Late night musings, cooking, and the Snow Moon

Those who have known me for quite sometime know that I don't sleep well and never have. My mother has often shared the fun fact that as a baby, I did not sleep through the night until I was a year and a half old and that required a prescribed sedative. This never improved and as a youngster, I was often awake late nights, huddled up with my book light or a small flashlight reading. In college, I was ridiculously proud of my ability to only need one and a half hours of sleep a night and, therefore, I was able to accomplish so much. Of course, there was also that one morning I was informed by my roommate that I had been up walking around the room, doing my Latin homework, and crocheting a blanket all night when I was convinced I had been sleeping.

Well, thankfully, I'm older now and this insomnia seems to have lessened itself considerably. I average about five to six hours a night and lately I have been upping that to seven, so its only taken 36 years to correct this insomnia affliction. I'll count that as a good thing and its better late than never, however there are still days I miss my insomnia for the simple fact that I got a lot done. My father has always said if  there were six more hours in a day, I would find something new to fill those extra hours with and truly would never have any extra time. He may be right.

Occasionally, my old friend insomnia does visit. Usually on nights like tonight when my mind is whirling with things I can't quiet enough to fall asleep, so rather than sit there staring at the ceiling waiting for sleep to claim me, I am up in the kitchen and cooking.

Tonight, I am making a lentil soup that can cook the rest of the night in the crock pot. Its perfect really. I have a friend who has just undergone surgery and is recovering who will enjoy some and this time of year I almost always have a pot of soup Phil, Angela, and I can eat through during the week when things are busy between work, farm duties, and school. Not to mention, with Angela, my 18 year old goddaughter, living with us, there are often her friends visiting too and they are always appreciative for a nice bowl of homemade soup. More than all of these very good reasons though is the preparations of the soup which I find to be very soothing and cathartic. Something about washing, peeling, and chopping vegetables, mixing spices, and mincing garlic just sets my mind at ease.

The soup recipe I'm trying calls for five cloves of garlic. This is not adequate. I am always very liberal with garlic for many reasons and this is not exception. Last summer, at the Poulsbo Farmer's Market where I have a booth for my soap business, I bought a braid of garlic from one of the local farmers. She said they were a variety called Italian Rose and they would last well through June of this year. They were so prettily arranged and braided and the garlic so beautiful, I couldn't resist it. Tonight, about 10 cloves of garlic went into the crockpot and I have no regrets about it. I can see now why the garlic is called Italian Rose, a lovely purple skin covers each clove. I look forward to growing and braiding my own garlic in the years to come. The idea of growing my own food, preserving and storing it in my root cellar and using it to prepare meals for my family and friends is one that has followed me for years and I am excited at the prospect of it coming true.

So, now, as I write this, everything is in the crockpot slowly transforming into a lovely soup (I hope) and there's bread rising in my bread machine. Yes, I admit it freely, this is where I am less of a homesteader at heart. I love fresh baked bread, but I do allow myself to be spoiled by modern technology in this regard. I appreciate very much the freedom my bread machine affords me. I use it regularly these days. Soup and bread go so well together - a very effective pair when it comes to comfort and healing. I think my friend will enjoy them, provided they both turn out tomorrow morning (fingers crossed). I have my two bowls of scraps - one for the pigs (carrot peelings, squash skins and seeds, etc.) and one for my vegetable broth ingredient bag in the freezer (garlic skins, onion skins, celery tips and leaves, etc.).

I have no other reason to be awake now except for the company of my old friend insomnia. Its different having this friend visit now that I'm not studying for a final or writing a paper or completing any assignment. No, there is nothing like that in my life now. I could read and I love to read, but my mind is wandering tonight and it is a particularly beautiful night here at Crow's Croft Farm. The Snow Moon is out in a clear sky with only an occasional cloud passing through. There are rumors of an eclipse tonight and a comet, but I haven't checked the times.

Ilta, my faithful black lab, is curled up at my feet as I write this. She has already followed me around this evening, enjoyed a carrot or two off the cutting board, and sat by me on the back porch and looked at the moon with me. She doesn't mind nights like these it seems and always sticks close to me. She and I were just out a little while ago, listening to the sounds of the creek and looking at this little place we call home under the glow of moonlight. There is less traffic on the road at this hour, so the creek's babble seems louder. We got two inches of rain yesterday alone and the creek is really moving and sounding more like a river.

