Fleur-de-WildLife

The other evening, right at dusk, I saw an amazing sight: A herd of 11 deer in my mom’s backyard.

I tried to take a photo but my camera battery was dead.

We’ve enjoyed groups of three or four deer all winter long. We even put out dried corn, much to the delight of the romping squirrels, and, I’m sure, the deer.  The deer trimmed the yews, which were way overgrown.  I loved watching them bound across the snow, white tails waving like flags.

But,  eleven!

I called the township office.  The secretary suggested I talk to Frank, a fellow in the township office who used to work for the game commission.  Frank tells me this is the time of year for deer to gather in herds. As soon as the females start giving birth, they’ll separate into smaller family pods.  “Food and shelter,” Frank says, “that’s what they’re looking for.”

They’ve found that, and a small pond for drinking, at 101 Timber Lane.  The corn feeder has been retired.

Meanwhile, at my-home-away-from-home, the office, we have a different wildlife situation.  For two days a male cardinal has been flying into the window, attacking his reflection.  He’s claiming his territory, but boy, is it annoying.

I am in a windowless alcove; the office behind mine has the windows.  The mild-mannered estimator who works there had a bid due at 3 p.m. yesterday.  This avian hammering had to be a distraction, especially on deadline.  When he left for lunch, I leaned a few blueprints and a metal roofing sample in front of the windows, and taped paper over the rest.

The cardinal was undeterred.

Just before 3 p.m., the estimator submitted his bid for a $1 million-plus roofing project.  Then, he quietly walked out of the office.  This is a young man who claims “calm” is written into his DNA. He came back a few minutes later and I asked where he’d been.

“I tore the nest out of the bush.”

This morning, Mr. Red was at it again.

Then, the National Guard stepped in.  The fellow across from my desk heard the racket. (He had been out of the office yesterday.)   He got a roll of bright blue painter’s tape and placed two Xs over the windows and draped the blue tape on the boughs of the evergreen, like swags on a Christmas tree.

Crash! Rat-a-tat-tat. The blue tape was useless.

So NG got a roll of plastic, cut off a long section, and draped it over the bush.

“I figure if he’s inside the plastic, he won’t be able to see his reflection.”

Wrong.  The bird just knocked it down and continued to mount his attack.

Then a guy from the sheet metal shop came to the rescue.

“They’re not bad eatin’ ’’.  It was just before lunch …

I decided to check out Penn State Extension’s wildlife information.  In spring, many male birds see their reflection in a window and think another fellow is entering his territory. Most birds stop doing this after they have a mate with eggs in the nest.  Except cardinals.   They will keep it up year-round.  Bird experts suggest putting a mirror somewhere close by (but not too close) so the cardinal will think his rival has moved—away from your window.  When I went home for lunch, I put the orphaned mirror sitting in the garage in the back of my Scion.

NG went out again and put the plastic over the window. When I returned, I leaned the mirror along the side of the building several feet from the popular window but behind a pipe, so it would be secure.

As we were nearing quitting time, we hadn’t heard a peep or a crash.

“That plastic did the trick,” NG said with pride.

I kept quiet.

The estimator will not want to keep looking out a window covered in plastic and blue painter’s tape.  And my bet is that the cardinal won’t either.  He’s busy jousting with that handsome fellow in the mirror …

Linus

My grandmother Nives used to say that things come in threes. She was always right.

Before I left for the day, I opened an email from our neighbor who keeps sheep and chickens in my mom’s barn.  There is a new addition at 101 Timber Lane—Linus.  Isn’t he the cutest!  Spring, the animals are telling us, is here. Laurie Lynch

Fleur-de-MissHer

As soon as 2019 arrived I started getting “friendly reminders” that my iCloud storage was nearing capacity.

I got to work. I trashed duplicate or fuzzy photos over a couple of weekends. Then, daily, I deleted messages in my email inbox. It was a trip though the past decade, slow work. I’d get distracted by this or that email, go drifting into a daydream filled with memories.

