Jelly mystery

I have had a love/hate relationship with our gooseberries. At first it was hate, because of this.

Try weeding around those thorns. Ouch.

Then it was love, because of this.

Golden jelly, a soft and silky lavender infused gooseberry jelly that I made last year with a recipe from here. It was spectacular, on buttered toast or with cheddar cheese. The only problem was, by the time I grudgingly thought of doing something with the gooseberries, the birds had eaten most of them, and all I could harvest was 3/4 of a pound.

This year I have been watching those gooseberries with an eagle eye, just waiting for the day I could pick them and make a much bigger batch of Golden Jelly. That day came last week, and after an afternoon of picking I had 11 pounds of berries. Visions of jelly danced in my head. But before those visions could become reality, every single one of those gooseberries needed to be topped and tailed. Sigh.

But the job got done, and the jelly got made, and Kim and I looked proudly at the 9 jars of pink gold jelly.

Jelly?

Syrup. It didn't set.

This is a mystery to me. I did the proper tests while it was cooking: I dropped a small spoonful on an ice-cold plate from the freezer, waited for a minute, then ran my finger through it. The jelly wrinkled, just like it was supposed to. But after processing - syrup. Tasty syrup, but syrup all the same.

So I opened all the jars, poured the syrup back into the pot, added some liquid pectin, following the directions for failed jelling, and tried all over again.

Jelly?

Syrup. Sigh.

I left the jars, hoping they might transform into syrup as they cooled. No such luck. Then I had a brainwave. Syrup can be good. Syrup can be a cordial. So we poured a bit of the syrup into a couple of glasses, topped with bubbly water and voila - a refreshing, fragrant summer drink.

We were so excited that the next day we brought along a jar of syrup and a couple of bottles of San Pellegrino when we went to see friends for dinner. We lined up the glasses, cracked open the bubbly water, then opened up the jar of syrup.

Syrup?

Jelly. What?! Soft jelly, to be sure, but definitely jelly.

So when we got home we checked all the jars that the day before were syrup. They were jelly.

It's a mystery.

Found

We've had a great weekend. The weather has been wonderful, we've spent time with good friends, and best of all, I have had two consecutive joint-pain-free days. Woo hoo!

To commemorate this important event, Kim and I spent the afternoon turning the 25 foot long compost pile behind the workshop. Boy, do we know how to celebrate.

About halfway through we found another reason to be happy. Look what we found.

Yes, this is one of the dozen or so pairs of pruners I have managed to mislay during our two years here at Mucky Boots. A bit worse for wear, but I'm pleased all the same. Somehow it makes me feel just a bit less hopeless in the tool department.

He's back

Yes, this is our little psycho bird, a Western Tanager, back for another day of doing his best to get into our house. He's an early riser, and this morning it's our dining room windows he's trying to get through.

He hovers in front of them almost like a hummingbird, then either bumps into the window or flies away. I have turned the lights in the room on, and off, trying to determine if it's his own reflection he's after, but it doesn't seem to make any difference. The window can't be acting like much of a mirror because he sees me as soon as I move into the room and flies away, which made getting these photos an exercise in patience.

What do you want, little guy?

Under siege

Like the looks of this little guy? Think he looks cute and harmless? Think again. This bird is psycho.

Well, maybe not the actual fellow in the photo (which isn't mine - it comes from here). But one of his relatives, who lives in our neck of the woods, spent the day dive-bombing our house, bashing into windows, going from deck to bedroom window to living room window, all around the house, doing his very best to somehow make it through one of those pieces of glass.

It started about 6:30 this morning. Petunia started to make her bird hunting noises as she prowled the window ledges in the living room where I was eating my breakfast, then I began to get glimpses of brightly coloured flashes in my peripheral vision, and then the first thump on the window got me out of my chair to have a look.

I'd never seen a bird like this before, and its colouring made me think it must be a finch or some sort of exotic bird. We're used to mostly plain-Jane brown birds around here - anything this brightly coloured must come from a pet store, I thought. But when I did a quick Internet search I discovered it is a Western Tanager. Huh. Who knew.

But back to the siege. This determined little bird flew around the house all day, from window to window, hovering and flapping and thumping into the glass. Why?

I thought maybe it was trying to fight its own reflection in the window, thinking it was seeing a rival. But that didn't make sense with the sun direction, and in any case most of the windows were shaded.

Until I discovered it was a normally occurring bird species, I thought it might be a household pet that had escaped and was trying to get back home, any home.

Maybe it just likes our taste in home furnishings. In any case, we're waiting with some anticipation for the morning, to see if it comes back.

Here are two interesting tidbits about Western Tanagers I found out today. (1) The red colour on their heads is not built-in. It's a result of the insects they eat. And (2) if you are stocking a bird feeder in hopes of attracting a Western Tanager, they respond well to cut fruit, nectar and baked goods.

Baked goods.

Does that mean freshly baked croissants, or would day-olds do?

Summer

Summer arrived today, with temperatures warm enough and sun bright enough to send us scrambling for straw hats and sandals.

