Fleur-de-TheWeek

 

The Week that Was: My friend Dina called mid-way through the week. I told her, “Remember how I didn’t feel the earthquake in August? Well, I felt this one.”

And we’re still feeling it. The victims, stripped of innocence, will feel it for a lifetime. 

But my mom and I were luckier than most. Earlier I signed up for two classes that gave us a break from the headlines and filled a few hours with new ideas.

Diversion is a good thing. Especially when trusty old NPR invades my Scion space with the Scandal in Happy Valley. Skype with Marina in Brussels and she tells me she read about IT on Al Jazeera. Get a call from Richard explaining he was just “exercising his First Amendment rights” on Beaver Avenue. And the CDT (aka The Seedy-T), where I was a reporter in the 1980s, has cover-to-cover coverage of The Story.

Cooking with Seasonal Local Vegetables, Gujarati Style, was a godsend. Within minutes, crowded around a kitchen workspace, we were taking in the fragrances of the state of Gujaret in western India. Sunil, our instructor, is also a farm manager for a local CSA. On the day’s luncheon menu was Green Chutney, Root Cutlets, Dal with Winter Squash, Kuchumbar (raw veggie salad), Methi Egg Curry, Greens, Riata (shredded veggies mixed with green chilies and cilantro in a yogurt base), and rice studded with cumin browned in ghee. Sunil manned two stove tops, boiling pots, frying pans, cutting boards, a palette of spices, and questions coming from a dozen on-lookers without as much as a raised eyebrow. I was in awe. After that performance, succession planting and the vagaries of Mother Nature must seem like a vacation.

It was my first venture into the realm of Indian cooking, and Sunil gave us a lot of tips and information on an array of new-to-me spices, all passed on to him by his mother, a native of Gujaret. Incorporating some of his techniques and trying even one or two new spices will add a complexity of flavors and excitement to our fall standards of butternut squash, turnips, parsnips, and sweet potatoes (white-fleshed only if you want to authenticate Indian dishes).

I’ll share a taste of the class with all of you, as well as I am technologically able. (I’m waiting for Skype to come up with a system of transporting meals and hugs through the interspace.)

• Whole spices such as cumin, mustard seeds, cloves, peppercorns, and fenugreek seeds are used as aromatics. Either dry toast them or fry in hot oil to release the aromas.

• Know the ratios of ground spices rather than amounts, Sunil suggests. You might just use a dash of asafetida and tumeric, a teaspoon of chili powder or garam masala (a combo of peppercorns, cloves, black cumin seeds, nutmeg, star anise, coriander, cardamom, and malabar leaves), and two heaping teaspoons of ground roasted coriander or ground roasted cumin

• Sweet and Sour are the two flavor components to think about in Indian cooking. A little sweetness is typically added to dishes to balance out spicy or sour flavors. If a sour flavor is added, always use a sweet. Lemon juice, dried mango powder, kokum or tamarind are used for sour flavor; sugar, brown sugar, and jaggery (a raw sugar) are used for the sweet

• The triad of ginger, garlic and green chilies (ratio of 1:1:1) adds great flavors to dishes. Process and use as a paste.

• Indian cooks add cilantro to almost every dish. Sunil uses the leaves and stems, as long as they aren’t woody, by the handful.

Here is one of the easiest recipes to tempt you into the Indian kitchen. Although Kuchumbar is typically made with raw onions, cucumbers and tomatoes, Sunil adapted it to fall vegetables.

Autumn Kuchumbar

Chop turnips, radishes and beets into ¼-inch cubes or strips. Add roasted cumin, salt, sugar, lemon, and chili powder (trial and error on the amounts). Massage (yes, with your clean bare hands) the entire mixture. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

For our Organic Beekeeping class, I worried about my mother repeating what she said to me when I told her we were signed up, “Oh yuck, bzzzzz bzzzz.” Thank goodness she behaved … especially when she found out honey-tasting was on the syllabus. We listened to two beekeepers discuss packages and nucs, queen bees, worker bees and drones, supers and bottom boards, and yes, tasted honey (my favorite, a dark knotweed honey). As we neared the end of the session, Sylvia explained the hive hierarchy, and how10,000 bees work together as one organism. The queen reigns but she doesn’t rule. “The hive is like the Board of Trustees,” Sylvia quipped. “The hive decides.” So much for escaping the buzz. Have a sweet time, Laurie Lynch

Written on Slate: “We Queens try to include items from all four major food groups – sweet, salty, fried, and au gratin. Balance is very important to us.”

