A bit of nostalgia. The years pass, and our lives change, but the memories last. (this is my 100th post)

My recent post on fall in NZ got me thinking about making wood and that triggered further memories.

Jeanne, when she read this recently and kindly encouraged me to submit it to my vast readership of several family members and friends, called it bittersweet. I guess it is that, sort of.  As I write this, I am engaged in selling our house with the manicured lawn and everything that was part of our lives for so long. We have moved on to a new life, she and I. It's a great one, and I wouldn't change a thing, even if I could, but with my senior status has come an appreciation for all the stages of my life.  And a bit of sentimentality. 

This was written several years ago. I had been retired from Khoury, Inc. and was now working part time for Lakestate Industries. My brief association with Lakestates is a story in itself. It was short-lived, but it gave me the proudest months of my 35 year working career. Building furniture doesn't compare with helping to build people. 

This essay or whatever it is, was written mostly for me. And it was written to remember what a life Jeanne and I lived. We made decisions early in our lives together that set in motion a life style that I don't regret. We could have made much more money had we followed other paths, but this suited us. And the years disappeared so quickly...at least it seems so now. 

So, here it is for what it's worth. 

At the Chopping Block

by Doug Foster

Fred and McKenzie, Mike and Kim, and I were perched on stools in our kitchen one late afternoon in November while Jeanne worked at the counter, chopping vegetables. She had one of her fancy knives flying, the blade almost a blur, and she was making short work of dicing a progression of vegetables. As each was finished, she tilted the cutting board, and added to the mirepoix she was preparing for the osso buco, our main course that evening. Those of us not wielding a knife at 4 strokes per second, were enjoying our choices of adult beverages. Restoring our tissues P. G. Wodehouse would have said. To be fair, Jeanne also had her glass of chablis off to the side and the occasional sip had done nothing to diminish her knife skills.

It occurred to me then, that we had all come together again, at the hub of our home, our kitchen, and around the hub of the kitchen, the cutting board.

We are all in our 50’s now, and enjoy a fine standard of living. We have come to the point in our lives that allows us to partake of some of the finer things of life. That point being, of course, when Fred and McKenzie, the most generous guests any host could ever imagine, come to visit. They never fail to impress us by bringing luscious and exotic edibles that are just not available from our local market place. Or when Mike and Kim honor us with a platter of marinated woodcock breasts wrapped in bacon and grilled.

And so we gather, with other friends as well, a few times a year, around that point in the kitchen that begins the journey for the food stuffs from provender to fine dining.

I realized, during a lull in the conversation, and possibly as a result of the mellow mood generated by my scotch, that it wasn’t very long ago, not a day over 35 years, back when Jeanne and I were first starting out together and contended with a much lower standard of living, that the point that started our dinner’s journey to the table was very different. Back in those days, there weren’t any middle men cutting and wrapping and marketing most of our main courses. We did it ourselves and we did it, not around the cutting board on the counter in the kitchen, but around the chopping block in the backyard.

Now, I don’t know what your experience has been with cutting boards, but mine has not been good. We have had a lot of turnover with that particular kitchen implement. They crack, warp, discolor, or otherwise make themselves unappealing to use in short order. Then off we go to the store for another. It’s very disheartening.

I had no such problem with my chopping blocks. My first chopping block especially was carefully selected and through use, became seasoned and beautiful to me.

When I began to ‘make wood’ at our first home, I recognized immediately that I would need to split much of the stove length wood I was hauling home. The chopping block on which I would do this work logically needed to the biggest, most solid hunk of stump I could find.

We had, at the time, a problem with Dutch Elm Disease working it’s way through our part of the Midwest, and this meant that we had a good supply of dead elms in our woods. It made up most of the firewood I collected for many years. As I hauled each of my first drays of wood home and unloaded it, I would toss aside any likely looking pieces for the position of chopping block. From all the candidates, I chose one that was 14 inches tall, and 22 inches across. It had a nice twist I noticed, in its growth pattern, and that meant that it would be even more impervious to being inadvertently damaged as I split each piece of wood it supported.

It served me well that first year, accepting thousands of strokes from my 15 pound maul as I split my way through many cords of wood. By the time all of it was deposited in the basement that fall, I had a wonderful pile of chips around my block, attesting to my industry, and the top no longer looked like the brand-new chopping block of a wood-making neophyte. I had taken the bark off it all around to avoid rot. The sun and rain had begun to bleach it nicely too.  The chopping block was now a permanent part of my rural homestead.

