like a breath

chickadees calling
from the trees

flying along the path 
black eyes bright

following
like a question

alight on my finger

light as a feather

wings whirring
like a breath
I thought I was holding 

rustling aspen along the ridge

sandhill cranes across the river

but this 

swishing

in the grass

at my feet

twisting

disappears

wolf willow shines

in the afternoon sun

sparkles like diamonds

in the October sun

silver among the gold

of the prairieland sun

Beaver dam at Beaver Creek

late to the sour dough adventure

So I know that sour dough bread has been a thing in these pandemic months ... but my sister-in-law brought a jar of starter with her when she came to visit, and the thing entered my kitchen for the first time.  During their visit she created  amazing waffles, and cinnamon buns, and then left me with my own starter when they went back home.  

Irene has always been a cooking influence in my life.  We've spent time in her kitchen watching her study her recipes, following or adapting, meticulously chopping and pulling together such amazing feasts over the years.  So I watched her, and she talked through things as she worked. And then she began to write her tips onto the backs of papers that held Evelyn and Rick's painting originals.  "Adventures with sour dough, by Irene". 

 

 

I had watched her tend that starter, carefully feeding and stirring (no metal, except a fork or whisk to stir), refrigerating or leaving on the counter depending on what she was making or when.  

Lid on, or lid off and covered with a towel.  

Jar on the counter, jar in the fridge, or jar in a bowl so it didn't overflow.  

Opening the lid, looking at the bubbles, smelling the thing, deciding if it was "ripe".  

You "discard" some, and feed the jar.  then you feed the "discard" and cook with it.  or discard the discard, and then take some out to bake, and feed the bubbly baking part.  

If you know anything about me at all, you know that I am not all that nurturing of things inside my house.  If you are in my house, and you are a plant or other non person (and my dear husband may have grounds to claim that this lack of nurture extended in his general direction as well ... you are good, right?  Don't have to take care of you do I?). 

I value plant and "thing" independence.  Sour dough starter feels rather needy.  

However.  It comes from Irene. so... it bears some consideration. 

I take the jar out of the fridge in the evening.  Get the bubbles going over night.    

I look at it in the morning.  Sure is bubbling.  Smells like something ripe.  Kind of yeasty sour and sweet.  By evening the bubbles have sunk and it smells more yeasty and sharp.  Now I try to do the discard and feeding math and it is too late.  My brain has deeply carved trails of baking with yeast. I understand my oatmeal brown bread.  But this sourdough requires much more of me.  Not sure I want to give that. 

I give up for the day.  I feed the thing again in the evening. And go to bed.

In the morning I discard some, and feed them all. add things to it. let it sit for 30 minutes.  put it into a dutch oven and let it sit 30 more minutes (or a bit more. or a bit less. depends ...) then do the stretch and fold thing.  No kneading this needy bread.  Then leave it at room temperature till it doubles in size.  anywhere from 3-12 hours.  depends on the temperature of the room and the happiness of the sourdough.  

At 5 pm I decide that ready or not, that dough is getting shaped into a ball.  So.  Pull the edge up, fold, and turn. Repeat.  Flip over, and shape into a ball.  It just keeps sagging though - texture feels as though I didn't add enough flour.  

I did not buy a scale for the ingredients ... as true sourdough lore requires.  A scale is more acurate.  Oh well.  let's see this experiment through to the end.  

Back into the dutch oven (a cast iron pot we bought almost 30 years ago, and for all of those years have used only for camping ... now its coming into the kitchen for sour dough bread).  Cast iron pot is liberally sprinkled with corn meal. (See? I can follow directions!)  Rise another 30 minutes. or a bit more.  

Heat oven to 450.  Put loaf into 450 oven with lid, and turn down to 400.  Bake for 20 minutes.  Then remove lid and bake another 40 minutes.  Remove from pan and let cool on wire racks for at least 1 hour ... or the middle is gummy.  Click here for a more precise recipe!

We all survived this first sour dough adventure, and the starter is back in the fridge where it only needs to be fed every 5-10 days.  I'll cut the loaf open this evening with some beef and barley soup.  I was not able to mathematically co-ordinate the ending of the sour dough baking last night with the beginning of supper.  

It keeps a bit of Irene in my kitchen, and that is always a good thing.  

Anyone want some starter? 

