Category Archives: Animals – especially dogs
Tortilla Pizzas and a Backyard Monarch
While it might not be accurate to state that Clif and I eat lunch at the little house in the big woods 365 days a year, it’s not far from the truth. Clif and I live on a tiny budget, and eating at home is far more economical than eating out. The upside of this is that when we do eat out, we really enjoy it. The downside is that sometimes it’s a challenge to come up with different lunches that don’t require a lot of time to fix and can be made from ingredients we have on hand.
Yesterday I said to Clif, “I’m in the mood for a tortilla pizza.”
As we have never made tortilla pizzas, this was a strange thing to say, but we had all the necessary ingredients—pizza sauce, cheese, and tortilla shells.
However, “All the sauce is frozen,” I said.
As I have mentioned previously, one of the things I love about Clif is that he is always ready for a cooking lark. “No problem,” he replied. “We can microwave the sauce until it’s thawed.”
This we did, and then came the next phase. “How about we grill them?” I asked. “Everything tastes better grilled.”
Clif was agreeable, and we were off. He spread sauce on the tortilla shells, sprinkled a blend of cheese—mozzarella, cheddar, and Parmesan—and out to the patio he went. I followed with plates, drinks, and napkins. We were not going to miss a chance to eat outside.
To borrow from Clif, those grilled tortilla pizzas were pretty darned good—brown and crunchy on the bottom with a pleasing blend of sauce and cheese on top.
As if that weren’t enough, while the pizzas were cooking, the sun went behind a cloud, and I could tell that the lighting was perfect for taking pictures of buds and blooms.
But the cherry on the sundae, so to speak, was when a small monarch winged into the garden. No, not a butterfly. Instead, a dragonfly burnished with gold.
Quite a day at the little house in the big woods.
A Busy Day of Buying Flowers and Chasing a Chipmunk
For Mother’s Day, my daughters bought me gift certificates to a local garden center, and yesterday I went to buy plants for my gardens and for containers. Because of the shadiness of the yard at the little house in the big woods, I am very limited as to what I can buy, not only for the gardens but also to put in pots. Never mind. I have learned to love what thrives here—begonias, impatiens, and coleus. (Surely there is a lesson in this somewhere.) My front garden even has a relatively moist spot for astilbe, which I never had to learn to love. I was smitten with them from the very start. And, lucky me, snapdragons thrive here. How I admire those jaunty flowers, and I always buy the dwarf variety to put on the edge of the back garden. I also bought herbs and one tomato plant—the fair Juliet, which does well in part sun and part shade.
Even though I knew what I wanted, I spent a happy hour or so looking at the various plants and flowers at the garden center. With the back of the car full of plants and flowers, I headed home, happy and content.
However, as soon as I got home and saw Clif just standing in the dining room, I knew something wasn’t right. When he came out to help me with the flowers, he looked glum, and I knew for sure something was wrong.
“What happened?” I asked.
“There might be a squirrel in the house?”
“What do you mean there might be?”
“Well, I was working in my office, and the cats chased one into the room. It ran into the closet, and I had the devil of a time getting it out.”
“Then what happened?”
“It ran out of my office, and I haven’t seen it since. Maybe it went back outside.”
“Maybe,” I said, hopeful but not convinced. Nothing is ever that easy.
But the squirrel could have found its way back outside. On nice days, we leave the cellar door open so that the dog and cats can go in and out as they please. In twelve years of doing so, this is the first time we have had a squirrel come into the house.
“Was it a red squirrel?” I asked.
“I think so,” Clif answered.
A red squirrel! Those fierce little bundles of Tasmanian-devil aggression and energy. A while back, one got into the house of a friend when she was away, and it did so much damage trying to get out that her whole house had to be remodelled.
“I wonder if homeowners insurance covers squirrel damage,” I said.
“Probably,” Clif replied.
Hoping that it wouldn’t get to that point, we poked around the house and looked for the squirrel. Nothing. Eventually, like the cats, we gave up looking for it. Maybe it had gone back outside.
But a little later, when I was out on the patio, I heard Clif call, “It’s in the dining room!” I went down cellar, grabbed a broom, and headed upstairs to help Clif.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Behind the bookcase with the cook books,” Clif said, nudging it with the broom he was holding.
The little creature leaped onto the window sill, and “That’s not a squirrel!” I exclaimed. “That’s a chipmunk!”