                                                            -- The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love

Fleur-de-HillofBeans

I have a bone to pick with the colloquial saying, “It ain’t worth a hill of beans.”

For the last several weeks we’ve been reaping the rewards of a hill of beans, and expect to continue throughout the winter.

When I moved to State College this past summer, one of the first things I did was transfer my Penn State Master Gardener ties from Lehigh County to Centre County. Now, many of you probably didn’t know I was a Penn State Master Gardener, have been for 21 years. Although it involves extensive training, the purpose of the Penn State Master Gardener is to volunteer in educational and outreach activities in the field of home horticulture, thus extending the reach of the University, Cooperative Extension, and the much-taxed resources of what once was called the “county agent.” Now, this is not the time or place to get into a political discussion on cutbacks in state funding, but I will say I consider Penn State Cooperative Extension the goose that keeps laying the golden eggs for all of us folks out in taxpayer land … until she’s butchered by cutbacks, fiscally forced retirements, and other such nonsense.

HalloweenWeekend White-Out

Anyway, one of the conditions of being a Penn State Master Gardener is that any type of commercial horticultural venture (ie. FdL) is kept separate. So, I haven’t been at liberty to extol the virtues of the program through this newsletter until now. Joining the Centre County group has given me an instant introduction to the gardening community here as well as a way to stay involved with Cooperative Extension. One day, I received an email from our county MG coordinator saying that varieties of edamame being grown in a PSU research plot were available to MGs for the picking. I drove several miles in the Nissan, harvested to my heart’s (and back’s) content, hardly made a dent in the field, but filled the  truck bed with a hill of beans.

The following football weekend, when we had lots of out-of-town visitors, I boiled bushels of edamame pods in salted water as a snack, freezing masses of them. Mom and I also  shelled a bunch to refrigerate, and use them in soups, tuna salad, mixed greens salads, stir-fry, enchilada wraps – you get the picture!

Edamame is translated from Japanese to mean “beans on branches”.  When harvested, these immature soybeans are chock-full of protein, carbohydrates, omega-3 fatty acids, and micronutrients such as folic acid, vitamin K, and manganese. Plus, they’re fun to eat.

I enjoyed gleaning the edamame research plot and decided to give back to my new MG group with a selection of Fleur-de-Lys garlic for them to take home to their Centre County gardens to plant. And yes, I can almost taste it now, a steaming bowl of edamame spiked with slices of Fleur-de-Lys garlic -- yum! Laurie Lynch

Llama Bean Hill: I took the hill of beans theme a step further. When I planted my own garlic in a newly established plot inside the llama pasture, I decided to hill semi-composted llama beans over my garlic rows. Not only will they add some slow-release nutrients for next spring, they’ll keep Belladonna from nosing around my garlic patch. (Llamas are very clean animals and keep their “toilet areas” very separate from their “grazing” areas.)

East Coast Connection: Remember Trig, the Brownie Points lady who lives in Tiburon, CA, and meets and greets people across the globe with her homemade ultimate brownies? Well, she was in State College and she made a luncheon date with my mom and me She told us the one ingredient she can’t find on the West Coast is black walnuts. So, she had just come from the local Weis supermarket where she went on a buying binge, emptying the black walnut display, and shipping them back to her kitchen in Tiburon.

Kutztown Connections: My job at the roofing company led me to a fellow Rotary Exchange Mom, and more recently, to a former Kutztownian. Ken Smith, who graduated from KAHS, crafts sheet metal for various roofing jobs. We started talking about K-town, and then he told me of the B&B he and his wife Ruth ran … until their Bellefonte Victorian Manor was destroyed by fire several years ago. We shared fire stories and dreams-going-up-in-smoke stories (literally and figuratively). Then, one day he brought in a beautiful scrapbook of the family’s B&B memories. Not only did I see photos of the B&B at its best, with wonderful stenciling by Ruth and lots of antiques, but I also saw photos of the fire-ravaged rooms. Of special interest, the scrapbook contained letters from many of their guests (some of whom I recognized as Kutztown acquaintances) and a testament to the family’s faith that some times wonderful things come to an end. You go on.

