My sweet corn finally got ripe. It’s not good. But Dammit, I’m going to eat it!
I get sweet corn from the seed corn dealer. Two small bags slightly bigger than what you’d pick up from Fleet Farm in the spring.
I use the first bag as I test the planter as I start corn in the spring.
I divide the seed into 3 rows of the planter and then plant the sweet corn testing depth and the monitor and just making sure the planter is working properly.
This year, the first 50’ I had the depth wrong so the corn never emerged. And the last 75’ was next to the pasture and woods and the deer ate all that before it even got tassels. But I kinda expected that.
Then I plant all the rest of my regular corn. And then, before switching the planter to soybeans, I plant the second batch of sweet corn. Some years that might only be 3 – 7 days. This year it was about 2 weeks between batches.
I plant the second batch in a different field, close to the house and on the other side of the field from the trees and deer.
This year with the weather being so cool, it took a long time for that second field to get ripe. The bottom of the ear was tough and the top and middle were just OK. I don’t know if was the variety of the sweet corn or just the way it ripened. And there was a lot. 12 rows 100’ long. I knew it was too much but I take a lot to the my siblings and I freeze some and I invite others. This year, I bought corn earlier to freeze as I didn’t know if mine would ever get ripe
But darn it; I look forward to sweet corn all summer and I’ll be darned if I’m going to not eat it just because it doesn’t taste good!
A little over one week ago, I shared the story of Peanut’s taking leave of this world. Little did I know that an ordeal a few hours later would completely distract me from grieving the old guy.
Peanut’s Last Day
I have what I refer to as a ghost cat; a 10-year old calico rescue named Izzy. Peanut was her best and only friend. It took several years before she’d even approach me for affection and it was unrequited. Everything spooked this cat, even seeing headlights coming down the driveway. She spent 18 hours a day hiding behind the furnace, only emerging after dark to be with her friend, Peanut.
Peanut died on a Friday. Izzy was suddenly on my lap and behaved the role he’d played all of these years, as though she’d been waiting for her opportunity and only been an intern who learned how to be a companion from observing him for a decade. I loved it. We soaked each other up with mutual affection for hours. I think she knew all along how to do it, but Peanut stood in the way because all of her affection was used up on him.
About 2AM, I went to use the bathroom and smelled gas. My furnace and water heater are behind louvers in the bathroom because there’s no basement here. I called the gas company and they sent out an emergency tech. He found carbon monoxide coming from the 50-year old water heater and shut it down. While standing there, I noticed a 5” hole in the floor, below which the dungeon exists. This is a crawl space beneath the cottage made up of a maze of tunnels with a rocky dirt floor and about a 20” clearance to the studs above which hold the place up. I knew at that moment that she’d gone down the hole.
I called and called her name, put tuna in a baggy with a string to tease her up, and opened up the trap door to the dungeon below. In the dark with a flashlight, swiping away a hundred years’ worth of cobwebs, I crawled through the scary tunnel looking for her. My mind went to thinking the gas tech’s commotion scared her into the vast duct system snaking throughout the underworld.
The next morning, the guy who used my dock walked by. I ran to him, hysterical, and asked for his help to find her. He then entered the dungeon and came out empty-handed. This tunnel is so tight that it can only be exited by crawling out of it backwards. An hour later, one of his friends went into the dungeon and found a collar she’d lost many months ago.
The light went on. I realized in that moment that she had not been hiding behind the furnace all of these years; she’d taken up residence in the vast dark underbelly beneath the cottage! She’d been leading a double life all along. Still, I clung to the vision of her being so spooked that she’d dived into and gotten stuck in the venting system, so I called an HVAC guy to come and dissemble the entire network of ducts. He said he’d be glad to for only $200 an hour. I told him I’d hold off until the next day. Next, I called Animal Rescue, Pest Control, and ultimately the police.
Two officers showed up, full of empathy for the little old lady who’d just put down one cat and now lost the other. One of them was hefty in size but insisted on crawling through the dungeon anyway. I truly worried that this brave cop would get stuck.