Threaded through the days of deletions were years of friends sharing stories, catching up from far away, checking in and keeping me up to speed with their lives. Then, on Feb. 10, just four days after her 64^thbirthday, I got an email from Karen.  Stage 4 Cancer.  Hospice. The suddenness, the sadness, ran through me. I couldn’t delete her stories.

Karen wrote about her kids, her travels, her garden, anything French or Italian, politics. She sent a photo of her son’s special wedding and another son’s handcrafted wooden bowls. She suggested books like the The Hare with Amber Eyes and I headed straight to the library.  She shared her family’s favorite birthday dish—Paul Prudhomme’s Cajun Chicken Diane—and for her garlic-loving friend, Provencal Garlic Soup.  A true Renaissance woman, just a year ago Karen sent a poem she had written … on stinkbugs.

As autumn leaves turn, bracing for the winter ahead, or, as a spring tonic, readying me for the road ahead, Provencal Garlic Soup is my comfort dish. You will find the recipe at the end of this blog post.

Karen

And, the friendship. I remember evenings in her backyard when I lived in Kutztown, sipping wine and learning about her favorite climbing rose.  Or venturing into her pantry to admire her home-preserved sauces, fruits, and pickled vegetables. There were chats on the phone, a weekend visit when I watched her peek into the oven or set table with china collected over the years as she prepared a dinner club soirée, and, our emails. I remember one, in December, when I was dumping my dementia-caregiving woes on Karen—and feeling guilty. The response came back in ALL CAPS, saying, in effect, Listen up Laurie. Remember this and don’t forget it:

YOU CAN ALWAYS TALK BITCHY TO ME BUT I’LL NEVER THINK YOU ARE A B#%*H.

A true friend, what more could I ask for?

Karen died March 17.

Laurie Lynch

Small World, Email Style:  I was talking to a dental office receptionist the other day to set up an appointment for my mother.  I gave her my email address for a reminder and she said, “Oh, I’ve been to Fleur-de-Lys Farm.”

“What? When?” I asked, my voice full of incredulity

“My son and Nick (my nephew) were in a baseball tournament in the Lehigh Valley and you had the team over for a cookout.”  I had almost forgotten.

Update on Books:  The first in The Irish Country Doctor series by Patrick Taylor captured my heart with scene setting—and what a setting, the Irish countryside—and lovable characters. The doctors, old-timer Dr. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and just-out-of-med-school Dr. Barry Laverty, amused me with a Irish schoolboy version of name that tune, as one spouts a quote and the other replies with the author—Shaw, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Kipling. Settle in under an eiderdown comforter with cup of tea and one of Taylor’s books as you read about the personalities and ailments of a small Irish village, complete with a heavy dose of Ulster dialect: eejit( idiot), knackered (tired), and lummox  (stupid creature).

Forget homespun calm when you open Bill Clinton and James Patterson’s The President Is Missing.  This book creates adrenaline-pumping, non-stop tension as high-tech meets terrorism.  I couldn’t put it down. Highly recommended, thank you, Valerie.

Now, I’ve started My Struggle.  Stay tuned.

Provencal Garlic Soup

8 cups water

¾ cup peeled garlic cloves

¼ cup olive oil

1/3 cup sliced onion

1/3 cup sliced celery

1/3 cup fennel

½ cup white wine

4 fresh thyme sprigs

½ tsp. fresh rosemary leaves

5 cups chicken stock

2 ¼ cups half-and-half

1 slice coarse country bread, day old or lightly toasted

1 Tbsp. salt

1 tsp. pepper

In a large pot, combine water and garlic, and bring to a boil over high heat.  Reduce to medium and simmer, uncovered, until garlic is translucent, about 5 minutes.  Drain and reserve garlic.

