Wordless Wednesday

Sweet thing

The guests, sated with happiness and perhaps too much wine, had all left. We cleaned up what was left of the food, then stumbled to bed, leaving the tables and chairs to be put away in the morning. When I opened the door to let the cat out the next day, I surveyed the clutter of lawn chairs, folding chairs, tables and the odd beer bottle. Sighing, and needing coffee, I stepped out to start the clean up. Then froze. We had had an overnight guest.

Actually, Chester found her first.

He approached with curiosity. She was completely unafraid. I watched as they acknowledged one another. He then strolled off across the lawn and she put her head down and tried to blend into the shade. I had not seen her around the neighborhood. But how could I tell exactly? All fawns look alike to me. I slipped back into the house and quietly shut the door deciding coffee was more important.

It turned out this little girl was one of a set of triplets. The mama didn’t know what to do with her or care for her. Three IS a crowd. She was always the smallest of the siblings. While the others gamboled she hung back. I would rarely see the family together. Mostly she was alone.

As she grew older I would often find her tucked into a corner of the lawn. She developed a special relationship with Chester.

They would sniff each other is if to say hello. She had found a haven I suppose. She never ate any of the ornamental flowers or shrubs, so we never resented her presence. In winter we would give her corn. If you clacked the ears together, she would come bounding over the multiflora rose to see what you had for her. Since she never came close or took food from our hands; we would throw the ears out onto the lawn. She would pick up the ears and with her nimble lips spin the ear then spit out the cob. Then with a flick of her tail she would leap away.

She hung around for about 2 years and then one day disappeared. We noticed her absence and worried. But the next spring she returned with 2 babies in tow. Chester went out to greet them. She only visited once.

We expected her to come in the winter but she didn’t. We thought we saw her once far out in the field, but could not be sure. She was accepted into a herd and no longer came to us.

This was over 10 years ago. Chester passed 5 years ago at the ripe old age of 19. I still miss him.

Here on the mountain, I do not let the cats out. They will never know a deer although many come through the yard. They are beautiful creatures. I just wish they would not eat the flowers.

Morning Coffee

“Catherine, you are an idiot!”

The voice rose above the morning din of the outdoor restaurant. There was a hush as all eyes turned to see what was happening. Yvonne glanced over at the table in the back where the shouting had originated. She and Marion had patiently stood in line and now were shimmying their way to a small un-cleared table. Café Du Monde was crowded as usual. As they waited for the waitress to stop by, Yvonne looked at the plate of beignets that were left on the table. She was hungry and they looked good. She considered taking one. They did not look like they had been touched. Or at least one look untouched. Marion put her hand over Yvonne’s.

“Don’t even think about it!” she hissed.

“What?!?!?!?” Yvonne tried to look hurt.

“You were going to eat one from that dirty plate.”

“Was not.”

The waitress appeared next to the table and gathered the tray full of used paper plates and empty cups.

“What can I get for y’all?”

“Two Café au Lait and some beignets.”

The waitress scurried off to place their order and wait on other tables. Yvonne and Marion sat in silence trying to listen to the street musicians that were being drowned out by the ruckus in the back.

“Catherine why do you always do these things?”

Yvonne looked over again. A woman was looking around her chair and under the table. Her companion was standing red in the face. She gave up whisked her sweater off the chair in defeat only to discover her handbag slung over the back. The man nodded, walked away from her jostling people on his way to the entrance. She followed behind with a tight smile.

The waitress re-appeared carrying a green tray with their coffee and powdered sugar laden donuts.

“Welcome to New Orleans. Enjoy.”

Thoughts after a writing workshop where the word was New Orleans and in anticipation of a business trip in May.

Behind the Bins

For various reasons, I have decided to start a separate birding blog. I want to explore, learn another platform and try a topic specific blog. I may hate it. We'll see. If you are interested, pop over there.

Behind the Bins

Potato Leek Soup

Cut 4 LEEKS (or whatever comes in a bundle) into 1” pieces and wash well. You can use both the white and light green parts.

Peel and cube 3 large white POTATOES. I usually use Eastern. Because, well, I live in the east and they are cheap.

Peel and chop 1 ONION. Can be yellow or white. Red will turn the soup a funky color.

Boil BROTH or water and pour 3 cups over the vegetables. It is nicer with broth, but you can use water too. Cover and boil for 35 minutes. OK. Maybe not 35 minutes to the second, but until they are done.

Mash or blend the vegetables. (I use one of those hand-held blender things.)

Add Salt and Pepper to taste. I also throw in a little marjoram.

Add 3 cups scalded MILK. Return the soup to a boil.

Here is the secret ingredient: EVAPORATED MILK.

I substitute one of the cups of regular milk with a can of evaporated milk.

Yum. Enjoy. I know what I am having for dinner.

Yellow Gate

On the road down the mountain in the middle of a narrow blind S curve there is a small yellow gate. I drive past it at least twice a day. It intrigues me. It is never open. It has 2 cement steps leading to it and beyond it a path towards a house. The front door of the house matches the gate. No one comes or goes from that house. Yet it is not abandoned or even very old. Why would they have put a gate in the middle of an S curve that cannot possibly be used?

I have stopped my car many times in the middle of the curve (keeping one eye out for cars) and photographed the gate. The shots are clear, crisp, perfectly composed and bad everytime. It has gotten to the point that I slip into the S, roll down the window, snap a few shots and drive on. I do it regularly-both coming and going. There is no reason for this gate to not be photogenic. I don’t get it. It is not ugly. It is like those people that always blink in pictures or turn their faces away.

In the spring the gate and the Forsythia hedge are TOO garish. In the summer the gate shouts out its strident color from the tall green arching branches of the Forsythia. It is not a meek mild-mannered quiet sort of gate. But one that demands attention every time you go into the S. It is almost like a flashing yellow caution light. Perhaps that is why it is bright sunshine yellow. You cannot miss it.

One morning after a winter storm I slipped into the S curve. The gate was surrounded and covered in fresh snow. It looked subdued in the gray winter light. I rolled down the window and snapped a few shots as usual. That night when I got home I discovered I finally had a good shot. Several days later when the snow melted a little, the gate was back to its unattractive self.

A Little Night Magic

Eight pairs of eyes watched as the sky blushed and the sun slunk further toward the horizon. Eight pairs of binoculars scanned every movement of the dozen or so Harriers that coursed back and forth over the marsh. Seeking. Hoping. Flocks of geese arrowed their way home for the night unnoticed. The wind blew damp and cold across the water. The excitement was palatable.

The birders had arrived singly and in pairs to witness the magical transition of day to night. They talked quietly among themselves. One man was there for the first time this year. Another and his wife were visiting from England. One woman had been there before and knew what to expect. We were winding up a fruitful day of birding and were not yet ready to go home.

The sun finally sunk behind the hill and a different bird appeared far out over the water. They all strained to make out the bird in the gloaming. Was it a Harrier? Hmmm, maybe not. Does it have a white rump? Yes? No? No! Could it be?

Ala Ka Zam! As if by magic the Harriers disappeared and were replaced by Short-Eared Owls. First there was one far in the distance. Then several others were scrutinized for field marks. Finally one flew above the dark hills into the fading glow of the sunset. The bird’s silhouette and its barking call clinched the ID. A collective sigh mingled with the clouds of breath.

The birders stayed in the dropping temperatures stomping their feet until it was too dark to see. The barking stopped and the birds flew off silently now into the full dark to hunt for their daily mouse. The birders slowly got into their cars to go home for their own evening meal. The last to leave, we relinquished the nighttime marsh to the denizens of the dark.