The Snow Moon lives up to its name for certain. The full moon of February, it gets its name merely by being associated with a time of year when snowfall is the most abundant in a majority of places. For me, it means something different. Everyone seems to have that one month out of the calendar that they find to be their least favorite - that one month where everything unpleasant or difficult seems to take place. For me, its February. The shortest calendar in the month, but somehow the longest one in the calendar for me. I despise leap years, because it means February is one day longer. I have struggled for years to turn this idea on its head and focus my attention on the things that are pleasant about February. I have noticed the robins return during this month, the light at dusk is clinging longer so its not quite dark yet at 5pm anymore, and the crocuses are starting to pop their heads up even through the snow (if there is any). This year, we've had quite a bit of snow for the Pacific Northwest and I have enjoyed seeing Crow's Croft farm blanketed it white. Still, February has a dark underbelly for me - I am restless and suffering from cabin fever and I am haunted by memories of unpleasant occurrences of the past.

In the old days, the Snow Moon was also called the Hunger Moon since winter stores were nearly gone and the weather made hunting and gathering extremely difficult. In the modern aspect of things and in a lot of ways figuratively speaking, this makes sense with how I feel about this full moon and the month in which it falls. It always seems like there is a still pause this time of year - time seems to slow, things seem heavier, and everything is captured in this sort of limbo. For me, this month carries hard memories and usually new challenges and this year is no different for me and for the people around me. I begin my battle with it by planning things - planning my garden, planning house projects, etc. - but that only carries me so far and then there I am, waiting again, hungering and pacing...for the weather to change, for things to happen in order to put said plans into action. I feel I am struggling to dig my way out of the darkness, out of the snow, out of all the things that seem to make me feel weighed down and gloomy. I lack motivation, I procrastinate, and I justify reasons for both. In short, I'm in a funk and its damned hard to get out of it.

Eventually though, usually after the Snow Moon in February, I find that I start to turn my mindset intentionally. I wasn't always good at this, but I'm better at it each year. I am still restless and I am still gloomy, but less so and I find myself battling it in little ways that make a difference for me. I'm figuratively shoveling the snow and digging myself out, moving forward to the spring time when I can stop planning and start doing things again. I know I'm not alone in this feeling. Many people I know are dealing with their own struggles be it health, family, friendships, lovers, finances...you name it. I know that this year will be like all the ones before it where after the full moon things start to go into motion. Not fast, not instant, but slightly moving out of a frozen state - the wheels slowly starting to turn again even if only a tiny bit at a time. Like the crocus that bravely peeks its head up through the snow and continues towards growing and blooming despite the threatening cold and burdensome dreariness surrounding it, we all begin to move. Stasis is dangerous and as hard as slogging through the February days feels, there is one indisputable fact that keeps me slogging forward - it will end. March will come, the flowers will bloom like they always do. I try to will them to come sooner by focusing on those things that bring me peace and a sense of calm I struggle to maintain this time of year. Even if it is a silly thing like cooking soup and bread in the middle of the night and blogging my late night, insomnia ridden musings for you all to read.

The Snow Moon is sailing high over Crow's Croft tonight. Its light is creating a dim square of pale light through the skylight in the living room. There are no sounds in the house except the occasional creak of the logs settling, a stir of the chimes on the porch by the wind, the tick of the cuckoo clock, and Ilta's soft snoring drifting up from beneath the table. The house smells like the comforting concoctions I have setup to cook slowly overnight and my friend insomnia is slowly working towards departure after my third cup of chamomile tea. Another February is halfway gone and I am looking forward to Spring.

Once in a Blue Moon...

I wrote this piece recently and submitted a much more edited version to one of my favorite magazines. I don't know if it will get published or not, but I figure its worth posting here as well in its entirety. One of the nice things about a blog is I don't have to hold any piece to a specific word count. This piece is not about Crow's Croft exactly, though my home is referenced. This is about another place near and dear to my heart - my sanctuary outside of Crow's Croft. I hope you enjoy it.