Hand Jive: When you’re a 50-something mom you don’t expect many positive comments on your physical features. So, I was taken aback when Marina was in middle school and her favorite teacher said she loved my hands. She said they looked like “hard-working hands,” which they were, thanks to all the FdL busy-ness. The complement gave me a new perspective. Then, this summer, when my 20-something nephew Wille blew into town, he made the comment, “Your knuckles look like they’re wearing hubcaps.” And the worst thing is, they do!  And yes, my nail-bitten fingers are atrocious. However, even though I’m working in an office instead of a field, my hands are still getting a workout.

I overheard the two other women in the office talking about “rubber fingertips” and how manufacturers seem to be making them smaller than in years past. A light bulb went off in my head. Actually, it had been flickering for some time. I go through hundreds of paper invoices in a week’s time – paper invoices which have been touched by workmen’s hands, filed on truck floors or crumpled on the dash, not the cleanest sheets of paper in the world, especially during flu season. To shuffle through piles of paperwork, I don’t use my “index” finger, which is why it’s called an “index” finger (light bulb No. 2); instead, I use my middle finger … and my tongue, which licks the tip of my finger to flip from page to page. I’ve never been especially wary of germs, believing that a healthy dose of microscopic critters toughens your system and actually helps build immunity, but with all of those office hours for thinking, I decided maybe I’d try a  “rubber fingertip”. I got the box in our supply cabinet. Why, oh why, do even the mundane things in English sound so beautiful in French and Spanish: doigtiers or cubre dedos de hule? Anyway, if these rubber tips are too tight on my co-workers index fingers, I knew it would be a BIG stretch to get one over the tip of my middle finger. I squeezed it on, with the base stretching over the tip of my finger and the rest of it airborne. However funny it looked, it worked. It’s an amazingly simple invention that I just discovered but I’m so glad I did. My co-worker showed me her old, stretched out, blackened one, and I certainly got the sanitary point. So, my working hands now sport a rubber fingertip – and I whisk right through the paperwork, hubcaps and all!

Written on Slate: “Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.”

                                                               -- Humphrey Bogart to Ingrid Bergman

Fleur-de-OctoberReflection

It was a summer of Swiss chard cravings and too many green peppers. Too much wildlife and too many well-meaning weekend gardeners. And yes, too much rain.

The other day I came home from work exhausted; stretch out on the bed, bones above the mattress, everything else sinking to the floor, drained. I was awakened from my deep slumber by the alarmed staccato clicking of my mother’s llama, Belladonna. She was clearly upset. I looked out one window and couldn’t find a culprit. Then I looked out the second window: two white-tailed deer standing in full alert, staring at Bella.

So it wasn’t just the groundhogs and rabbits that consumed my Swiss chard, tomatoes, basil, cucumbers, squash, carrots and beans; it was probably the deer too. While there’s an Amish market nearby that fills almost all of our vegetable and fruit needs, when I asked if they’d be selling any Swiss chard, a young woman looked at me strangely and said, “I’ve never heard of it so I know we’re not growing it.”

I did find some at another farmers’ market – it was seriously wilted, but I was seriously craving chard pie, so I snatched it and rushed home to make the dish for that night’s dinner.

Yes, the only thing Fleur-de-Lys Central yielded this summer was bell peppers. For some reason, the critters turned up their noses at my six bell pepper plants.  But that’s not to say they weren’t admired. My sister and her weekend guest, my mother and her part-time caregiver, and my brother-in-law, all spotted these shiny, blocky, gorgeous bell peppers and picked them, proudly bringing them to the kitchen. But, they picked them green; my sweet red and yellow peppers were picked at the immature, much-less-sweet stage of green. But who can complain (more than just a little) for helping hands.  Laurie Lynch

Update on Mom: For the last several years, my mother fills any quiet moment with jingles or songs. Depending on my mood, it can either be pleasant or downright irritating. When she breaks into her Sound of Music, “I am 16 going on 17” song, I laugh and sing along because my mother still feels more like 16 than 82. But when I’m approaching a green-turning-yellow traffic light and she belts out very Supreme-like: “Stop, in the name of love” the irritation begins … and escalates when she then goes into her police siren sound that is so realistic I glance over my shoulder. But the tune that family members  shake our heads over in a state of perplexity is: “Who’s gonna marry Tom Mix?”

