Heather Ross: Weekend Sewing: More Than 40 Projects and Ideas for Inspired Stitching
Anna Maria Horner: Seams to Me: 24 New Reasons to Love Sewing
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall: The River Cottage Family Cookbook
Eliot Coleman: Four-Season Harvest: Organic Vegetables from Your Home Garden All Year Long
Woodstacking lends itself to folksy phrases (which I'll translate later). My favorite is the old dandy, "stack it loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." Perhaps it's because every step of the way—from cutting the timber, to splitting it, to hauling it, and, finally, stacking it—leather-gloved hands are handling the wood. And those hands have time to think.
Burning wood is said to warm you three times (splitting, stacking, carrying it inside to burn). In our case, it's four. We made a mistake of inexperience our first year, when we we ordered "seasoned" wood. It was supposed to have been dry, ready to burn, we thought. But it wasn't. Wet wood takes far more time (and cursing) to heat up. So, that year, we burned through far more fuel oil—our heating insurance. That lesson taught us to season it ourselves. That means we order our firewood at least a year in advance. We stack it once in a "fieldstack" back behind the house, where it dries in warm sunshine and cool breezes. By the time we're ready to stack it near the house, patience has turned what was green and damp a warm, silvery gray. Deep cracks through its ends, known as checks, reveal that it's ready to burn. Then, we stack it once more.
Well, by we, I mean Michael. He's got a knack for spacial relations and details. So we specialize. I haul it. He stacks it. And here's where the folklore comes in. He tells me that he learned a lot of what he knows about burning wood—from BTU output to stacking to fire-starting—from the astonishing Woodheat.org. (Go there.) Stacking wood takes ample patience and a fair bit of problem-solving ability. But one good trick is to bookend each unsupported pile with the familiar "Lincoln Log" pattern. It's bomber.
From there, you can get fancy. We left our stack ends wide open in the middle (using two logs per row instead of three) to allow for even more airflow ... we were also getting tired. In fact, this is a great way to ensure that your well-dried, well-built pile stays put through the coldest days of winter. As for the rest of the pile, we stack it straight on, piece by piece. And we nestle the logs together with gaps that are "loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." In other words, no gaping holes. But airflow is key. Remember: Dry wood = hot fires.
Woodstacking is a rite of autumn around here. But, log by log, it's also one that feeds a tangible, monetary, sustainable fire. Once finished, Michael couldn't help grinning and taking deep breaths of satisfaction every time he looked out the window at our pile of winter heat, waiting to be burned.
I'm off to bed, and feed the woodstove...
Well, dear friends and family, despite your overwhelming support, kindness, and more than 300 votes, I have some disappointing news: We did not win a starter flock of angora goats. Thanks to you, our essay earned the 11th largest number of votes among 49 worthy contest entries in Martha's Vineyard Fiber Farm's great Goat Giveaway. We can't thank you enough.
Truth be told, I'm actually OK with it. There's plenty of fall gardening yet to do. We're keeping a watchful eye on this year's chicks (now four months old), who just moved into the henhouse with our big girls. A few pecks aside, they seem to be getting along well. Besides, it's apple pressing time here. I'm itching to try my hand at making apple cider vinegar and, if I'm feeling really oatsy, a foray into hard cider. Both make good use of the fruit from our solid but less than scrumptious old apples trees.
Possibility is a heady thing. Word was still spreading about our goat project while we buzzed around the Common Ground Fair late last month. With each friend we ran into who told us, "I voted for you and asked my friends to, too!," I couldn't help but feel like we'd already won—with the warm wishes from all of you behind us.
We were quizzing everyone we could about goats in general and mohair in particular, when we met possibly the most entertaining breeder/lover/dealer of angora goats in Maine. Pogo of Friends' Folly Farm, whose own hair curls a lot like the little one's above, assured us how delightful angoras are to have around. Who knows, maybe we'll become shepherds yet one day.
It's a cozy comfort indeed to know just who to call when we're ready to dive in, head first.