Once in a Blue Moon

I don’t sit down much, at least when I’m not working the job that pays my mortgage, and even less since I bought an old log house on 8.5 acres on the Key Peninsula in Washington State. Between the farm chores, constant home projects, a full time job, and a small soap business you’d think I wouldn’t have time for much else. You’d think, and many people do, that I would have no “me” time or “downtime”.

My farm consists of seven cats, one dog, one goat, one llama, two alpacas, three pigs, five ducks, three horses, and a turtle. That may not make it a farm, perhaps it’s more like a petting zoo, but I love it just the same. My husband and my animals give me all the love and joy I could ask for and my husband and I don’t shy away from difficult cases, like a diabetic cat or a pair of alpacas so mishandled catching them to give shots, shear, and trim toes is likened to a rodeo show. We are animal rescuers.  Add the constant home improvement needed on this house and it would be safe to say that while my home is my sanctuary and where my heart lies, it is not always peaceful for me.

My “down time” or “me” time is not spent in front of the TV binge watching Netflix, or drinking wine with girlfriends, or visiting a spa. All of those things are fine, but I can never enjoy them fully without thinking or talking about what I need to get done. “You don’t take enough time for yourself,” they say. I find it amusing, because I enjoy “me” time four days a week and three of those days in the wee hours of the morning. What is this mysterious “me” time? I volunteer for Pony Up Rescue for Equines feeding horses and cleaning stables. “That sounds like work!” Sigh.

Three days a week, I get up at 4:45am, don a pair of worn out jeans, an old T-shirt (or long johns if its winter) and a hoodie, pull on my muck boots and head out the door. A twenty minute drive later, I am in my “spa” where the sounds are the soft whicker of horses and the shuffling, soothing sounds of a barn waking up to greet the day. Soft noses brush my face and, in a case or two, grab my hood and tug gently. These quiet, gentle giants, all with their own stories greet me with a kiss or a nuzzle when I open their stable doors to put in their morning hay and deliver their grain. Some mouth the hose when I freshen or refill their water troughs, and one or two playfully flip their grain at me. They all have stories, some of them make my blood boil with rage at the indecency of some people and how they would treat these beautiful creatures.

One of my favorites, though I love them all, is Lucky. A senior gelding who begged a rescue when Pony Up went to the kill pen to claim a small pony who’s ransom had been paid. I wasn’t there for this rescue, but I’ve heard the story so many times. Scrawny, malnourished, and clearly elderly, this old boy followed the rescuers of his friend Lottie the pony and begged to come along. Of course, his ransom was paid and he was loaded up without a fuss. Three weeks later with a careful feeding regime and lots of grooming, his “starvation coat” fell out and revealed a beautiful liver chestnut horse who loves nothing more than to just spend time meandering the farm. Since Lucky takes so long to eat, he gets let out of his stall so he can enjoy his grain at his pace rather than lose it to his paddock mate, Belles.

One particular winter morning, I had finished my volunteer chores and was going to collect Lucky who had finished his grain and was just making his social rounds around the farm saying hello to all the other horses. It was a cold, quiet morning in December. Dawn had just started to touch the sky with the faintest white light and the ground was covered in frost. A pale blue glow clung to everything and the full moon was descending towards the horizon. My fingers were sore and frozen having spent the last fifteen minutes breaking ice off of troughs. Lucky was standing in the middle of the drive, ears pricked forward, watching the sky. I wandered up, patted him lightly, and reached for the front of his horse blanket, knowing I wouldn’t need a lead rope to urge him back towards his paddock. Lucky just looked at me from the corner of his eye and then stretched his neck welcoming the scratch I gave him. A flock of crows flitted across the slowly lightening sky and Lucky and I watched them together for a moment, savoring the cold air and the sight of the moon slowly slipping lower and lower.

This is where I find peace in the crazy, busy bustle of my everyday life. Sore muscles, manure stained boots, and cold, dirty hands aside, nothing fulfills my heart and mends my spirit more than moments spent like this on a quiet, blue, moonlit dawn with a sweet soul who, just like me, is grateful to be here on this farm watching the night turn into day. I could sleep in later, I could miss all these moments and grasp to find them in other ways, but I don’t see any good reason to do so. This is where I am happy. This is where I recharge and find joy that I can carry with me throughout the day.