I DID slice the top of the loaf before baking... as instructed ... but obviously not deeply enough.
Stay tuned. 

lady bugs and lupines

If I stand too long
in one place
the lady bugs 
think I am a plant
and come crawling
looking for aphids

I am not a plant

tho I love them

and join in

the aphid hunt

a family of robins 

have decided to 

claim my ripening

mountain ash berries

as their own

they sit in stealth mode

camouflaged with their red breast

among the red mountain ash berries

accurately aim droppings on my

shirt if I stand too long

under their branch

that was the give-away

a family of magpies

stopped in the top of my 

poplar one morning

quietly discussing their day

or their night

or when to fly to

other trees

other homes

they spoke 

a different language

when perching all together

in the poplar

musical murmerings

and conversations

entirely missing the racous 

yelling I hear when they 

are far apart or 

defending territory

#poplarshelter

lupines are back

my friend brought me a 

package of seeds this spring

perhaps remembering that lupines

lined the highway to Nelson

when we picked Adam up

from his year of woodworking

lined the New Zealand creek

bed that we followed with

so much laughter when we were

visiting Mish, and Lisa and Luke

they sprouted

survived the slugs and their

first summer in the shelter of

my dogwood here 

survived - not thrived

today I moved them out 

into the front sunshine

long tap roots and

chomped-on leaves

watered them

hope to see them

again in spring

oh, I live in hope...

...and in the meantime

that frost skipped along the tops 

of my pots and gardens

but beneath the blackened shells

one zucchini blossoms brightly

one morning glory strand survived

my black-eyed Susans are trying 

to keep growing if I would just

notice that they are not dead

and offer them a drink

I finally noticed

my petunias are extravagently luscious - 

but to no avail

not one bee climbs to the heart

no hummingbirds

they go to morning glories and snapdragons

and sunflowers and liatrus and oh so many others.

even geraniums

but not the petunia. 

methinks I will 

find other flowers

for my pots

next year

august turning

Mornings are cooler on my deck. Raspberries are ripening more slowly, and wasps are eager to take the sugary sweetness of any I've left hanging too long. Spotted robins are getting better at navigating flight. Chickadees so cheerfully chatter around the yard.  Morning glory strands climb all the cords we've hung in their way, seeking the best way up - waving their growing ends back and forth, twining around each other till I introduce them to my idea of a cord.  Sometimes they wind around it right away, and sometimes I need to remind them. Tomatoes are on the verge of turning. 

They are strange slow COVID summer days with a powerful undercurrent of energy. 

And in this season of waiting, wondering, planning, taking stock, I find myself 

less afraid of old age, old trees, an old earth; of wasps and pruning

more interested in flavors

    toasted coconut, garlic scape pesto, yellow and red tomatoes

more convinced that trees clapping and celebrating is more than a figure of speech 

increasingly captivated and intrigued by children

so grateful for a morning chat with my sisters and brother

just as thrilled by fresh raspberries and haskaps on my cereal in the morning

more curious about what the beavers are up to on the river banks

 ... and increasingly intrigued and captivated by a Creator

    who speaks a universe

    as well as a whisper

Add caption

from Isaiah 40 and the south Saskatchewan river bluffs

Do you not know?
Have you not heard?

The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.

He will not grow tired or weary,
and his understanding no one can fathom.

He gives strength to the weary
and increases the power of the weak.

Even youths grow tired and weary,
and young men stumble and fall;

but those who hope in the LORD
will renew their strength.

They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.

easter morning

a chill spring wind bites at our faces
the ice gathered slick and thick
on walkways
eastern horizon clear and
turning pink
seagulls and geese calling out as
they rise from the river
late moon still hanging high in the sky
bright pink spreads higher
invading the clouds

shimmering orange light spills over
the place where heaven meets earth
grows more brilliant till
I have to look away
blazing on the horizon till
morning breaks
and it is day
throws our shadows far across the
snow as we walk back home

the sun has risen

Christ has risen
He is risen indeed

bird counting

There was steam rising over the river this morning when I bundled up to go for my first ever birdcounting expedition.  I figured I'd see the chickadees who hang out around the river bank,
I'd likely hear a woodpecker, and I wanted to count some hardy Saskatoon Winter Ducks (after my morning's research, I'm going to call them Common Goldeneyes). 

Watching the birds often makes me think of my mom.  She paid attention to them.  Noticed who was around, and when the sparrows were fighting over the bird houses in their back yard.  She and Dad made sure to have lots of food out for them. I don't think she ever participated in a great backyard bird count.  But I'm pretty sure she would have enjoyed it... and laughed at her oldest daughter taking such an interest in birds. 

So I walked my favorite path to the river, and stood on the bank with Randy's telephoto lens, one glove off to try to focus on the Goldeneyes playing in the water, among the morning mists. 

Thinking of Lydia.  Thinking of a God who sees each sparrow - master of the bird count. 
It was a good morning.

My count, as submitted through ebird.org:
# of taxa reported:7
protocol: traveling
duration: 55 minutes
distance: 1.18 km

10 common goldeneyes
1 downy woodpecker
1 blue jay
4 common raven
6 black-capped chickadee
6 house sparrow
2 house finches (I heard a bird high up in a blue spruce but couldn't see it, so I turned on my audio, and the counting app added 2 house finches to my count.  I accept this interpretation of my reality, though I cannot visually prove it!)