from stressing over-much on the heavy traffic, I knit. Not very successfully. I've torn the crown of this little hat out three times now. Can't get the pattern to work. I think it's the knitting gods getting back at me for not knitting much anymore.

Wednesday night we stayed in a not very nice motel room where I seriously doubt I got more than two hours of sleep. (Yes, I have issues about not sleeping my own bed. So then why didn't I sleep more than two hours IN MY OWN BED on Tuesday night prior to taking off on our little sojourn Wednesday morning?)

Due to circumstances beyond our control, Thursday's planned agenda was fouled up and had to be rearranged. This got us down to the southwestern part of the state on our appointed rounds much later in the day than we had expected. There we met with good farmer friends where we loaded up about 1,000 pounds of open-pollinated corn, organic barley and wheat for part of our winter's livestock feed. We had a great three hour visit and although they wanted us to stay overnight and make the eight hour drive home today, we had obligations to fulfill this morning that we needed to be here for.

But before we left, D and I picked two big boxes of apples from their lovely, old Haralson tree. I gave one box to our daughter today and the other I'll make into applesauce.

We arrived home a few minutes past midnight last night and I was in bed shortly after 1 AM after we unpacked what couldn't wait until this morning. Roy took a little longer to wind down before coming to bed because he was pretty zinged up on the coffee he had consumed to keep him alert for the drive home. The deer were heavy along the highway the last two hours of the drive and with a thousand pound-plus load in the back of the Suburban, you know you're not going to be able to stop very fast should the need arise.

This morning started waaaay too early with our good neighbor calling to say he was ready to bring his equipment over and get the five foot deep trench dug for a new addition we're putting on the house . . . but he needed to get it done before 10:30 when he had to be at another job.

This little area in the back of the house was originally going to be a shaded deck for the hot summer time but now it's going to be something else. More details on this to follow.

The ground where we dug the trench didn't have much structure and started to cave in, moving the soil under the poles that were holding up the roof over the area. "Uh-oh," is what it looks like Roy is saying as he's quickly realizing what is happening.

Temporary supports had to be put up so we didn't damage or completely lose the roof.

Unfortunately, this is what can happen when one does physical labor early in the morning after two previously grueling days on the road, inadequate sleep, and a rather large hammer coming into contact with one's finger rather than the nail one is aiming for.

I just stepped out the back door and took this shot of the old support posts dangling in thin air over the newly dug ditch. And, yes, those little white specks you can see are snowflakes coming down. Hope it doesn't fill the ditch by morning.

More on this exciting situation tomorrow.