Every minute she was gone felt like I was letting her die down there. Later that night, Mary texted that she’d probably breathed in carbon monoxide and peacefully died. This seemed like a plausible reason that she hadn’t emerged from the hole she’d dived into, so I crawled the dark tunnel one more time, only this time looking for a body, then went outside to break a small window to peer into the dungeon. I’d resigned myself that she’d died down there. The thought that I’d forever live on the floor above my deceased cat was very unpleasant. I even posted her obituary on my Facebook wall right above Peanut’s obituary.
On Sunday, I decided to force myself to go dancing because my favorite band was playing. I got home around 1AM, went into the bedroom, and there she sat on the window box right outside my window. She obviously had exited through the broken window. Shocked but indescribably relieved, I popped open the pull-down screen and she flew in right past me to the second floor. My heart sank recalling that I’d removed a panel up there which allows access to the plumbing behind the wall. Sure enough, she dived into it. I gave up at this point.
Another 12 hours passed, then, out of nowhere, she sauntered into my bedroom, acting as though none of this had even happened and took up residence on my lap. Now I am the one living a double life because my generous son paid for two purebred Ragdolls last Thursday. I knew that these exotic cats would not only heal my heart, but would be the best companions for what remains of my life. I’ll be 88 by the time of the average lifespan of these kittens. That’s why I wanted two: so they have each other if I die first. It’s also mesmerizing to just sit and watch these fur balls rolling around and chasing each other. The name “Ragdoll” comes from the fact that when picked up, they go limp in your arms. They look like giant, long-haired Siamese and can grow to 20lbs. Years ago, I owned three of this breed and have longed for more ever since. They’re rated as the most affectionate breed there is.
Rag Dolls
My double life resembles Izzy’s, only hers was below the cottage, and mine is splitting the days/nights between my little Ragdolls blocked into my downstairs bedroom, and my all-nighters sleeping upstairs to comfort Izzy. I don’t know if she’ll ever meet the downstairs cats, but she knows they’re here and will not come down.
And so, one door has been shut, and another one has opened, bringing with it new life, peace, and soul-healing.
When has one door opened for you as one door shut?
Our two basil plants have been constantly picked over this summer (YA and I can find a use for basil in almost everything) and I was thinking that maybe next year we should plant more so we would have enough for putting up some pesto. In swept a hero friends, bringing us excess bounty from their garden and with it a renewed dream of pesto through the winter!
YA wanted to help so we set up production. I stripped the leaves and minced the garlic; she did everything else, from washing the basil leaves to measuring, then running the food processor and getting the finished pesto into the jars. She even stayed at it when I had to run up to Kowalski’s for more garlic, although she did leave me with all the clean up.
Pesto Production
So now we have pesto to last us for a while, although I doubt it will get us through the entire winter – we’ve already both had pesto on naan today!
What do you need enough of to get through the winter?
As you all know, I adore the Minnesota State Fair. This year I was able to attend three times: opening day on my own and twice with Young Adult. Some new things this year: a thorough exploration of the West End area, Macaroni & Cheese Curds, llamas and alpacas in the very back of the horse barn. And the traditionals as well: Hawaiian Shave ice, bunny whispering, butter heads. After three years of lusting after them, YA and I caved this year and purchased a big set of Thin Bins, collapsible containers with color-coded lids. We also went home with some t-shirts, assorted bags and cookies.
Even though it is essentially the same parade day after day, it is one of my favorite parts of the fair. I love seeing the different marching bands, the dairy princesses and the art cars.
On reflection though, one of my favorite things about the Fair is the people watching – and the unbelievable “variety” there is in the folks of Minnesota (and Iowa/Wisconsin/Dakota visitors). Lots of different family types, from extended families in matching shirts to young families with their jam-packed strollers. An amazing array of clothing and shoes – why would you wear bright white tennies to the fair? Or high-heeled shoes? Lots of shoppers (YA and I included) getting fancy scissors, wine pouches, shark teeth – this list could go on and on.