“Ready, old boy?” I ask Lucky after all the pale blue moonlight has vanished and the pink hues have started to take over the horizon.

Lucky looks at me with his soft, brown eyes and his ears stand straight forward at the sound of Belles’ neighing for him in the paddock. I kiss his velvety nose and tug lightly on the front of his horse coat once saying, “Come on. Time to face the day.”

He comes willingly and happily, prancing into his paddock easily when I open the door for him and glancing back at me as I wish him a good day and lock the gates.

For more information regarding this amazing rescue, please check out their website at www.ponyuprescue.org.

 

Duck, Duck, Duck, Duck....Drake...

Well, here it is, my first blog post for Crow's Croft Farm and all the fun shenanigans that happen here at our humble abode. I have a backlog of stories to share about all the lives that share this 8.6 acre work in progress with us, but the ducks told me (by their actions this morning) that they wanted to be first, so here it goes...

Phil, my husband, and I have five ducks. Four pretty hens and a handsome and attentive drake. Their names are Beatrice, Doris, Roslyn, Mrs. Hudson, and Benedict. How did we come upon such sweet companions, well, that's a story. It starts with just two ducks...Beatrice and Doris.

We had a neighbor who has since moved out. This neighbor is also "responsible" for five of the seven cats we share home with as well, but that's a tale for another time. This neighbor had a small coop and a good sized setup for a small flock of three ducks (all hens) and four or five chickens, one of which was a rooster. At first, Phil and I got along with this neighbor very well, though we quickly learned he was seriously lacking in the animal care department. Now, Phil and I don't expect everyone in the world to do what we do for our animals, but there are some basics that we strongly believe everyone who owns a pet should follow and certain behaviors are simply unacceptable in my mind. We had already witnessed the negligent behavior with the cats, but the ducks were the final straw and this person was very wise to have vacated before I could march over and give him a piece of my mind.

It was May 2016 and Phil and I were preparing the property for our wedding. After 7 years of being together, we were finally going to make it official. We were going to get married on this small paradise in progress we call home and had been busily working towards that event when we were informed of very sad news. Phil's grandmother, Maryanna, had passed away at the age of 93. We immediately made plans to travel to Wyoming for the funeral. My good friend Mike, was going to come stay at the farm and look after the cats and dog and our friend Glenda was going to come by and care of the barn babies (two goats, two alpaca, and one llama).

As you can imagine, Phil and I were already a wee bit stressed in the wedding preparations. There had been lots of bickering in the weeks before we received this sad news and starting making arrangements to drive to Wyoming. We had a plan to leave as early as 5am for our very long drive straight through to Sheridan, Wyoming and Mike had settled into the guest bedroom the night before to pick up the morning feedings and duties for us the morning of our departure. I am an early riser and 5am doesn't bother me although coffee is most definitely always needed. Phil is most definitely not a morning person whatsoever. Regardless, he was up and loading the car while I packed up the snacks I had prepared for the road trip and wrote up last minute instructions for Mike.

Phil had designed a beautiful rock garden and had been working with our friend and excavator to get it finished. New grass had been planted to cover the newly dug irrigation line and he had been religious about watering the grass daily so that it would fill in before the wedding. First thing he did, while smoking his morning cigarette and drinking his first cup of coffee, was turn on the sprinkler.

It was a beautiful morning, I remember that. Blue skies and already warm at 5am, the birds were singing and the forest was already thick, so the creek was hard to see from the back porch. Phil had the left the front door open, letting the morning breeze flow through the screen door. I was crabby, I admit it. I was tired and I was flustered, checking everything I had packed to make sure I had everything needed.

"Um, Chris.." I heard Phil say through the screen door.

"What?" I snapped grumpily, slurping my morning coffee.

"Get out here, please..." the tone was apprehensive.

I immediately was annoyed, having only gotten a few sips off my coffee so far, so I sighed, put down the cup and marched over to the door.

Phil was standing in the front yard, eyebrows raised, his gaze directing me to whatever scene had his attention.