A while ago, my sister Larissa looked up info on Tom Mix, and he was a cowboy actor who was married five times. That sort of made sense, like having your dad sing, “Who’s gonna marry Elizabeth Taylor?”

But when my mother added: “Not me. He’s gone.”  I decided to look into this Tom Mix fellow a little further.

Tom Mix was born 40 miles north of State College and grew up near DuBois. He was indeed married five times, but his most loyal sidekick was Tony the Wonder Horse. Mix acted in 336 cowboy movies (silent and nine or so talkies) and by doing so, this King of the Cowboys paved the way for folks like John Wayne and Ronald Reagan. What stopped me in my tracks, however, was the fact that Tom Mix died Oct. 12, 1940.  (He drove into a gully traveling 80 mph when he came upon construction barriers blocking a bridge that had been washed away in a flood in Arizona.)  I did a little quick math, and my mother was 11 going on 12 when he died, so that jingle must have entered her life around that time. And 70 years later, it’s still playing in her mind. What an amazing thing, the brain.

Speaking of Brains: My niece Ansley is majoring in psychology and studying abroad in Copenhagen, Denmark, this fall. Her blog at http://www.flanahagen.com is an absolute delight. The theme is her quest to find happiness in one of the world’s happiest cities, and she has photos and text that has put a smile on her aunt’s face, and maybe yours too. She is taking a Positive Psychology class, and her professor assigned a task that might do all of us good. It’s called Three Good Things. If, each day, you list three good things that you experienced, your self-flourishing tendency may overpower your self-languishing tendency – and put a smile on your face.

Forks Over Knives: I took my mom to see this documentary a few weeks ago and was surprised that it mentions a former classmate/swim team buddy of my youngest sister, Leslie. Rip Esselstyn, whose father features prominently in the film, has written a book called The Engine 2 Diet. Forks Over Knives, which promotes a plant-based diet, inspired me to try this recipe that came in the Lehigh Valley Health Network’s “Healthy You” magazine. It is a delicious and nutritious way to celebrate fall vegetables (including red bell peppers).

Roasted Vegetables

1 small butternut squash, cubed

2 red bell peppers, seeded and diced

2 sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed

1 red onion, quartered

1 Tbsp. chopped fresh thyme

2 Tbsp. chopped fresh rosemary

¼ c. olive oil

2 Tbsp. balsamic vinegar

Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 475°.

In large bowl, combine squash, red peppers, and sweet potatoes. Separate red onion into pieces and add to mixture. In small bowl, stir together thyme, rosemary, olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. Toss with vegetables to coat. Spread evenly on large roasting pan. Roast 35-40 minutes in oven, stirring every 10 minutes, or until vegetables are cooked through and browned.

Fleur-de-Mushroom

 I feel like a mushroom. Rooted. Sheltered. Safe.

I found a job. Or, better put, it found me.

In a college town where student interns and green, social-networking savvy graduates seem to have a corner on the job market, a lawyer-turned-roofing-contractor decided to give a graying farmer-without-a-farm a break. (Family connections didn’t hurt either. Thanks, Pam.)  I dug in my heels for a fight – what do I know about roofs or construction? – until I saw the company has built a few “green roofs.” I thought, maybe, just maybe, it might work out.  (Green roofs are plantings of sedums, herbs, and grasses in a shallow medium on top of a roof to improve the building’s storm water management and energy efficiency.)

It’s a job. It allows me to keep my mother living in her home and my son taking college classes, and maybe, it will even cover ER expenses if there’s a Bicycle Crash No. 2. It’s so different from my life for the past 20-some years, but that doesn’t mean it is bad.

Just call me Excel Laurie.

I’m learning about Accounts Receivable, Accounts Payable, work orders, and invoices. Sometimes, the numbers even become musical as I scan for checks and dates: four-fifty-four twenty-three, one-five four-four-four, eight-five-eleven, on and on in a sing-songy sort of way.

During my first days of work, I was deep into Cara Black’s “Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis”, one of a bagful of books I bought at the Louisa Gonser Library back-room sale last time I was in Kutztown. It’s one of my favorite shopping places … but more on that later.

Black’s murder mysteries take place in various neighborhoods in Paris, and they’re heavy on the flavor of my favorite city, with a good dose of intrigue, but light on graphic blood-and-gore details. Just my kind of book. “M on the IS-L” took me into the abandoned quarries and sewers beneath Paris, and then threw in a tidbit on mushroom farming in these underground tunnels that made me hungry for more.