So now the fair is finished for another year and I’m already looking forward to next year. If my feet and my pocket book can handle it, maybe I’ll go four times!
The header photo was taken September 12, mid afternoon, in New Town, ND. The site is the Four Bears bridge over the Missouri River, and the haze is smoke from Montana and Canadian forest fires. It has been a long, smokey summer. I believe that the smoke made it all the way to the Twin Cities, too. Tonight the visibility here is predicted to be about 2 miles, which is quite reduced from normal. I can’t imagine how awful it must be for people living in western Montana. All we can do is wait, and hope for precipitation.
A friend of mine from the Flathead Reservation in Montana says that the only thing that will put out the fires is snow. I am happy to report that snow is predicted in the higher elevations out there tonight. It rained here today and it didn’t dissipate the smoke at all. All we can do is wait it out.
This has been a summer of waiting on the weather-waiting for rain that never came, waiting for it to cool down (it was 98° here yesterday) and now waiting for the smoke to go away. It is a lesson in human insignificance and the power of nature.
It’s all your fault that I have too many tomatoes. Six years ago I read Tomatoland by Barry Estabrook, based on somebody’s recommendation on the trail. That made me want to grow my own tomatoes in the worst way. That led me to straw bales which had led me to today; tomatoes are taking over my kitchen!
This past weekend I tried to make a dent. First I made salsa for the freezer (2 jars):
4 cups diced, fresh tomatoes (Roma) – I didn’t peel them because I used an immersion blender after the salsa cooked down
1 medium green pepper, chopped
1 large onion, chopped
4 chopped loco peppers – didn’t seed them so I could keep the heat
1/2 cup tomato paste
1/4 cup vinegar
1 Tbs. sugar
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2-1 Tbs. cayenne pepper
4 Tbs. chopped cilantro
That didn’t make a big enough dent so then I made Tomato Veggie soup in the slow cooker:
3 cups diced tomatoes – again left the skins on
2 cup water
1 ½ cupsw green beans, cut into bit-sizes
1 cup diced potato
1 cup diced turnit
1 cup chopped cabbage
4 Tbs. cooked onion (sautéed w/ the garlic)
4 cloves of garlic, minced
½ green pepper, diced
2 bouillon cubes (I used vegetarian cubes)
Salt & pepper to taste
Everything into the slow cooker, on low for about 8 hours.
Then today I came home and found another batch of ripe tomatoes on my vines. Help!
What do you like to do with excess garden produce?
Turns out the Mississippi River has its own magazine. I have finally finished reading my latest issue of Big River, which covers news of the Mississippi River from Minneapolis, MN, down to Muscatine, Iowa. Its byline is “Covering the heart of the Driftless Area for 24 years,” although there is usually some news about the Twin Cities. (The Driftless area includes Hastings and Red Wing, as well as La Crosse and Prairie du Chien in Wisconsin, Dubuque and the Quad Cities in Iowa, Galena in Illinois.) It is published six times a year here in Winona.
I devour this magazine. First I read all the Big River News segments, which give updates on everything from the Gulf of Mexico’s Dead Zone to a new plastic pollution problem: tiny plastic particles from people’s microfiber jackets. Besides environmental issues, these paragraphs cover items like a new bike rental system in Clinton, IA, and an expansion of the National Eagle Center in Wabasha. My favorite tells of a new happy hour in St. Paul – the Kellogg Park Craft Beer Overlook: 3 to 6 p.m., Tuesdays through Fridays till mid-October. This September-October issue also has a special sidebar detailing and picturing which ditch weeds to NOT PICK because some part of them is poisonous (poison hemlock, giant hogweed, wild parsnip, and cow parsnip).
Feature articles range from “A Tale of Two Neighborhoods”, about North Mpls. and Northeast Mpls, to a short two-pager on kestrels. For the exploring traveler, an article details sights and places between La Crosse, WI to Winona, MN. Restaurant and book reviews are regular features, as are lots of glossy ads – I don’t mind because they are for things and places that interest me.