"You've got to be f*cking kidding me..." fell right out of my mouth at the sight of them.

I recognized them immediately as the neighbor's and I started seething with the knowledge that he had moved out completely a few days before. Drawn by the sound of the sprinkler and the promise of water, were two ducks.  One was snowy white with a black beak, the other also snowy white with the same black beak and feet, but speckled with spots of black, grey, purple, and brown. They were flapping their wings in the water, bathing, gulping water off the spigot, and preening with relief. They conversed in their happy language, completely ignoring our presence. As we watched for a few minutes more, saying nothing, the white duck started stamping her black feet into the grass and they both started foraging, prying up worms and new grass seedlings with their beaks. They were hungry.

I looked at Phil and he stared back at me, his cigarette dangling between his fingers, shaking his head.

"He left them behind," I said, "Didn't you say he stopped and told you he was out of here the other day? His grandmother told me he was going to get the birds before he left when I talked to her the other day. Did he have any of them with him when you saw him?"

"Nope. He didn't have them with him and he said he was leaving. I wonder where the rest of them are," Phil said.

The look on my face must have said it all. A quick inspection next door revealed the coop was left open, all protection from all predators removed. I was sickened. I would not usually jump to conclusions, but given the situation we had witnessed with the cats, it was a logical step. He had left them with not protection for the coyotes, owls, and eagles, to clean up for him.

"Well, what are we going to do? We can just leave them out here to their own devices. They'll die," I said.

There was no way that was going to happen.

"We don't have a coop, Chris. Where are we going to put them?"

"Well, we can put them in the dog yard and ask Mike to get some feed for them. Since we're taking Ilta with us, she won't need to use it and its fenced at least," I suggested. It was the only place we had that would protect them.

"Good idea," Phil said. He put out his cigarette and we herded the ducks together into the back yard and closed the gate. At our approach, they started chattering and waddling from us. Phil left to gather a bucket of water and I hurried into the house. We were already late to our schedule at this point, but neither of us worried too much about that. There were ducks that needed our help.

Awakened by the commotion of us moving about upstairs, Mike wandered out of the guest bedroom rubbing his eyes. I met him in the hallway with a twenty dollar bill in hand and said, "Hey, here's $20 bucks. Can you maybe go to the feed store and get duck food today?"

Baffled, Mike squinted, took the money, and asked with confusion, "Ok...why?"

At that moment, Doris, the white duck, let out a very loud series of quacks.

Mike has known us for awhile and has grown somewhat accustomed to occurrences like this. At the sight of the two ducks now looking through the back sliding door at us, chattering loudly, he just giggled, shook his head, and said, "Ok...that's why. Sure."

Twenty five minutes later, Phil and I were driving to Wyoming with Ilta, our black lab, in the backseat. I was composing a very terse email to the neighbor's grandmother and owner of the house he had vacated informing her that we had his ducks. All the while, I was venting to my husband.

"Tell her that if he doesn't want them, we'll keep them," Phil interjected.

"Really?" I said, surprised, my rage abated at the idea of being able to keep them. We had always talked about having ducks, but had decided to wait until we had a proper coop and pond build to house them, "But we don't have anything ready yet."

"Well, they're here now. If he was willing to leave them behind, he clearly doesn't want them and we've always wanted ducks. They can get along in the back yard until we have something built for them. Besides, then we'll have eggs."

We decided to wait and see what the response would be to the email. It came within an hour of my sending it. His grandmother was horrified and just as angry as we were. She had contacted his mother, her daughter, who had shared in the anger at her son's actions and ask her mother to inform us that if we wanted to give them a home, they were ours.

"Well, we have ducks. I say we name the speckled one Beatrice and the loud one Doris," I said to Phil.

And that's how we ended up with the two. Beatrice and Doris gave us our first eggs the week we returned from Wyoming. We bought a large stock tank and filled it for them. They swam, played, gossiped, preened, and foraged happily. I dove into research and determined they were likely both some kind of Ancona cross, if not pure Anconas - a heirloom breed of ducks very well adapted to the Pacific Northwest and the very breed we had talked about getting eventually. Beatrice proved to be the most mild mannered one. We can pick her up, carry her under our arms, and she even "hugs" laying her head over your shoulder or tucking it under your chin. Doris, is loud and demanding and does not care for cuddles.

