Yesterday Vashon received a primer of snow, and my buddy Jon took advantage of its fine packing ability (and my inability to locate our fencing tools) to build an impromptu snowman. My bulldog Boz busted through the dog door to inspect the snowman trespasser. Let’s just say his reception was chilly.
The forecast calls for more snow, serious snow, so Boz will definitely be on the lookout for icy interlopers. As for Gracie, she tends to monitor the wood stove for log restocking.
Here’s to a long (shelf) life
Fresh food storage is a tricky business; what’s good for the potato and parsnip gets a pshaw from the pumpkin and pepper. And while I know better, for some odd reason (like expediency, or distraction by something shiny), I stored some pumpkins last fall in my root cellar, a cool, damp gallows of place that sentenced my winter squash to a slow rotting death. (Conversely, my Makah Ozette spuds were happy as buried clams.)
Even in decay, nature is art. (Blossom-end of a poorly stored pumpkin.)
I’m here to spread the word, pumpkins and winter squash like it high and dry with temperatures ranging between 50-55 degrees Fahrenheit and relative humidity between 50 and 75 percent. Each pumpkin stored in my kitchen pantry is as good as the day I picked it, which was close to five months ago. (Sweet Meat squash and Queensland Blue are my best keepers.) The squash I mistakenly relegated to an unheated, moisture-retentive cellar are now moldy messes, suitable for burial in the compost heap or chicken yard.
Fresh from the pantry, the sugar pie and green Turkish pumpkins enjoy greater longevity than their surrounding cellar-kept cousins.
As a walking human furnace, I set my home’s thermostat for 60 degrees during the day and 50 degrees at night–temperatures warm enough and cool enough to keep me, pumpkins, and bulldogs happy (Drop-ins are another story.)
And what do the experts have to say about the proper storage of pumpkins? University researchers are my go-to guys and gals when I seek answers to life’s growing questions. Their findings don’t disappoint.
Tips for Storing Pumpkins and Winter Squash from North Carolina University Extension
Steps to Minimize Squash and Pumpkin Rots
Related links:
If all else fails, start with Plan B: Roasted pumpkin puree freezes nicely. (Halibut on the left, blackberries on the right: a Pacific Northwest freezer indeed.)
The more pumpkins, the more pies.
My friend Karen calls January “an honest month.” I agree; it is what it is. Mornings are reluctant, evenings jump the gun. The trees put on no pretense of leaves, flowers or fruit, and the sea doesn’t play nice. But this January, I fear the month of Janus (god of the doorway) is up to a little mischief, toying with my need for sleep and taking advantage of my inherent gullibility.
While I know it’s seemingly impossible for any month to have more than two full moons, the last two weeks have seen night skies awash in light and filtered by shadows. I’m hard pressed not to recall a glowing pearl outside the east side dormer when I retire, and my west side window when I wake. When I shared that observation with a friend, marveling at our well lit nights this month, she kindly replied, “Oh Tom, that’s just what happens when we don’t have cloud cover for a couple weeks; you get to see the moon more than one night at a time.” (Hmm, so she says. Seems too easy an answer for my moonstruck anomaly.)
Still, I may have to stand my ground, dispute some science, scoff at heavenly orbits, and challenge the astronomers for in my heart I know it’s been a month of full moons, honest.
I had to take a trip “off-island” for some special wire fencing that was nowhere to be found “on-island.” After adding a quart of oil to Old Grey, and rounding up the mutts, we headed to the ferry dock to embark on our retail adventure. An hour later, this friend of the slow lane and his pooch pals, were just north of Marysville, procuring what seemed to be the only fence rolls of double ornamental loop on the West Coast. Mission accomplished, we headed home.
Clouds consumed the sky on our departure; high winds scattered them on our return. The sun, now a rare jewel to behold, was like a star sapphire bursting through the wisps of retreating clouds. With camera in hand, I exited my truck to find the perfect photo-op perch–off to the bow of the ferry. Gracie and Boz’s deafening snores bid me adieu.
When I returned to the truck, Boz and Gracie were up and looking guilty. I know the look; avoid eye contact and act invisible.
Gracie tried a new tactic, peering from her passenger side den with steely indifference. (“I vont to be alone.”)
Boz on the other hand couldn’t hide the lie; his mug was awash in guilty paint. (“Gracie made me do it.”)
Then I remembered I had left some leftovers in the truck. (They don’t call them doggie bags for nothing.) A pizza box with puncture wounds was all I needed to see. With pizza wedges now undigested and resting in the bellies of two soon-to-be gassy bulldogs, I did learn something (besides never leaving food in the truck); Boz and Gracie are not fans of calamari.
No hard feelings B&G, it was my fault to tempt you. Besides, I’d gladly sacrifice my lunch leftovers any day for a few minutes of sea and sky like that. Bon Appétit!