I just checked, and Big River is available at Minneapolis’ Central Library, but only for “in-house” use. I’ll bring some back copies next time I get to BBC (Blevins Book Club – see top left of this “page”, under Blogroll).
What river, anywhere in the world, would you like to explore?
Last weekend I saw this dog sitting in a nearby car. The owner returned as I was standing there and I told her what a well-behaved dog she had. She said “Last week she saw a mouse in the basement and now she won’t go down the basement stairs.”
Recently I found a tablet in a small gift shop. It made me laugh. I bought the tablet for my sister for her birthday, then tore off a sheet for the blog, throwing it on my desk, then forgetting about it. I found it today while cleaning off my desk during my post-surgical recovery period. There was this list I had itemized of things to do while recovering, and cleaning off my desk was one of the items. This little sheet, of course, was buried under the mountain of papers that needed sorting. I hope it is posted in the header.
Writing this brief post and scanning the sheet are one of the things I Am Being Forced To Do Against My Will…
RIP dear Peanut. Last night, as I was weeping knowing it was our last night together, the old guy walked up to me and licked my tears. He’s been hiding for days, but last night he came for what used to be our nightly ritual. He hadn’t done this in months as he grew weaker. He walks up to the cover I pull up to my chin, paws it down, then I lift it into a tent for him to enter. He then makes three circles before finally plopping down close to my face. I then kiss him a dozen times while repeating, “I love you, Peanut”. Every night for 14 years. I wish that I’d created more of a dialogue with him over all of these years, but this is all I ever said to him.
The vet showed up at 10 this morning. He was on my lap relaxing in front of a space heater he’s always loved. My dear friend, Bruce, was here, and right up to the moment of the quick-acting sedation shot, I kept asking if I was doing the right thing. Did he have more time to live? Should nature just decide when it was his time to die? Was he really suffering or just old and skinny? The sweet vet told me that I didn’t have to go through with it; that she’d come back another time.
He sprawled across my lap as she administered the sedative, and slowly got sleepier. “Peanut, I love you” over and over. I was still so ambivalent that I asked her if he could revive from the sedative if I changed my mind. All I could think of was how spending the last day and night with him was so painful that I couldn’t go through this process again a few weeks or even months from now, so she very gently inserted the needle and pushed in the medication which would stop his heart.
I held his limp body, crying my heart out. I had decided just this morning that I didn’t want to bury him after all because the vision of lowering him into a black hole was just too much. The vet brought in a small kitty bed with a soft little blanket. I placed him in it. And then he was gone from my life. A piece of me and a part of what’s kept my world in balance went with him. I wrote a letter to him:
Dear Peanut, I found you in the middle of Crystal Bay Road 14 years ago on September 1, 2003. Your little eyes were glued shut with infection and your back leg was crushed. I rushed you to the vet who said that you were, at best, 4 weeks old and doubted that you’d survive. I came back several hours later, and there you were, bright eyed and bushy tailed, eating dry kibbles.
For the next two months, I kept you on or very near my body 24/7. When with clients, you nestled on my shoulder. I took you grocery shopping in a tiny box, to my volunteer work, to lunch dates. And every single day, I kissed the top of your head a thousand times, saying, “Peanut, I love you”.
For the twelve years following my divorce, you were the only warm body in my world who alleviated my loneliness. No matter how my day had gone, you were there at the end of it with our silly ritual, letting me know that you loved and needed me. I thank you for that.
Your buddy, Izzy, is already searching the cottage for you. I’ve always cared for her, but she’s not you, Peanut. Perhaps, after the six years she’s been here, she’ll come out of her shell and show some affection and bond with me? Right now, she’s lying next to me on the foot stool by the heater, something she’s never done before. Only an hour ago, you were there. She’s always deferred to you, even in this last year as you grew weaker, she’d box with you then suddenly jump off the bed out of respect for you.
You were my fur person, my devoted companion, and the only constant presence in my life. Thank you for the 14 years you graced my life.
Trail Baboon 