Of course, two was just company...not a crowd or even a flock in my mind and so, as the wedding approached, I put out requests to a few poultry groups I had joined on Facebook looking for more Ancona ducks to join our flock and a drake too. I got a response from a lady who had one Magpie female duck, a female Ancona, and a Ancona drake she would sell me for $70.

It was the day before the wedding and my Mom agreed to drive me over to get them. They were "meat birds" the lady said when we arrived, and prime specimens. I didn't tell her I had no intention of turning them into meat and tried to not show my horror when she said she would butcher the drake for me when he was ready for a fair price. I politely declined, quickly paid and helped my Mom load them into the large dog crate I had brought into the back of her SUV. They were distressed and confused. On the way home, every corner we turned my Mom would apologize to them as we heard the scuttling of their feet trying to find balance accompanied by their protests.

My best friend and maid of honor, Stacey, met us in the driveway and volunteered to help me carry the crate to the back yard to turn them into what was now the duck yard. Phil had fenced off a large portion of the dog yard and put in a gate so Ilta, our dog, still had her yard, but the ducks were safe in their half. Carrying the crate, Stacey giggled and said, "If I found myself carrying a crate full of ducks the day before anyone else's wedding, I would be shocked, but not with you."

We laughed as we set them all loose and watched them explode out of the crate in a flurry of feathers, happy to be free. The Magpie hen, I named Roslyn. The Ancona female, I named Mrs. Hudson (to fill out my cast of Sherlock Holmes characters) and the drake, I named Benedict.

Benedict immediately took control of his flock and hens. Within weeks, we had eggs from all the hens save one. Mrs. Hudson, who we are pretty sure is part runner duck, was not laying and actually quite terrified of EVERYTHING. Benedict had taken to chasing her exclusively and, when she would run away, he would latch on and pull feathers out of her back and neck as she ran away. It was horrible. We came home from Phil's Navy reunion cruise to find her feathers completely stripped off her back and I said, "That's it. I can't take it. He has to leave her alone."

I dove into my resources and researched what to do about this and found all kinds of suggestions. Finally, I decided to try separating Benedict from the flock and reintroducing him after awhile. For weeks, Benedict squished himself up against the fenceline to be close to the hens on the other side, clearly depressed and distraught that he couldn't be with them. I felt bad for him, but hoped this would be for the best. Mrs. Hudson's feathers grew back in and she became much more settled and secure with the other hens. Finally, he was reintroduced back into the flock. We have never had a problem since.

Benedict has become a much more polite suitor to the ladies since this forced separation and I always smile seeing him "ask" the girls if he can carry out his drake duties. His "ask" is a cute little head bobbing dance in the pond while swimming with the girls. He has also become very protective of his ladies. On more than one occasion, I have seen him flapping his wings and shooing the girls into safety at the sight or sign of an eagle overhead and during the coldest nights this winter, he has been stationed dutifully outside their nesting house, watching the door while the girls are all settled inside and warm.

This morning, I went out to feed the ducks their morning grain and was pleased to find Beatrice inside the nesting house with a new egg under her. I just changed out their straw bedding in their nesting house this last Saturday. Its been awhile since they were laying regularly, but the weather is starting to warm up just a touch. As I opened the gate, Mrs. Hudson and Roslyn scuttled out from behind the nesting house. Peering around behind the nesting house, what do I find? 9 eggs! A makeshift nest of straw and mud was pulled together in the space between the wall and the nesting house. I filled my pockets with the eggs and fed the grain. Looking across the yard, I saw another egg laying out in the open in the middle of the yard. 10 eggs in three days, I guess its laying season again! The girls want ducklings it appears too, given their reluctance to move off the nest so we can collect eggs. I hope they forgive us for not allowing this just yet. When we have a permanent yard and the proper accommodations, I am sure we'll grant them their wish.

I love my little flock and all the joy they bring us. On rough days or stressful days, just a few minutes of watching them forage, preen, swim, or nap seems to lift my spirits.