So to Google I did go. It turns out the Romans were the first to begin quarrying limestone and gypsum in what is now France, creating aqueducts, bridges, coliseums and such. By 1813, there were 170 miles of quarry tunnels under Paris. It was in that year that quarrying under the city was banned to prevent all those Baroque and Empire limestone buildings from toppling into the hollowed out underground. Some old quarries were consecrated as burials ground -- by 1860 bones of six million people lined the catacombs. Other abandoned quarries supported underground agriculture. Here, out-of-work quarrymen became 19^th century urban farmers, raising mushrooms and endive in these dimly lit underground tunnels.

The air temperature, humidity, and absence of light in the old quarry tunnels created a perfect growing environment for Agaricus bisporus (aka “les champignons de Paris” or what we call button mushrooms or baby Portobellos).  Enterprising Frenchmen carted down loads of horse manure into the tunnels, formed long raised beds, and planted wafers containing mushroom spores. They would use the raised beds for five mushroom crops, and then the compost would be gathered, hauled to street level, and sold to market gardeners. In the 19^th century, these Parisian underground farmers harvested 2,000 tons of mushrooms a year. As demand grew and production was constrained by the quarry tunnels, many mushroom farms were moved to caves on the outskirts of Paris, although some remained into the 1960s.

The more I read, the more I drew parallels to my work environment. I sit in a cave-like section of a building, with no windows, staring at a computer monitor. A far cry from the fields of Fleur-de-Lys. The day the earthquake shook the Eastern Seaboard I was motionless, like a fungus rooted to the forest floor, surrounded by stacks of paperwork bound for the dark bowels of the office Dell.  In my former life, I used to smell the rain coming, not to mention slosh around in it. Now when it rains, I often don’t know until I hop on a wet bicycle seat for the ride home.

But I count my blessings.  As it turns out, every farmer I’ve talked to says this growing season has been the worst in memory – too much rain, too much heat, too much rain, rain, rain.

Guess what? Rain is good for the roofing business. The phone calls are non-stop. The work orders pile up.  Even in a bad economy, “Everyone needs a roof over their head.” Even mushrooms.  Laurie Lynch

Melancholy/Or Not Mushroom Soup

(Serves 6)

1 lb. mushrooms, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped

6 shallots, chopped

3 Tbsp. butter

Salt and paprika to taste

3 Tbsp. flour

4 cups broth or water

½ cup plain yogurt

Brown mushrooms, garlic and onion in butter. Stir in salt, paprika, and flour. Add half the liquid. Stir until thick and smooth. Blend in remaining liquid and heat to boiling. Divide yogurt equally in soup bowls, and pour mushroom soup over it.

Rotary Relatives: Of the 70-some employees at the roofing company, I am one of three women. I was eating lunch alone on the first day when woman No. 2 sat down.

No. 2: My son started Penn State classes this week.

Me: So did mine.

No. 2: Well, actually he started this summer.

Me: So did mine!

No. 2: Well, mine took a year off between high school and college.

Me: So did mine!!

No. 2: Mine was in Brazil as a Rotary Exchange Student.

Me: So was mine!!!!!!!!!

Turns out No. 2 hosted Richard’s Rotary sister from Brazil – we’re Rotary-Related, so to speak. I took it as a good sign, and a large, cruel world became very small.

Kindle Kin: My sister Lee Ann (No. 3 of 5) was showing me her Kindle a few weeks ago.  There is a certain allure … but I’m staying true to my Saturday morning forays into Louisa Gonser Library’s back room (and Schlow Memorial Library in State College). In the back room of LGL, I’ve found so many cheap delights, and an added bonus. I’ve begun a collection of bookmarks left behind in recycled books. One has the word “library” printed in more than a dozen languages – from Arabic and Vietnamese to Malay, Nigerian, Tagalog, Portuguese, and French. Then, there’s a 1903-2003 100 Years of Flight timeline, a bookmark commemorating a 1987 exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art of Chinese tomb figures, and my current favorite, a laminated original work of art signed by “Humberto A”, an indigenous Mexican artist at the Vamos! Project through Casa Romero. It is painted on the fragile bark of the amate tree! And, the message includes an email address for anyone who wants more info: coleman@cuer.laneta.apc.org.