It's time to harvest just about everywhere. Eat up, and enjoy.
Here's what I wrote:
When our young family settled in coastal Maine five years ago, we did so with an eye toward planting some deep roots—and tapping into a simple, grounded life we always wanted.
We feel blessed to have found a 7-acre property that flanks a sunny four-acre fresh water pond and a broad hill covered with shrubs, maples and white pines that shelter us long after other trees have turned in for the winter. Our log cabin overlooks our chicken coop, which we built ourselves near the house to make daily visits to our dozen “girls” easy. (Our two boys collect most of the eggs.) We also tend to a productive hillside berry and vegetable garden and small orchard. We plan to welcome our first batch of bees next spring. And I’m sewing a lot of my family’s clothes.
We couldn’t have imagined how quickly we’d take to it all. Now we can’t imagine living any other way.
That’s because we found a clutch of good friends here who build, bake, knit, sew, quilt, felt, grow and raise as much as they can themselves. Luckily, they are happy to share what they know with us. We buy raw milk from dairying friends. We all raise backyard chickens (and a few sheep). A few garden year-round in hoop-houses. And we stitch handmade birthday presents for all of our little ones. When I brought it up, the idea of this contest was so exciting that a handful of friends jumped at the chance to form a “village” that would help raise (shear, feed and pet) this wooly herd.
We’re not sure if it will be a cooperative, a collective, or a CSA like yours, but our goal is the same. We want to share with others the experience of raising and caring for animals that nourish us, our families and our crafts. We have the land and the animal know-how. Others have skills to help us erect the shed that will house the flock. Still others have spun and dyed yarn. Most are knitters, crafters and mothers.
The longer we’ve lived here, the more we feel empowered to see the possibilities of what we can do with what we have—and how rewarding those accomplishments can be. I even started a blog to keep track of it all. It’s called Project Homestead. (Not all of this is new to me, though. I grew up riding and caring for my family’s horses, and rising before the sun to milk our Nubian goats. My sisters and I loved everything about them—from bottle-feeding our first kid, to their velvet-soft ears and their winsome souls.) So when we added chickens to our family last year, we all knew we were onto something. Caring for animals who help care for us is a cycle that feels organic, in the deepest way.
That cycle is what grounds us and our boys to this place we love to call home. And we think your beautiful goats would feel happy and at home here, too. In fact, our young would-be shepherds have a few ideas of their own.
“I would like to give our goats leaves and carrots and peanut butter crackers,” explained three-year-old Caleb, who often upends his bike and pretends it’s a spinning wheel. After hearing this, Owen, who is 6, agreed (what’s not to love about peanut butter crackers?). He continued: “I’d like to have goats because they would be fun to be with. I would like to help take care of them. And feed them. And give them love.”
We all would, more than anything.
Thanks so much for considering us for your unbelievably generous gift.
Fondly,
Victoria, Michael, Owen and Caleb Stefanakos
Freeport, Maine
Of course, there are DOZENS of other knitters, spinners and animal lovers who also entered the contest. To help them choose, the grassroots Fiber Farm has asked its devoted readers and supporters to vote for their favorite essay. We'd love it if you'd take a minute to support us, The Stefanakos Family shepherds, by clicking on the star at the bottom of our essay. Please vote only ONCE, as folks clogging the works get disqualified.
Thanks SO much for your support. I'll keep you posted.
I've been known to eat a fair bit of ice cream. So much, in fact, I was shocked to realize sometime in high school that a pint of coffee Häagen-Dazs was not created solely for me, to finish in one sitting. After all, it took a while for the solid mass to soften just enough that a spoon could slide into the creamy moat growing around the frozen edge. And by then, the container was nearly empty anyway...
This admission explains why I consider it my duty to help replenish the world's ice cream supply. And once Owen and I made this delicious, beautifully simple, vanilla version in 30 minutes, with nothing more than Ball jars, ice cubes, pickling salt, and a few stirs, I was convinced I could do it over and over again.