We mowed. We trimmed. We weeded. The orchard is finally looking respectable, and the perennial beds around the house got a good, long drink. And then, because Kim's still fighting bronchitis and my joints are still aching, we hauled out the garden furniture and put our feet up with a cool drink and a good book. Feet up: that's not a sight you see very often at Mucky Boots.

Petunia is the Lounging Queen, clever cat. She has a thing or two about setting good priorities to teach us.

Lurching along

Summer may have arrived, but at Mucky Boots we're still stuck at Spring on the weather dial. Yesterday we finally had some heat and today promises more of the same, but the weeks of cool, cloudy weather have put the vegetable garden behind even last year's delayed schedule. We just picked the first barely ripe strawberries yesterday, and the pea blossoms are only starting to transform themselves into pods. The winter squash seeds decided to sprout after all, but unless we have an unusually long, warm fall there may not be enough time for the squash to ripen.

On the bright side, the brassicas and salad greens have been in heaven, doing all they can to make up for their thinner-blooded friends in the vegetable garden.

And on another, very bright side, every blooming perennial has decided that this is the year to put on a show. Could it be my expert, tender care? Probably not. Maybe it's Mother Nature trying to console us for Kim's stubborn case of bronchitis and my seasonal arthritis flare-up.

What ever the reason, anything in the front half of the property that blooms has gone to town: peonies, cranesbill geraniums, columbines, iris, lilies, wisteria, wigelia.

No wonder they call this a snowball viburnum - not only do its flowers look like snowballs, the fallen petals sprinkled on the path below look like a dusting of snow.

And the poppies! We knew we were in for a banner year in the poppy department, but for the last two weeks we have been blasted by the poppy equivalent of a double-orchestra symphony. Plants that last year bore three or four flowers are carrying eight or ten this year, and new clusters seem to have sprouted anywhere the conditions are even remotely suitable.

As usual, with a mind full of jobs wanting to be done and a body that isn't cooperating at the moment, I am wrestling with the lessons the garden is trying to teach me about patience, and acceptance, and living in the moment. So the lurching isn't just the weather, or my own progress down the garden path with sore joints - it's my blossoming into the person my garden wants me to be.

I wish I was a better student.

Hector junior

We'd like to introduce you to the newest charmer in the chicken yard: Hector Junior. Yes, this eight-week cockerel is the love child of either Gertie or Alice. We're not sure. But there's no doubt about his papa: this young fellow is the spitting image of Hector, right down to his sweet, gregarious charm.

He's a big fella, this boy. Tall and long-legged, just like his dad. But because he's hanging out with his peers he's not the bottom of the chicken-status totem pole, like Hector was when he joined us. Instead, he's the biggest, handsomest, fastest boy of the bunch. Just look at that red comb and those wattles - and he's only eight weeks old!

But, just like his papa, he hasn't let his good looks and big size go to his head. He's a curious, calm, sweet boy, with chicken mannerisms that are so like Hector's we are agog, daily.

After losing Gertie so suddenly, it feels wonderful to welcome the next generation to the barnyard.

Goodbye Gertie

We lost Gertie yesterday. She was killed in the orchard, horribly, sometime yesterday morning. She leaves behind Alice, her inseparable twin, and Hector, the sweet little runt who grew up and became her protector.

We're not sure what got her. It was during the day, so it probably wasn't a raccoon. More likely it was an eagle or even a raven, but the kinds of injuries she had don't quite fit. We have been lucky so far with predators, but this week has been rough: first we lost an 8-week old pullet who disappeared without a trace from the chicken yard (probably nabbed from overhead, despite all the reflective tape and fishing line streamers criss-crossing overhead), and then yesterday, Gertie.

Poor Gertie. And poor Hector, and poor Alice, who were with her when it happened.

This is Gertie and Alice when they first arrived at Mucky Boots. They were so beautiful: soft and fluffy and so black, even their feet. They went everywhere together, and talked to each other in their special chicken language.

Gertie as a young pullet in the vegetable garden. She was a good forager, and laid beautiful creamy rose-brown eggs.

Gertie with Alice and Hector.

Goodbye Gertie.

Emergency preparedness

I have been working the last while to update our emergency kit. We live in an earthquake zone, in a rural area that loses its power with some regularity, in a part of the country that deals with fire emergencies every summer. It just makes sense to be prepared. So we have a big garbage bin filled with emergency radios and cell phone chargers, a ceramic water filter, camping equipment, first aid supplies and a crossword puzzle book to keep us occupied.

And in the workshop we have the bulk of our food storage. I'm aiming for a 3 month supply, but we're not quite there yet.

I know some people think I'm a little crazy (which doesn't matter, because I'd rather be prepared and not need to be, than not prepared and wishing I was). But today - well, today my emergency preparations came through for me when I most needed them.

Did we have an earthquake? No.

Did we have a power outage? Well, no . . .

Was there a flood? Er, not really . . .

What exactly, then was the state of the emergency?