As a rule, I am not a huge fan of rodents. I am not afraid of them—all right, big rats do freak me out—and I wish them no harm. I just want them to stay outside where they belong. However, I must admit I have a soft spot for chipmunks, those mild, unassuming but very cute rodents who, as a rule, never try to come inside. (My theory is that the cats chased this one inside.) When I saw this chipmunk, I smiled, and the dread I was feeling went away. I knew we would be able to get this little creature back outside.
“Open the dining room door,” I said, and Clif did so.
Taking the broom, he nudged the chipmunk, and I stood with my broom, blocking the way to the rest of the house. The chipmunk leaped from the window sill, and glory hallelujah, it rushed out the open door.
“Success!” I yelled. “Chalk one up for team Clif and Laurie.”
Such are the goings-on at the little house in the big woods. We have our moments of failure, but we also have our moments of triumph.
Now, let us hope there are no more cat and rodent shenanigans for the rest of the summer.
Spring Abounds
Spring abounds at the little house in the big woods. Ferns are unfurling, and violets and bluets have begun dotting the lawn.
In the sun, budding leaves glow like little lanterns, lighting the way for the delightful month.
My gardens are late gardens, coming into their own in July. So far, the only blooms are pink hyacinths. But the foliage of the growing plants is lush, green, and healthy, a good way to start the season.
A couple of days ago, the evening was so warm and free of blackflies—thank you, little breeze—that Clif and I had drinks on the patio. Birds called as they fluttered from the trees to the feeders, and we had the usual suspects—goldfinches, chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, cardinals, and tufted titmice.
Uncharacteristically, Liam—no rodent dog—was on red squirrel patrol, and he had positioned himself under one of their favorite trees. Recently, Liam had had what might be called a little tête à tête with a red squirrel, and since then he has been obsessed with them. Well, it gives the old dog something to think about, and he does them no harm. In true herding dog fashion, Liam trots after the red squirrels and stares at them, and I have not seen him snap or bite at them.
Soon, the blackflies will be gone, and good riddance to them. Weather permitting, we will be able to have our supper on the patio most evenings. We will be planning grilled bread and salad gatherings with our friends. In Maine, the time of warm weather is short, and Clif and I want to squeeze in as much as we can.
Blue Thoughts on a Sunny Day
Today, on this lovely day in May, I learned that a neighborhood dog died this morning, and it’s made me more than a little teary eyed. How I will miss this dog’s presence, so elegant and dignified that I came up with a theme song—Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition”—whenever the dog passed our house.
Our dog buddies don’t live long enough, but what bright presences they are in our lives as long as they are with us.
This is for you, beautiful dog. And may you have promenade after promenade in dog heaven.
Creature Comforts in Deep Winter
Yesterday, I wrote about the spiritual comfort that books can bring to us during hard times. Today, my mind is on creature comforts, and no wonder because in Maine, we are in deep winter. The days might be getting longer—it doesn’t get dark now until 5:30—but they are cold, clear, and crisp. Unless it is snowing, of course.
This morning when Clif took the dog for a walk, it was dead calm and zero degrees. (Fahrenheit). At that temperature, the snow squeaks underfoot, and the warmest of winter clothes is needed—heavy coat, heavy gloves, hat, scarf—or neck warmer—thick boots. In deep winter, all sense of fashion is abandoned. The chief thing is to stay warm.
In the house this morning, the temperature was just below 60 degrees. We heat with a wood furnace, and in February it doesn’t quite make it through the night. This is why we sleep with piles of blankets pulled up to our noses so that we have a little tent for warmth.
This cold morning, it was very hard to get out of our warm bed. When we did get up and raised the shades, we found that the windows were frosted.
But soon Clif had the furnace going, and it wasn’t long before the house was a balmy sixty-four degrees. Throughout the day, the wood and the sun will raise the inside temperature to a little under seventy degrees, which is plenty cozy for us.
For this time of year, chicken soup is just the thing. One day, I cook a chicken, and we eat some of the meat. The next day, I make chicken stock using onion, garlic, carrots, whole cloves, peppercorns, a bay leaf, salt, thyme, and sage. Into the stock pot go the bones with the leftover meat. I cover them with water, add the other ingredients, and bring everything to a gentle simmer. I let the stock bubble for hours, until the house is fragrant with the smell, and Clif and I can hardly wait until dinner.