Pasta Squared:  I’m hooked on hand-made pasta from a cute little shop in town called Fasta & Ravioli Company. Remember the beans and potatoes and tomatoes that we grew at Fleur-de-Lys Farm – colors of the rainbow? Well, Fasta has piles of fresh pasta in colors of the rainbow that melt in your mouth. But, bookworm that I am, during my first visit to the store I was sidetracked by a book behind the counter: “The Geometry of Pasta.”

Pumpkins Cubed: My friend Emelie was our first visitor from “home”. She came up to see her son, a freshman at PSU and member of the PSU Pep Band that plays at volleyball games. She brought house-warming pumpkins: an orange jack-o’-lantern, a huge white squash called Polar Bear, and the gorgeous tan and green and orange “Rascal” pumpkin pictured above.

Written on Slate: To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable; and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, act frankly … to listen to stars and buds, to babes and sages, with open heart; await occasions, hurry never … this is my symphony. – William Henry Channing

Fleur-de-MustardMagic

A few weeks ago I got an email with the following subject line: APD Volunteers Needed!

I was scratching my head. Anyone who has spent time in Kutztown knows that APD is the Airport Diner – the only all-night eatery in that corner of Berks County. (I never could understand why the Airport Diner was referred to as the APD and not just the AD … but then I’m not Kutztown-born.) But when the kids and exchange kids thought they were old enough to go carousing at night without telling Momma, the APD was on my rounds, yes, in my pajamas, to check that they were safe.

The email was puzzling, though, because it had Centre County origins. Turns out that APD in these parts means Ag Progress Days.  So last week, I volunteered at Penn State’s Russell E. Larson Agricultural Research Center at Rock Springs, location of APD, for PASA (Pennsylvania Association for Sustainable Agriculture), PCO (Pennsylvania Certified Organic), Penn State Pesticide Education, and Penn State Potatoes. Lots of Ps.

I was in my element, rubbing calloused elbows with farmers and gardeners, chatting about pollinators, and sipping on Pennsylvania maple milkshakes. I was supposed to be there as a volunteer to teach and explain, but as often happens, I finished the three days with a learning high.

At the Penn State Potato plot, I learned about a wonderfully simple technique that I have to share with all of you gardeners out there. I’ve grown cover crops and I’ve tried to steer clear of fungicides (chemicals used to reduce fungal diseases), but it wasn’t until last week that I learned about biofumigants – plants that naturally fumigate the soil, suppressing harmful nematodes and diseases.

In the last several years, potato experts in Maine, Michigan and good old Penn State have been studying the effects of growing a mustard seed mix the year before planting potatoes, and they’ve found that when chopped up and mixed into the soil, mustard greens release gases that can suppress harmful nematodes, insects, weeds, bacteria and fungi in the soil. And, at the same time, mustards serve as a green manure, enriching the soil with nitrogen and thus improving potato yield by as much as 8 percent.

It turns out that the disease suppression of Oriental mustards or Brassicas is associated with the amount of glucosinolates in the tissue of the plants. (These are also the compounds which create the hot taste of mustard). Mustards are native to the Mediterranean and were domesticated about 4,000 years ago as a source of oil, spice, and medicines. Today, researchers using these mustard seed mixes are finding that the naturally occurring biofumigant properties of mustard are only part of the story.  Mustards also improve soil structure and fertility, reduce erosion, stimulate growth of beneficial microbes, draw in dozens of bees and butterflies, and, for you poets out there, they’re beautiful!

If you have an area in your garden that you are having trouble with, or were planning to let go fallow for a season, this is where you plant your mustard cover crop. Penn State plants it after a wheat rotation, cuts it just after Ag Progress Days, turns it into the soil, and then plants potatoes in that spot the following spring. I also think it would be a great cover crop after harvesting garlic in early July. It could also be grown in the fall, but I think we’ve missed the planting window for this year.

1. So, for next year, order Caliente199 from Rupp Vegetable Seeds or anywhere else you can find it. Caliente 199 mustard seed mix produces the highest amount of biofumigant gas when chopped.  (3 oz. seed packet covers about 850 square feet.)

2. The tiny seeds germinate rapidly, in 5 to 10 days after planting, and will germinate in soil temperatures as low as 40 degrees. In four to five weeks the plants will completely cover the ground, and soon will produce flower buds, with yellow flowers bursting forth a week later.