The fall meant also, that our flocks of chickens, ducks and geese had, for the most part, come to the end of their short but happy lives. A few of the more productive chickens were chosen to continue with their egg laying duties during the upcoming winter months, but the remainder of the fowls were systematically introduced to the chopping block one busy Saturday, and took a major step toward becoming our dinner.

With time, other main courses began their journey toward our table on the chopping block as well, some of them unique enough to qualify today for a spot on Andrew Zimmer’s Weird Food television show. Back then, it was just living off the land. It was having a good meal that I didn’t have to buy.

Over the years, my chopping block acquired an increasingly used look. It’s edges became beveled as I braced innumerable thin branches against it and cut them to length with my axe.

I noticed too, that it was slowly forming a depression in the soil underneath it. Tens of thousands of strokes were compressing the dirt and raising a slight berm of soil around it. One night, as I watched the 1984 version of Dune, and saw the Fremen setting up “thumpers” to disguise their movements across the desert from the giant sandworms, I wondered if my rhythmic thumps were noticed by or affected any of the regular-sized annelids that lived in my vicinity.

Finally, the years took their toll on my old friend, and I was forced to find a replacement. I never did get another chopping block quite as big and solid as that first one. With time, my needs for a chopping block diminished as well. Oil, and then propane became my heating fuel of choice, and we no longer raised any animals. I still kept my chopping block however. It’s one of those items you just don’t throw away; you never know when you might need it again.

I am happy to say that even now, all these years later, I still have a chopping block. I admit though, that it has been removed from the environs of our home. Our gently sloping lawn is well manicured and Jeanne’s crescent of flowers and dwarf apple trees curving gracefully through it lend our home a certain level of tidiness that our first house definitely lacked. It would not do to have my chopping block a few feet from the back door.

It sits now between my storage shed and garden house, near the far edge of the property. While I no longer ‘make wood’ because I need it to keep winter at bay, I do still accumulate stove wood now and then as I thin my woodlot, clean up storm damaged trees, or otherwise maintain my three acres. I therefore still have at least a minimal smattering of the chips around my chopping block that are so necessary to give it the proper look. Just a few days ago I sharpened a few cedar stakes that Jeanne could use to lay out straight lines in her garden.

I sit now at leisure, beneath an apple tree, and sometimes look across my yard at that distant chopping block. Its distant location reminds me of the distance in years I’ve come since it was my daily companion. I feel a bit of nostalgia for those times I remember when it was hub of my homestead.

I know that Jeanne is planning chicken for dinner tonight. It’ll be put on the grill, halved and anointed with truffle-infused olive oil and spices. I wonder if she’d mind, just this once, that instead of splitting it in half with her 10-inch cleaver, I took the bird out to my chopping block, and split it with my double-bitted axe? I’ve been practicing lately, and I’ll bet I could still split its wishbone right down the middle….just for old-times sake? Maybe if I poured her a glass of wine now and asked later...

Our tramp to Lake Wainamu

We have driven past the carpark at the trail's head for Lake Wainamu every time we've visited Bethell's Beach. It's a very small carpark and we've always noticed that because of it's limited space, the overflow of cars that stop there spreads along both sides of Bethell's Road for quite a distance in both directions. It is clearly a desireable destination. Still, the lure of the surf and caves of Bethell's has always called us past it and to the very end of the road.  

Today however, our goal is Lake Wainamu itself. Amiri has joined the Cub Scouts here and his pack is tramping (hiking) out to the lake. Families have been invited to come along. 

Grammy is planning a nice nap this afternoon, but Arram and Grandpa are joining Amiri and his Mum on the trail. 

This post will take you along on the adventure. The trail to the lake should take less than 1/2 hour to complete. On Google Maps, a 'giant dune' is indicated as part of the trail. Hmmmm. I wonder just how giant it is?  We'll find out, won't we?

Here we are at the carpark, waiting to get started. 

The woods trail portion of the hike is only about 300 meters long. We are stating up the giant dune in this shot. Does it look like we are lagging behind? We are not. Middle of the pack for sure. Take a look at the next picture.

I've turned the camera around in this shot to see who's behind us. 