A bad day. A really bad day. A long and tiring and really bad day.

And how did the emergency kit help with that, you might ask? It wasn't the first aid kit that I desperately needed and was so grateful for, or the sleeping bag, or the wind-up radio.

No, it was the chocolate covered almonds I had squirreled away. Boy oh boy, when I remembered they were there and went to fetch them and they were right where I had put them, my day instantly improved by a factor of about a million.

So don't let anyone ever tell you emergency preparations are a waste of time. They saved my day.

And, yes, I will replace the ones I ate, which by bed time will probably be the entire bag.

Hum

Something wonderful is happening in the sound scape at Mucky Boots: humming, lots and lots of humming. Bees, in every flowering plant from the chestnut tree to the stands of comfrey to the raspberry bushes to the rhododendrons. That's great news, especially in the vegetable garden, berry patch and orchard, because bees mean fertilized flowers which means a chance for apples and strawberries and peas and tomatoes this year. And with the collapse of bee colonies all over North America, it's not news we take for granted.

I tried to take a picture, but bees are busy little creatures, and wouldn't stay put long enough for me to point, focus and click. So instead, here are some of the blooms that had bees in them today - until I showed up with the camera, that is.

Welsh onion

Last year when I was surfing through seed catalogues making picks for the 2010 growing season, my eye fell on Welsh onions, described as a perennial onion. Well, anything edible that's also a perennial sounds good to me, so I bought a packet and grew six clumps that I transplanted into the herb bed. They grew happily, looking very much like scallions, and overwintered just as happily, staying green through all the snow. And now, this spring, they're flowering - gorgeously.

Here's my problem: what exactly is a perennial onion? I know I can cut the green part off and it will regrow, like chives. Is that all it is - a beefier version of a chive? Because for sure, if I dig up the bulb, the life of that particular perennial comes to a close. Somehow I expected more than just big chives. Did my imagination simply run away with me?

And while I'm asking what are probably really stupid questions, why don't seed packets give harvesting tips as well as planting information? Just wondering. . .

Return of the poppies

It looks like it's going to be a banner year for poppies here at Mucky Boots. The San Pellegrino poppies (so named by me because they're the exact colour of San Pellegrino Aranciata, one of the most refreshing drinks known to humankind) have been blooming up a storm for about a month now, in their simple, modest way. But this week they were joined by their slightly-more-flamboyant orange cousins. . .

. . . and the first of the jaw-droppingly gorgeous, dinner-plate-sized Oriental poppies.

Look at all the future blooms on this one plant - and there are scores more all over the property. We're in for a show!

Lost

I am generally a good person, and I try to live my life in a thoughtful and responsible way. But I have a few shortcomings, as the people who love me can attest to. My tendency to over plan at the expense of spontaneity, as one example. Or my seeming inability to stop taking responsibility for the happiness of everyone around me, as another.

But - oh! - the failing that has me tearing out my hair this week is this: I cannot, for the life of me, hang on to a set of pruners.

I'm rough on tools. This is a well-established fact. I leave tools out in the rain, I rarely clean them, and I never, ever sharpen or oil them. That's why I buy the $5 pruners instead of the $50 ones. I understand and accept this. What I can't figure out is how I keep losing them.

This week I set a new record. On Saturday afternoon I mislaid a set of pruners while tackling the creeping bellflower in one of the perennial beds. I had them. I put them down. I left for a few minutes to empty the wheelbarrow and when I got back those pruners were nowhere. I looked and looked, and never found them.

That wasn't so bad. Kim was nice enough to bring me another pair, even though the ones I had mislaid were clearly marked "Kim". What was bad - really, really bad - was that the next morning, in the space of one hour I mislaid two more pairs.

I don't know where they went. I have retraced my steps, and looked under every conceivable bush. I have rooted through the compost pile, thinking maybe I absent-mindedly put them in the wheelbarrow and then emptied them into the compost. I have hunted and hunted and haven't been able to find any of the three (most recently) missing pairs.

What did I do?

I went out and bought two more pairs. And - so far - I know exactly where they are.

Home

Oh, there's nothing like coming home after being away. And coming home to a garden lush and green, fragrant and blooming - how lucky can one person be?

Of course having been away for two weeks in May means I'm behind on everything, but somehow it doesn't matter. Yes, the winter squash absolutely must get planted tomorrow, and there are weeds everywhere. But somehow I look at the perennial beds filled with fresh, lime green hostas, and red-stalked rhubarb, and the first of what I call the San Pellegrino poppies, and tulips of every colour, and all those weeds just don't matter. At least not today.

When I travel by air I have to go on steroids to clear out my sinuses - which means that for about two months I have the gift of a sense of smell. When I got out of the car to open the gate I was overwhelmed by the wonderful scent of the air - just the air. Green and fresh and woodsy. Is this what it smells like all the time?

So in the two days I've been home I've had my nose stuck in every plant and flower, storing up all the wonderful scents while I can. Especially the lilacs - there's a whole childhood of memories tied to the scent of lilacs.

Home!