Return pot to medium heat and add olive oil. Heat 30 seconds, then add onion, celery, and fennel, saute until just tender, 2-3 minutes. Add garlic, reduce heat slightly and sauté, stirring frequently, 2 more minutes. Do not allow to brown.  Add wine and cook until reduced by half.

Add remaining ingredients. Stir well, reduce heat to low and simmer, uncovered, stirring occasionally until reduced by one-fourth and creamy white, about 40 minutes. Remove and let cool 10 minutes.

Blend, reheat over medium heat, and serve immediately.

I

Fleur-de-CrocusHolidays

In Belgium, tomorrow is the first official day of krokusvakantie  (Dutch) or vacances crocus (French) or, translated into English, crocus holidays.  But actually, in the US of A, the quaint term would just lead to head-scratching puzzlement.

Here, the actual week off from classes in March seems to vary but this year krokusvakantie coincides with Penn State’s Spring Break, where we’ve already celebrated State Patty’s Day and still look forward to green beer on Saint Patty’s Day later in the month.

Yesterday, in the YMCA locker room, a Penn State prof was lamenting that she would be staying in State College for the “break” but she had already gotten texts from co-workers saying they had arrived safely in Hong Kong, Honolulu, and Park City, Utah.

For those of us still in Central Pennsylvania, there is another damn snowstorm coming this way.  If the weatherman is correct, I will spend Scone Sunday watching snowflakes outline the gray tree branches and erase tracks on the already snow-covered ground. (I’ve gotten into the habit of baking scones on Sundays, and enjoying them throughout the week.)

But in Belgium, the crocuses are blooming, as are the snowdrops, and a few daffodils are popping their silly heads up in the unusually warm spring air (in the mid-60s).

In Ghent, my daughter Marina has also seen four-inch-tall garlic sprouts and, heaven forbid, aphids on the tender new growth on her roses. She even had a dream about finding a treasure trove of red wigglers, picking them up as they fell through her fingers like cold, limp pasta. Forget Freud on this one—she has been making plans for a vermicomposter and is having trouble sourcing her first batch of what they call “tiger worms” in Belgium.

Oh, I am so ready for crocus holidays, even crocus workdays, but chances are better I’ll have a snow day Monday.

Now, about those scones:  I have a basic recipe that works really well, and each week I mix it up a bit. One week, Craisins and walnuts; candied ginger with pecans, the next.  Today, I’m baking with a gift from Ghent’s Spice Bazaar, 5 Chinese Specerijen (spices): sezhuanpeper, kruidnagel, venkel, anijs, kaneel.  (Szechwan peppercorns, cloves, fennel, star anise, cinnamon). And, I think I’ll tone down the spicy warmth with a half-cup of white chocolate chips, in honor of our March snowstorm.

Sunday Scones

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/3 cup sugar

1 tsp. baking powder

¼ tsp. baking soda

1 stick unsalted butter, frozen

½ cup raisins (or whatever you wish)

½ cup plain yogurt

1 large egg

Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and preheat oven to 400 degrees.

In a medium bowl, mix flour, sugar, baking powder and baking soda.  Grate frozen butter into flour mixture and use your fingers to work in the butter. Then add fruit and/or nuts.

In a small bowl, whisk yogurt and egg until smooth. Then, using a fork, stir yogurt mixture into flour mixture. Use your hands to press the dough into a ball.  Be patient, the dough will come together.

Place dough ball on lightly floured surface and pat into an 8-inch circle, about ¾-inch thick. Use a sharp knife to cut into 8 triangles.  Place on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper, 1 inch apart.  Bake until golden, about 15-18 minutes. Cool for a few minutes and serve, or, when totally cool, pack into an airtight container. Smakelijk, Laurie Lynch

My Favorite Written on Slate:  “First the howling winds awoke us; then the rains came down to soak us; Now, before the eye can focus – crocus.”  Lilja Rogers

A Promise:  “No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.”  Hal Borland