After the stock has simmered for hours, I strain the stock into a big pot, and let the bones cool before picking the meat. More carrots go into the stock, and because we are Mainers, potatoes often go in, too. The vegetables simmer until they are tender, and then I add the picked meat. A variation on this is to leave out the potatoes and instead go with pasta or rice. The pasta and rice and are never simmered into the soup because if they are, whatever is leftover will swell into alarming proportions. Instead, we cook pasta and rice separately, put them into the bottom of our bowls, and ladle the hot soup on top.
What to serve with chicken soup? Homemade bread is good, as are biscuits, but Clif and I seem to prefer cornbread, which from beginning to end takes about thirty minutes to make and bake.
When the soup is ready, when the cornbread is done, we settle into the evening with our steaming bowls of comfort. “Pretty darned good,” Clif pronounces, and he always goes back for seconds.
However, the last word of comfort must go to Sherlock because no creature knows comfort the way a cat does. Unless, of course, it’s a hobbit.
One, Two, Three: Liam, Dog of the North
Today is a day of errands. Clif and I will soon be heading to the big city—Augusta, population 19,000. It’s supposed to snow later this afternoon, and the older we get, the less we like driving on snowy roads. So there is not much time to write this morning.
I do, however, want to share these three pictures I took yesterday. Looking at them made me smile. Our Liam loves the snow and the woods. Truly, he a dog of the north.
Almost the Wolf Moon
Yesterday, Clif, Liam, and I went for a walk in the woods behind the high school. It was late afternoon, almost dusk. The setting sun sent slanting rays through the woods, but the shadows were deep enough to give everything a blue cast.
The little stream runs so fast that it only has a skim of ice. I like the heart-shaped cap of snow on the rock, and I might use this photo for a Valentine’s card.
The stones in the wall also have caps of snow, albeit none that look like hearts.
The brook is slower moving than the stream, and while it isn’t completely frozen, it has enough ice on it to muffle the sound of the moving water. Will it get cold enough this winter so that the brook freezes entirely?
When the wind blows through the woods, leaves and branches fall, making natural arrangements.
The trail twists through the woods until we come to another section of the stone wall. I was taken by this striated rock with snow.
When we came out of the woods, there was the almost-full moon—the Wolf Moon—rising by the school.
On Sunday, the moon will be full. If the night is clear and the night isn’t too cold, Clif, Liam, and I might take a walk in the woods and honor the moon.
Liam Is Eleven
Normally, I don’t post two pieces in the same day, but today is Liam’s birthday, and I thought I would make an exception. As the title suggests, Liam is eleven years old. He is no longer a young dog, but he is still spry, still energetic, still ready to bark at a moment’s notice. Liam is sweet but aloof, as many herding dogs are, and we love him exactly the way he is.
So happy birthday, Liam. Maybe, just maybe, there will be an extra treat tonight, a little vanilla ice cream to celebrate your big day.
Lunch at Diane’s
Yesterday, we went to our friend Diane’s house for lunch. Clif had agreed to help set up Netflix on her computer and television. In return, she made lunch for us—spicy vegetable soup, cheese and tomato melts, salad, and chocolate gelato for dessert. I think we got the better end of the deal.
While we were eating, Diane told us the story of her German grandmother, who came to the U.S. when she was eleven, all by herself on a boat across the Atlantic. She landed at Ellis Island and made her way through the immigration process, with no adult to help. Once this task was finished, it was on to Chicago, again by herself, to stay with relatives. She was widowed twice, supported herself and her children by being a seamstress, and lived into her nineties. A hardy woman with a very, very strong personality.
Also, it’s interesting to think of this story in terms of immigration. Diane’s grandmother left Germany because she (or her family) felt there were better opportunities for her in the United States. (I can’t help but wonder how much a child of eleven would really want to leave home. She was the eldest in a big family.) Nowadays, Germany is seen as the land of opportunity for so many. It’s funny how things change.
After lunch, Clif helped Diane install Netflix streaming, while I took pictures. First, of Casey, Diane’s cat.
And then outside for some winter pictures.
After Netflix was installed and pictures were taken, there was more tea. And more talk, of course. We stayed until dusk, when the sky was dark but not black, and a waxing crescent moon shone in the night sky.