Recently my friend Erik shared some Finnish wisdom: Onnelisuus on se paikka puuttuvaisuuden ja yltäkylläisyyden välillä.
What’s that, your Finno-Ugric language skills aren’t what they used to be? Roughly translated, that amazing string of chewy consonants and voluptuous vowels states: Happiness is a place between too little and too much.
What a beautiful thought. And even though we’re just three days into 2012, I do believe it’s an insight I will carry with me throughout the year and onward. Slow down. Life is not a race; the winner does not have the most toys. A bucket list is an empty pursuit if substituted for daily engagement. And while I don’t wish to be to preachy (oops, too late), I do think it does my soul good to recognize and honor what is good in my life before parceling out complaints about what is not. So may I embrace 2012 and my place between too little and too much, and always recognize that on a planet with many lives, wants, loves and losses, I am a fortunate man. Happy New Year friends.
What I was blogging about a year ago…Resolution One: Err on the Side of Kindness.
Boz vs. the bobblehead: showdown at the Tall Clover corral
Boz was a pretty good pooch this year. Sure there were some mishaps, encounters with oriental rugs that needed shampooing anyway, coffee table climbing expeditions for unattended hors d’oeuvres, and foraging safaris to find fresh chew toys in the form of young corn stalks and baby pumpkins, but for the most part, the big guy was a poster child of obedience, or at least his (and my) interpretation of it.
So when his pal (and mine) Tamara, presented him with a gift of a bobble-headed bulldog, his look (and mine) was one of a pause, which is not surprising as she usually brings steak and bacon scraps. (I assume for the dogs.) If a befuddled Boz could speak he’d likely have said, “Hmm, You can’t eat it, you can’t play with it, and it doesn’t look a bit like me anyway.
Tamara proceeded to tease him with his detachable-headed doppelganger, until Boz began to bark (translation: get that ugly thing out of my face).
What Tom says, “Tamara, Please, don’t tease Boz, he’ll be barking at that thing all night.”
What Tamara hears, “Tamara, blah, blah, blah, Boz, blah blah blah blah.
“Look buddy, this nook ain’t big enough for the two of us“
Later that night Boz, made his move, jumping off the bed, and heading downstairs to secure the kitchen from the unwanted and unattractive interloper. Target found, the barking ensued. When I reached the kitchen, he was looking up at the bobblehead, growling slowly, purposefully. Bobble bully had nothing to say in return, just an icy possessed stare, that even disturbed me.
One coerced treat later, Boz was distracted enough to return upstairs. (Who’s the smarter one here?) The growling has since subsided but his fascination with the windowsill tchotchke has not. Perched on his favorite chair, he’s ready for it to make one false move.
As for Gracie, she hightailed upstairs when she saw Auntie Tamara coming at her with a canine pumpkin costume.Lucky for Boz his bumblebee outfit didn’t fit. (He’s one big bumble.)
What Tom says, “That’s sweet of you Tamara, but Boz and Gracie don’t do costumes. I promised them.”
What Tamara hears: “Blah, blah, blah, Tamara, blah Boz and Gracie blah blah blah blah.
Gracie often relies on her natural camouflage and lack of movement to thwart detection.
(Oh and Tamara, just for the record, you’re still B&G’s favorite Auntie, despite their recent humiliation, and that’s not the steak scraps talking either. Um, and that marinade, nice touch, uh I mean that’s what they tell me.)
Jon can do anything, a pronouncement I believe wholeheartedly. During a recent house project requiring his help, Jon or Jonny Awesome as I liked to call him, became my home improvement superhero–able to add mixed fractions and board feet in a single bound, prizing perfection and a job well done above expediency and filling squares. So when he pulled up the drive with a parcel of Douglas fir in his pickup, I knew he had something up his skillful sleeve.
“What’s with the trees, Jon?”
“They’re your Christmas trees Tom.”
“Thanks Jon, but I only need one tree.”
“Uh no Tom, you really need all three.”
When he pulled the saplings out of the truck and leaned each against the tailgate, I could see his point. “Tom, we can tie these three wimpy trees together to make one good one.” (See, he’s a genius I told you.) Off I went to ferret through my junk drawer for twine. When I returned, Jon had brought the tree trunks (a generous term) together, weaving branches through to make one “awesome” Christmas tree. A couple wraps of garden twine secured their reinvention.
Three, three, three trees in one!
Once, twice, three times a tannenbaum.
Ready for a little ornamentation, wouldn’t you say?
Thank you Jonny Awesome for saving Christmas!
Winter Solstice: Let there be light.
