Psycho cat is lying on his back under the bench by the north upstairs window. I pry open the mini blind to check on my anti-'coon system by the corn patch. Two clip lights with yellow bug bulbs illuminate the west side of the patch. Yesterday's jungle humidity and early morning thunder boomers transform the morning landscape into an ethereal fogginess.Everything appears as if you're seeing it through cheap muslin. I walk into the futon bedroom and the dog is still asleep. She stretches, yawns and snorts three times.
I awaken after dreaming about pounding the ground, cussing and shouting about stupid f-ing politicians, especially the Republicans. What really gets me out of bed is a quasi nightmare about being lonely. I am driving across country, by myself. It's a Kerouac dream without the notebook, wine or companions.Hitting the road watching strip malls, car dealerships and fast food places endlessly wind past like one of those crayon drawings you wound on a roll and cranked through a cardboard box theater screen when you were a kid. (I'm old enough to remember nickle Popsicles.)
Extremes in the weather plague us at Black Crow Farm. I feel like the guy at Cooking For Assholes out in Portland, I believe. If you want to read his last post to get an idea, follow the link. http://cookingforassholes.blogspot.com/
Over two inches of rain relieve the pressure of a previous drought. The problem is that the rain comes in the form of micro-bursts late at night and early the next morning. The result:
This is a shot after the late night thunderstorm. Early in the morning after Dawn leaves for work, sheets of rain flood lowland areas and knock the rest of my corn to the ground. The good news? Now, a day later, the corn is making a vailant effort to resurrect itself. It'll never be straight and tall, but the stalks are bending skyward and many who weren't smothered by neighbors are off the ground. We may not ne able to sell the corn, but I'm hoping for some in the freezer.
I'm selling new potatoes at a brisk pace. Noontime, I use my julienne machine to cut spuds into shoestrings. I'll deep fry a mountain of the crispy taters. The far patch of potatoes is an overflow for leftover seed potatoes and every meal of potatoes is a surprise when I grab a spud out of the bin and it turns out to be a delicious Yukon Gold. When the muddy field dries a bit, I'll be digging red potatoes. I've got a Chicago order for new potatoes.
Last evening Dawn and I put up 17 jars of dill pickles. Except for the garlic (California) and spices, the ingredients are homegrown. Future pickles will be brined the old way in a crock from recipes in an outstanding book called The Joy of Pickling by Linda Ziedrich.
Cat's outside waiting to be fed. Dog went back to bed and will appreciate breakfast. I'm thinking hash browns would be a good start for the day. I've got some tofu in the meat bin. Fresh cilantro chopped fine and cooked with tofu and eggs should stretch me into lunch and some steamed kale, perhapsa juicy hamburger.
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