We got the idea from the brilliant River Cottage Family Cookbook (the recipe is below, with a few tiny tweaks). I recommend the book for anyone who likes to cook real, whole food and understand how fresh ingredients work together. It's instructive without being overly simple or, worse, condescending. And if you have kids, it's a no-brainer. Wander over to your local library and borrow it, or buy it at once.
This recipe is so fun because it's human powered and requires no cooking (that's a bonus on hot day). It's also a great excuse to use fresh cream skimmed from my friends' raw whole milk, good sugar and today's ripe berries. Then there's the chemistry: Ice isn't cold enough, long enough, to freeze cream solid. Toss in some salt, though, and voila! (By the ocean, we know firsthand that while fresh water freezes at 32 degrees F, saltwater freezes at much lower temperatures. So, by adding salt, the temperature of the ice drops quickly—and is happy to freeze jars of cream and sugar while it's at it.)
To get going, here's all you'll need:
What you do:
1. Spoon the cream into the clean jar. Add your favorite flavoring: For vanilla ice cream, add a few drops of the vanilla extract; for strawberries, crush them until they're runny and stir them in, or mix in 2 tsp. of good jam; for chocolate, stir in melted chocolate. Add the sugar.
2. Screw the lid tightly. Place the jar in the fridge while you sort out the ice and salt.
3. Get the ice from the freezer. The ice should be as cold as possible. If that sounds a bit silly, remember that the temperature of ice can vary a lot. Straight from the freezer, it could be as low as 14 degrees F. Ice that's been sitting around in a bowl and is just beginning to melt will be only 30 or 28 degrees F. Put the ice and salt into the container and mix them together well. The temperature of the ice will fall rapidly.
4. Make a well in the ice mixture. Take the jam jar out of the fridge and stand it in the well. Put the lid on the container and let it stand somewhere cool. (I put our pot back in the freezer.)
5. After 10 minutes, take off both lids and carefully stir the cream mixture, making sure you don't get any of the salt in it. It will have turned very cold but it won't have started to freeze yet. Replace the lids. Repeat this stirring process at 10-minute intervals until the cream turns to ice cream. It will do this quite suddenly, so be ready.
6. This makes a small amount of ice cream, just right for a single cone or to sandwich between a couple of wafers. You could use a bigger pan and add more jam jars. Just keep the proportions of ice to salt the same. (Note: We made eight jars' worth in two pans, and I plan to experiment to see how full we can make each jar. See full explanation of my weakness above...)
Enjoy.
I tend to fill most free time with activity, like switching loads of laundry or planting neglected leek seedlings, or chicken tending or sewing (just one more seam!). But on my birthday, yesterday, I took a detour: I decided to simply recline. In every way. I let dear friends plan. I packed no lunches. I watched boys entertain themselves on the beach. And, I must say, it got me to thinking how restorative such rest days can be. DOING at all times takes doing. For those of us with unfinished gardens and dishes, not to mention conscientious lives to attend to—all of us, that is—being does, too.
After such a fine day, I remember now that doing nothing is worth the effort. Gazing, lazily, at trees jutting out of the endless blue makes the forest that much easier to see, once back home. Of course, bare feet, sand, and ample sunshine (following weeks of wool socks, mud and rain) may have improved my vision a bit.
Repeat after me: Take a load off... The weeds won't mind a bit.
They arrived this week, the six of them. Downy, soft, frail. Within days, they're hopping up to a small roosting bar, settling into a quiet boy's loose shirtsleeves, even managing to cover their galvanized tub home with poop. All is well. These new babes—two more buff orpingtons (to replace the pair we lost) and four gorgeous barred rocks) in our midst remind us how fast it all goes.
It's fast, because these tinies will be LAYING EGGS with their big sisters from the nearby coop in about five months. (Hard to believe, looking at them now.) It also seems like just yesterday that we were entering the world of hen rearing. But, a year later, we feel like old pros. Friends seek our advice (hmm...). Michael's marvelous "Poulet Chalet" (so-named by our friend Melissa) is an engineering marvel for a small flock like ours. And the hens follow me around the garden like nosey girlfriends. The fact is, our eggs are so plentiful, I practically take them for granted.