(Photo: Frank Charron)
In the Pacific Northwest, light is a cherish commodity, a gift where gray skies are the norm and drizzle our daily condiment. When winter solstice nears, Island pagans everywhere light up knowing the next day will bring a few more minutes of the good stuff, the gleaming gold rays of a longer day and the promise of more to come.
On this winter solstice, I had been enlisted by my friend, Karen to join her army of mischief makers for a task worthy of this day: luminary maker and coffeecake baker. Once the gathered Illuminati were fed and the coffee poured, we got to work. Karen, easily the most energetic and organized woman on Vashon, set up a staging area and assembly line for our tasks at hand. We rotated duties between bag opener, sand pourer, candle dropper, wick flicker (wicks in the upright and lock position for easier lighting), and loader of luminaries on truck flatbeds.
My Christmas tree: Lighting from within
Later that evening when I drove back with friends to see what a sand-filled sandwich bag could be elevated to, magic met us at the intersection. As we turned right, the road through Paradise Valley was aglow with dollops of light inching up the hills and curving through the woods. We crept along not wishing to miss a vista or hurry the moment. Six miles later, we turned around for a repeat show.
I knew the light wouldn’t linger all night, that when the stars insisted, the luminaries would turn to the sky, and our earthbound celebration would be over, but certainly not the joy of the moments before.
Returning home, I sat on my porch, looking out at my favorite madrona trees, flooded in the light of the season. The darkest day of winter was anything but when lit by kindness, kindled by friendship, and illuminated by community–the light of one flame brought together with and by the light of many.
The old place bedazzled by swags of C-9s.
I was revisiting some of my past Christmas posts, and stumbled upon the one that follows. While I do hate to repeat myself, I thought, heck I’ve seen A Charlie Brown Christmas a bazillion times and I can recite the entire script of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Reruns are a Christmas tradition. That said, I thought I’d share a fond recollection of a Christmas past, one that I think of with great fondness this time of year.
Recalling When Christmas Came to Vashon
Living on an island has its challenges, but it also has its rewards, revealing special moments that speak to the kinship of isolation and the camaraderie of everyone being in (and on) the same boat.
While commuting by ferry creates bottlenecks and headaches daily, it also fosters a bond, an unspoken appreciation that someone else shares your daily round-trip odyssey. The smiles and nods to familiar strangers, one day makes them friends. So tonight when I returned to the island from a very long day in a less-welcoming place, I stood on the bow well before we reached Vashon Island. I savored that simple joy of returning home. The wind was bracing, the sky spun with gold, and the Olympic Mountains seized the horizon and my attention.
On the open car deck, Christmas trees topped a number of vehicles. One Jeep sported a wreath on its grille, the kids behind its steamed-up windows singing spirited renditions of the season’s best (between punches). I smiled, their parents smiled. The choir continued the concert.
With the din of the ferry silenced, we docked and I disembarked, walking more than briskly toward the warm, waiting bus. A stream of cars sped off the ferry and then one honked. I turned in time to see Santa in an SUV giving us a wave. I returned a smile and hearty hat tip.
Christmas had come to Vashon. I just had no idea we’d share the same ferry.
Bulldogs roasting by an open fire….
May the light of the season shine on you. Merry Christmas.
Bye, bye, Mr Bargain Hunt Guy, drove my pickup to the thrift store but the bargains weren’t nigh. And silver hair grannies were drinking cocoa and chai, the day the bargains died.
On a recent trip to our island thrift store, Granny’s Attic, I stood in awe of an audacious offering: bagged fibers for $3.00. And my dear crafter pals, before you chastise me and share the various and awesome projects one can undertake employing used fiber, hear me out. This zip-locked treasure was seemingly the byproduct of an islander’s last load of jammies and hiking socks; yep, it was dryer lint in a sandwich bag . And while I can’t identify dog hair accurately, I’d venture to say the launderer shared quarters with a Siberian Husky (or grizzly bear).
At first I thought, hmmm, maybe it’s a wee bag of special fiber, combings from the rare Andean vicuna, the underbelly shedding of free-range chinchillas or even vestiges of a high-end knitting or felting project. As I looked closer, sliding my glasses forward down my nose, I inspected the bag’s contents with greater scrutiny (if that’s possible). One light touch secured my further disbelief. It was even worse than I thought; they were selling man-made fiber in bag. Acrylic, there I said it.
Uh, price check on aisle five…
In all fairness, I suspect someone in the back sorting room was just having a good laugh planting the curious bag for would-be bargain hunters to find. No doubt peeking through the door at the puzzled guy poring over a bag of unnatural fibers. So Merry Christmas Granny’s Attic, you got me. And may I salute your hard working (and cheeky) crew, and the fact that as a nonprofit thrift store you issued $50,000 in grants to island charities. I believe I’m personally accountable for one quarter of that figure (bags of dryer lint notwithstanding).