The Price of New Sun

We pronounced a benediction yesterday. The death was of the farm variety, not the human. We are no stranger to mortal transitions out here. Chickens die of their own expiration or by the appetites of predators. Squash vines succumb to bugs. Baby mice are snatched from the straw by hungry chickens in spring. Crops green, then fruit, and then rot. Deer carcasses along the roadside become routine.

Tennyson was right that “nature is red in tooth and claw.” Sitting on the front row of death, be it incremental or violent, is something to which we have adjusted.

But somehow this felt different. Yesterday we felled an oak tree. The “we”, of course, I mean in the formal, literary sense. A more experienced friend actually wielded the chain saw. But we were complicit. We had pronounced the condemning verdict that set this execution in motion. We dragged away the pared branches and ultimately the felled trunk. We stood and absorbed the now-gaping void.

That the removal was necessary we had concluded some time ago. The solar array we had installed a few years ago was a priority and the young tree had the misfortune of flourishing into obstruction. Its widening shade was curtailing generation.

But it was a beautiful tree, rising sentinel-proud between the garden and chicken yard, in full and glorious view from the sun room; perfectly shaped, with a long and sturdy future ahead of it. Except it had the misfortune of being rooted in what turned out to be the wrong place.

And so as the pull cord motored the saw to life and the screaming chain bit into the wood, we gave thanks for beauty of the tree, the sap it had run, the leaves it had worn and seasonally dropped, and the shade that had been both blessing and guilt.

Benediction — good and blessing words, indeed.

And then we turned to the suddenly sun-washed solar panels and admonished them that it was now up to them to make this death redemptive. 

Their new life, after all, had come at a sobering price.

Morning of Quieter Days

As darkness succumbs to the inevitability of a new day, red smears the eastern tree line, before igniting into a blazing gold. The bare branches are still on this chilly morning that follows the first serious freeze of autumn — 17-degrees if the forecasters got it right. It was 20 according to the thermometer as I bundled up to release the chickens. The lighter freezes over the past week have been acclimating them to the season ahead, and they have been putting on new feathers. They generate heat in their confined overnight huddling, but there is no way around the fact that it's cold. And several of them are showing their age, not unlike the rest of us. Nonetheless, they troop down the ramps as I open the hatches, commencing the work of their day — hunting and pecking, fluttering and skittering, exploring the newly stacked bales of straw and, with any luck, laying a few fresh eggs. 

That happens less frequently these days, which is usual — I only found two yesterday; 1 the day before. Out of 30 or so birds, a third are aging out of their egg-laying prime, a third are just beginning their careers, and the rest are simply settling into their seasonal dormancy. Daylight is the deficiency these days, not degrees as is often suspected; and while it's possible to add artificial light to eek out a few more eggs, I rather subscribe to the conviction that we all need our winter break. 

In the garden, whatever gleaning was to be done has been accomplished, the canes have been pruned back, the winter rye has been seeded as a cover crop and mulched with the rich bedding scooped out from the coops where fresh shavings have been spread. Walking back toward the house for a fresh cup of coffee I step across browned lawn mottled with tenacious patches of green, reminding me that everything moves at its own pace. Haven't I known youthful octogenarians, after all, right alongside crotchety old 30-year-olds? I mouth a prayer of gratitude for the remnant green and however many days it has remaining as I crunch on toward the door and into the warmth beyond. 

A satisfying quiescence has settled upon Taproot Garden. Even Sam, the rooster, seems more circumspect in his vocal pronouncements. In no time the barn and greenhouse will be frenzied with soil blocking and seeding and sprinkling and nurturing and the great whir of springtime will be upon us. But in truth all that is months away, on the far side of holidays, cold, and this blessed stillness. 

One of the heated waterers is already empty, I noticed, and needs refilling; but I'll wait to tend to that until later in the day when it warms up...to maybe 25. Or maybe not. After all, I love to shiver.

'Till the Season Comes 'Round Again

It’s calmer now — a slower pace that is as satisfying as its welcomed. This house has been percolating all week. Having gleaned the garden ahead of freezing weather, the garage was full of green — green tomatoes, tomatillos, and green chilies and peppers of multiple varieties. All of which begged the inevitable question: 

“What are we going to do with all this stuff?” 

After all, we have a lot invested in those burgeoning trays, starting with the fabrication of soil blocks last winter, seeding, watering and nurturing in the greenhouse through early spring; transplanting into the garden, irrigating, trellising, weeding and finally picking. There is the cost of seed invested in those trays, plus time and water, muscle and months. We want as little as possible to go to waste.

And so first, the usuals: fermenting various vegetables; dehydrating peppers; salsa verde with the tomatillos and peppers; chow chow with green tomatoes and peppers; salsa and marinara with the riper tomatoes...and peppers.

“But then what?” 

I recalled the dozens of jars of “bread and butter” jalapeños we have purchased and wondered aloud why we couldn’t make some of our own? 

And so we did.

And what about preparing that hallowed southern staple, fried green tomatoes? 

And so we did.

Chopping, assembling, simmering, brining; canning, freezing, pickling. The house has been a humid fog of steam from the water bath canners — both of them. 

“But now what?” 

We read about stowing green tomatoes away in a cool and covered place for shelf ripening. “Hmmm,” we thought with a smile; “a few more weeks — if not months — of BLT’s!” 

And so we did.

But still we had a few trays of this-n-that remaining. “So what shall we do with this?” we wondered aloud.

“I suppose we could, you know, eat it now. You know, fresh.”

Hmmm. That’s an idea.

And so we did.