Looking ahead again, Allie is taking a picture of the first sight of the lake from the top of the dune. 

Wainamu lies just over a mile from the ocean. Steep hills surround the lake. 

Very few kids were allowed by their parents to get into the water. It gets over-your-head-deep in only about three steps. 

The scouts are assembling here for a little activity of some sort. I decided to get a head start on climbng the dune again and I took the following video from a higher vantage point. 

Heading back across the dune again. We adults were telling the boys stories about the movie Dune and the giant sand worms that lived on that planet.  

 We are again entering the woods trail portion of the hike. 

It is actually only about 3:00 pm, but you can see that the sun is getting low already. 

The carpark is just out of sight ahead now. It was a relatively easy walk. The dune's black sand was firm and easier to climb than you might suppose. Total time hiking was about 45 minutes and that included looking around every now and then during the return trip for sandworms. None were sighted.     -djf

Guinea Pig Spa

Be prepared to be overcome with cuteness!

This is Squeakers getting a good shampoo massage.  I used Derma-Soft non-soap cleanser.  She was hand-held as I dipped her in the warm water in the bathroom sink.  

After Whisker's bath, I wrapped her up in a warm towel to drip-dry.  I had a heater going in the bathroom so she wouldn't get a chill.

Here is Squeakers again.  She is admiring her nice clean look while I blow-dry her fur.

Here is Blaze.  She has just gotten a coconut oil massage so her skin won't dry out.  She loves the warmth of the hair dryer.

Whiskers just sat there enjoying the warm air.  She liked looking at her reflection, too.

One final fashion shot of Whiskers modeling her "Tiger" outfit.  

JMF

Impressions of Fall in New Zealand

You know, I think that fall in New Zealand is very like the Queen of England. 

"Oh," you say, "That's because she is in the autumn of her years."  

"No," I reply, "That's not the reason. And if you ask me, at age 90, she's been in the winter of her years for some time now, but that's beside the point."  

I'll tell you in a minute why I connected fall and the Queen but first I want to think about fall as I have always known it. 

Fall in northern Michigan is a riot. Every tree in the woods takes part. Even the evergreens do their bit by maintaining some variety of green to offset the colours of the forest radicals. Not one of the trees holds back. Seen at their best, and with a good hard frost to motivate them, many trees can seem to actually produce light with their leaves. Driving along the Keweenaw Scenic Drive south of Copper Harbour could make the most level-headed among us think that he was on some sort of high. Couple the visuals there with the smell of sun-warmed leaves on the breeze and that, in my opinion, is about as good as it can get on earth, season-wise.  

It's a bit different here in New Zealand. First of all, a great many of the indigenous trees are evergreens. No colour-changing frenzy can be expected from them. And the imported deciduous trees here are rather widely scattered. They can't get together in large groups and egg each other on to display their very best. 

But the main problem is the climate. It's just too nice here. No cold snaps that sneak up and blast the trees with a foretaste of winter's dead-zone.

The result is that the trees that are in charge of providing fall's 'blaze' of colour here, can only manage of bit of a spark. Oh, I think they're trying to live up to their species' abilities, but they just don't quite have it in them. They've been coddled by this climate too long and have become a bit soft.  They are too genteel. Their fall finery is subdued, in a proper, understated way. 

And that leads me back to Queen Elizabeth. She is the epitome of sophistication, and the genteel, aristocratic lifestyle. She Does Not riot. She promotes elegance in everything she does. But her style is subdued, in I think, a highly proper, understated way. 

If she were the season between Summer and Winter, she would have to be called ebb, not Fall. 

Fall is onion sandwiches on rye bread and Black Label Beer.
ebb is cucumber sandwiches and a Dubonette and gin cocktail, with lemon. 

With that in mind, I present to you some photos from around town. This is as good as it gets for a colour tour here. I wonder if the South Island blazes any more brightly? Maybe I'll find out sometime. 

What do you think? Is this 'ebb' in NZ? Abatement maybe? 
This is looking up Harvest Drive.

Well, there you have it. This is 'fall' in Henderson. It's true we don't have the vibrancy of colours, but I'm happy to report that the special 'feeling of fall' is every bit as wonderful here as it is at home. It has something to do with the special warmth of the sun, a certain coolness in the air, and a quality of light. Ahhh, fall...

