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Farm Sketches
Dinner
Combing the woods on a hot, humid afternoon in search of chanterelles is a lottery that pays off in uncertain dividends. You may have missed a flush that peaked yesterday or last week. Or the mushrooms may just now be pushing up under the fallen leaves of last fall, hidden for another cycle of the sun. And while the journey may be the greater part of the excursion, a basket of mushrooms for a dinner is the goal. That, and the cigar, of course.
You may be teased by a scattering of boletes at the edge of the woods, an old flush of oyster mushrooms decaying on a downed oak—each evidence of mycelium running through underground networks under the rot, topsoil in the making. On this one late day in May, a flute-shaped chanterelle, soft and wilted in decay, totters at the base of an oak, evidence of a missed opportunity. A few more in similar state spread out along the slope.
You push on in hope. Half an hour later you come to realize that you’ve missed the harvest by a day or three. You finish the walking of the ridgeline and the smoking of the cigar and drift back through the woods. The storms of the past few years have opened up the forest where large oaks have fallen. You sit for a while in dappled light on a log before the return to the house. Thinking of nothing, you conclude plenty. Back home and inside you call upstairs, “No alfredo tonight. I’ll make some carbonara instead.”
Moral Fiber (Part 1)
The newest farm helper, aka the Kid, appears to be afraid of snakes—a perspective apparently inherited from the maternal side of his family—so when I spot two large rat snakes mating under the gate leading into the garden, I say nothing. The male is a little over five feet. The female, big and thick, is closer to seven. The suitor chases her down by the lumber pile, coiling his body around her. Still entwined, they disappear in search of conjugal privacy by slipping into the cracks of a stack of rough-cut oak boards. Later I resist asking the Kid to restack the pile.
Moral Fiber (Part 2)
A recent visitor to our farm for a cookout was also not overly fond of snakes. She is of a city-bred disposition. That she was on our land that day and enjoying it as much as she did could most likely be penciled into the tendency of an urbanite obliviousness to what lies beneath the surface in nature. (The beautiful weather, good food, a large crowd of family and friends also aided in distracting her.) Case in point: When six or eight people stood thirty feet away, all chattering excitedly as they watched with fascination as another large black rat snake slithered through the strawberry patch and down a hole in the adjoining asparagus bed, she remained relaxed and totally unaware in a rocking chair.
Later, when she commented on how much she enjoyed the farm, I again exercised moral fiber and resisted asking if she would like to help pluck a handful of asparagus.
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Reading this weekend: Authentic Reactionary, Selected Scholia of Nicolás Gómez Dávila. Translated with commentary by Ramon Elani, it’s a book that has nudged itself to my favorite of the year (with half a year to go). Here is a taster: I am not a disaffected modern intellectual but an angry medieval peasant. Also, Madame Benoit’s Lamb Cookbook, which as advertised is a cookbook of lamb recipes.
We had a resident black snake for years…my dog and the snake share an uneasy truce, but I loved watching her keep the rodent population in check. I think she was driven out whe yellow jackets decided to take over her nest under the deck steps. Didn’t see her all last year and was very sad. This spring tri spotted a new, smaller snake hunting through the flowerbeds, so maybe a new one has taken up residence. The previous snake was about 8’ long.
Great to see you on the new platform!