I shouldn't, though. A bold fox visiting the flatland down near the pond one morning this week made off with a rather large Canada goose gosling, leaving the family of seven we've watched grow, swim, and explore all spring ... missing one. The mother hen in me felt sick as I watched them swim off to safety. The parents looked back, hoping a straggler would catch up from the cattails. But it never did.
I remind myself several times a day (when boys are flying through the air on rope swings, say) that we watch them as closely as we can. And we have to relax and enjoy their unfurling. Like the chicks who can ALL roost on a calm arm now, the boys' hands are so much more nimble than a year ago that they can cradle them without choking (usually). That's not to say they don't leave a chick wandering around the mudroom, unattended, now and then. They do. They just help wipe up the floor afterwards.
My three-year-old early riser and I awoke early the other morning to an unfamiliar friend — the sun! As it peeked over the eastern edge of neighboring pines and ponds, these gorgeous, plump, popcorn-like blackberry blossoms nearly glowed. They hold such promise... for birds and bees, for lovely blooms, for berries green-then-red-then-purple-then-deepest black, by summer's end. In the past, I'd say "I can't wait." But this year feels different.
I've planted so much more, from strawberries, blueberries and raspberries (to harvest next year), to many veggies in an entirely new and experimental garden site, that I'm excited to watch what happens next to each of them, one by one. I feel like a proud new mama of a happy but scattered brood. (Not all of those babes are in the ground yet, either.)
It's the middle of June, but days of cool and rain make it feel like summer is still just around the corner here. The Summer Solstice arrives this Sunday, so I suppose it is. It's the day the sun reaches its farthest point north of the equator, lazing its way through the year's longest day; this year, it falls on Father's Day (lucky papa!). And, lucky for us and the blackberries that surround us, the sun will be warming us even more as the days march on.
As much as I'd like to take credit for their vitality, the truth is, nothing here grows more effortlessly, and with as little human intervention, as these generous canes. Coaxing bud into blossom and tart into sweet, I am sure, is some benevolent and powerful force; one the dew drops on spring leaves, my early riser and I have been waiting to greet.
Welcome, summer. Go ahead, stay awhile.
Whenever I have looked up from the mud while trying to outrun the rain to plant two peach trees, one nanking cherry bush, three high-bush blueberries, 100 strawberry plants, and a new raspberry hedgerow, I have been madly envisioning where the rest of our food will go. The tomato and pepper seedlings, the greens waiting in flats, and the pumpkins, gourds and corn all need fertile homes, too.
This is the "year of the garden." It's the year I stop dreaming and reading and surfing YouTube (for swale-building tutorials, no less) ... and START PLANTING. It took me a few years, and as many meager harvests, to locate just the right site for really productive fruit and vegetable gardens. This process took a while because, along the way, I became obsessed with permaculture and forest gardening. Lucky for me, deep contemplation is as necessary as good compost for gardens that are high-yield, low-maintenance and as perennial as can be.
Well, the tines hit the topsoil over the past few weeks (please forgive the long lapse between posts), and our new hillside garden is well under way. (The tomatoes are stretching their toes as I type.) A tool I found especially helpful was one I learned about from my friend, Lisa, who runs our impressive local permaculture meetup. She told me that she uses Google Earth to track the layout, patterns of sunlight and even make measurements on properties for which she's designing gardens. I downloaded it, zoomed into our location (the top image is a snapshot of our fledgling homestead), and then traced everything from existing gardens to a tiny future vineyard. A girl's gotta dream, right?
A University of British Columbia's Botanical Garden forum reminded me: Live seaweed is critical to a host of marine life. (Ours marked the top end of a storm surge, when the water was higher than it will be for some time, so I sleep at night knowing it wasn't ocean-bound.) Even so, collecting grass from the length of the beach—while leaving some behind—will shelter and protect any animals left behind.