Of course, here it happens in May                            -djf

Jeanne's Fall & Winter Garden

This autumn I am planting a garden that I hope will produce fresh eating throughout the winter months of June-November.  This is an exciting and new venture for me.  For over 40 years, I have mastered gardening in a northern Michigan climate, where the growing season, at best, stretches over four months, from May to September.  In this new climate in northern New Zealand, I am hoping to garden year-round.  I can plant crops in April, and harvest all the way through November, when spring arrives in this southern hemisphere island.  The past two winters, I have grown broad beans and broccoli with success.  So I am reasonably confident I can grow other crops. To put the seasons in perspective, May is analogous to November in Michigan...the month preceding the winter solstice.

Here is a row of bush beans I planted in early April.  They are almost ready to blossom.  This is the third crop of beans I've planted since last November.

This is CurlyKkale from little seedlings I bought from our local grocery store, Pak N Save.  The seedlings are sold in the vegetable section of the store.  They are bundled 12 to a package, and wrapped in wet newspaper.  No plastic!!!  We've already enjoyed several meals of Kale chips from this patch. Kale is a very pricey vegetable here, so it will be wonderful to have an abundant supply for soups, smoothies and more chips. Next to the Kale is a row of little Parsnip seedlings.

This is my second planting of Swiss Chard, or as it is called locally, Silverbeet.  To the bottom are green onions.  I planted the onions from seed in February, and I plan on harvesting them all winter long.

Two rows: the one against the wooden fence is broadbeans, or Fava.  In front are peas.  I will need to tie the broadbeans up against the fence or they will flop over and smother the peas as well as the lawn.  They get very tall, over 5 feet, and tend to lodge with the heavy winter gales we get.  I have been trying to grow peas every spring with dismal results.  I realised I may be planting them at the wrong season.  Let's see what a fall crop will do.

 

This is more kale, this time Black Tuscany.  The little feathery fronds below the kale are baby asparagus.  It will take four years for the asparagus to grow big enough to harvest, that is to say, in 2020.  A long term commitment.

Carrots.  I hesitated about growing carrots, because they need deep loamy soil, and I have heavy clay over hardpan clay.  But, over the past three years I've been digging in lot of compost to the garden beds, and I think a stubby Chantenay variety will succeed.  I planted some in the summer, and got some sweet baby carrots.

Beet seedlings, called Beetroot in New Zealand.  I also planted rutabaga, or Swede and Butterhead lettuce.  

I've always loved "volunteer" veggies.  Here is a green pepper (capsicum) I found growing in the zucchini bed when I turned it over at the end of summer.   I moved it to the warmest, sunniest spot available: the Passion Fruit bed. It looks promising...one fruit at least!

More volunteers.....Broadleaf or Italian parsley, much enjoyed by the Guinea Pigs as well as us humans. That's basil on top.

My final photo is not beautiful to the eye, but a compost pile is a thing of beauty to a gardener.  This is the key to good gardening.  You have to have well-dug soil with lots of organic matter incorporated.  Without compost I couldn't get decent veggies OR flowers.  Our compost is composed of grass clippings, shredded paper and trampled hay from the Guinea pig pen (along with their droppings), kitchen vegetable/fruit waste, and seaweed harvested by Allie.   

I look forward to showing more photos as I reap my winter harvest.  I hope you do too! -  JMF

Somebody has been putting these up around town.

Here's just a short little post about some art works that suddenly appeared in Henderson.

And not long ago, they changed them...here is the new batch.

Here is a permanent piece outside the library. In the distance on the far right side you can see the benches and shelter at the bus stop that we use most often when returning home from shopping in downtown Henderson. We occasionally buy flat white coffees from the kiosk on the left and now and then, Korean pancakes from the place on the right.    -djf

Suburban, urban, maybe even urbane foraging

What a find, oh, what a find. If I had been mushroom hunting, this find would have been like discovering a mother lode of morels. If I had been searching for buried treasure, I would have just unearthed a gold doubloon. 

I couldn't be happier. This is definitely my best ever forage feast. 

I had never heard of this tree, nor this fruit before I saw it recently. I took a picture of this tree a couple of weeks ago and used it as the last picture of my April 28th post. At the time I shot the photo, I didn't realise that the fruits on this palm tree were edible, but walking past it again the other day, I caught just a hint of a sweet smell on the breeze. I bent over and picked up several fruits that had fallen and rolled near the sidewalk. As I walked toward home, I smelled one carefully and when it smelled wonderful, I hazarded a small nibble. The flavor was incomparable. Throwing caution to the wind, I ate three of them and hurried home to figure out what they were, and if I might have poisoned myself.  

It turns out that I had found a Butia capitata tree, also known as the jelly palm or wine palm. Not only are they not poisonous, they are delicious.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butia

Once I read about it, I walked back and asked the lady of the house if I could buy some of the gold her palm tree was making. She couldn't quite imagine why I would want those things but gave me permission to harvest what I wanted. I did, and have just completed a batch of syrup. I brought the first bottle to my generous benefactor and owner of the tree. Actually, given my level of delight, I should probably refer to it as 'The Tree.'

Now, maybe you're thinking that it doesn't take much to thrill me and maybe that's true. But that just means that I am thrilled more often and I consider that a good thing. (and remember, you haven't put one of these little flavor bombs into your mouth)

Okay, enough talking. Here is a video and some photos to go with the text.

The fruit on the ground to the left of the tree has been there too long. The wasps and ants own that portion. 

Despite all the hiking around the area I have done, this is the only Butia capitata that I have come across. 

Standing this close, I am surrounded by a sweet, unusual smell.  

As soon as Allie smelled one, she said, "Red Bull. That's what they smell like." 

Today, I bought my first ever can of Red Bull and discovered that she was right, although in truth, Red Bull 'sort of' smells Like These, not the other way around.  

However, Red Bull tastes like chemicals.  I think these taste like a combination of lemon, orange, pineapple and vanilla. They are definitely one of the best things I've ever tasted. They are like the candy Sweet Tarts. Sweet and sour at the same time. 

The brown that you see inside the little split on the end is the seed. It's quite large and contains about 45 % oil by weight. My interest in foraging doesn't extend quite far enough for me to want to extract it.  
See that shiny bit near my thumb? This one is ready to burst with juice. 

They are made up of three parts. The rather large seed, a stringy pulp and lots of juice. When you bite one, you have to do so carefully to avoid the seed and breaking a molar, But as you do, you get a little explosion of juice. It's tart enough that you get that 'sour jaw cramp', but sweet enough to make the cramp worth it. They are addicting. 

 Into the pot the washed ones go with about an inch of water.  This tree is a native of Brazil. If I were a young man and owned a bit of land, I Know what I'd be planting on it. 

 A very nice color.  Allie called the syrup elegant (urbane foraging) and I think it is. It's very light and even with all the sugar that's in it, it retains a sort of tartness.
Jeanne is making crepes tomorrow. This will be spectacular on them.

Here is my urbane, tasteful treasure trove from the Butia Palm Sweet Tart Tree.
I'm also showing you some coasters that Allie brought us from Napier. The second and third from the left side show the Art Deco Masonic Hotel were they stayed.

This bunch is on the right side of the tree as seen from the sidewalk and is still too green to pick. You can be sure I'll be watching it and ask permission to pick yet again when they ripen up. I just hope the owners don't decide to start syrup production themselves.   

And here, since this post is about foraging, are the results of other expeditons. 

The olives are in. The olives in these three jars represent six trees spread across three neighborhoods. I considered asking for permission to pick a quantity from one of the best trees, but I just don't want that many. All of these were picked from branches hanging into the sidewalk or from underneath the tree, having just fallen.  One thing nice about fairly heavy downpours and brisk winds here is that they often work together to spread ripe fruits across the sidewalks. 

And yes, I am still soaking a batch of acorns. These were late season ones that I peeled the inner skins from. They are still just slightly bitter. I'm rather surprised it has taken this long, but I have read that American Indians often let them soak in water all winter. (I'm sure they are just fine now and would be eaten as is if we were living in the wild and needed the calories.)     

And I realized something. I had never considered soaking anything in water as a way to preserve it. I have changed the water nearly every day, and twice, I dumped all the acorns out into a colender and rinsed them very well. I then washed the bottle and put the acorns back in with fresh cold water.  I'm sure that if I had stored these acorns on a shelf, they would be rancid or dried out or both by now. I tasted one yesterday and it is still very crunchy, just like it was when I first harvested it. Interesting what you learn foraging.  -djf