3. At maturity, the plants will be three to four feet tall, with deep taproots.

4. The biofumigation properties of mustard residues are highest if plants are mowed or cut into small pieces and rototilled into moist soil around the time of full flowering.

5. Smile, knowing you did something good for your soil, your garden, and the planet. And give a nod to Mother Nature, who, it seems, thought of everything.

Here's to your field of dreams! Laurie Lynch

Fleur-de-Landmark

Somewhere in my adulthood I began taking notice of personal landmarks. There was the magnificent gingko South of Broad in Charleston, SC, and the causeway to Sullivan’s Island. In Pennsylvania, the landmark was a section of undulating fields cutting into the bare Maxatawny sky. And, although this is the third time I’ve lived in State College, this is the first time I’ve adopted a personal landmark here: Mount Nittany.

To me, a personal landmark is a place that changes from hour to hour, day after day, season to season, yet remains a constant presence. I always thought, “That would make a great calendar – 365 views of the same tree/marsh/field.” And then I’d quickly tell myself, “Anyone else would think it boring – 365 photographs of the same landscape.”

Mount Nittany seems like a no-brainer, but every other time I’ve been in Happy Valley, the symbolic mountain has simply been background scenery. This time around, every morning I take a bike ride and sit on the Slab Cabin Run bikeway bench that faces the backside of Mount Nittany, I feel centered.

So I have adopted the Mount of Princess Nita-nee, but I’m such a latecomer. The Algonquian Indians named the mountain Nit-a-nee, meaning “single mountain”. By the 1700s, colonial settlers were using the slight variation, Nittany Mountain, and in 1903, folklorist Henry Shoemaker wrote a tale of Princess Nita-nee, who the story led her tribe to the safe haven of the Nittany Valley. When she died, the mountain rose from her grave. (However, from my vantage point, not the Beaver Stadium view, I swear Princess Nita-nee is carrying a little papoose on her back … perhaps fuel for another tall tale.)

Fifty years or so after Penn State was founded, the Nittany Lion mascot arrived on the scene and soon the story of Princess Nita-nee included an Indian brave named Lion’s Paw (gimme a break!).  In 1945, when the owner of the mountain was preparing to sell the land, alumni with the Lion’s Paw Senior Society took an option to buy Mount Nittany. By 1981, the society formed the Mount Nittany Conservancy to preserve the pristine beauty of the fair mountain maiden.

To me, the beauty of a personal landmark remains the paradox of ever-changing consistency. One morning, Mount Nittany appears to float on a golden shimmering lake, surrounded by an ice flow. The next, she is wrapped in an apron of fog as the sun burns through the dawn. Another morning, she sits blue and heavy, in a steaming cauldron of clouds. Just the other morning, the entire mountain was erased by mist into a chalky nothingness.  Then, on a clear and cloudless morning, I hear a slightly familiar “whoosh, whoosh” as I pedal up the bike path hill -- a hot-air balloon hovering over my shoulder. A downhill plunge and I whiz ahead. When I arrive at “my bench” I sit and watch as the balloon, colored with a Lego pattern in green and yellow and violet and blue, lowers over Lemont. Then flames lick and spit, sending the balloon straight up over Mount Nittany. Picture perfect. Laurie Lynch

Good Eggs: Well, I admit it. After 14 years of having “farm-fresh eggs”, the Egg Lady got a little jaded with the orange yolks and substantial whites, and sometimes thought customers eggsaggerated about the quality of our hens’ eggs. Now that I’m a consumer and not a producer … well, I haven’t seen a good egg since. It will take time to track some down, but I will. The supermarket brown-Organic-Cage-Free-Omega-this-and-that eggs are pale by comparison.

Name Game: No longer the Egg Lady, I’ve been thinking of a new moniker. Bike Lady had possibilities until Crash Lady appeared. Then, an old buddy from Philly emailed. “Yo, Fleur,” his message started. I sat there and said, “I like it!”  It makes me feel like a schoolgirl at Harry Potter’s Hogwarts and proves that Fleur-de-Lys is not a farm, it is a state of mind.

Caring and Sharing: A certain nephew of mine called his mom, quite concerned, about AL No. 1 (that’s my niece/nephew nickname). There are five of us Ls – Laurie, Lisa, Lee Ann, Larissa, and Leslie – and I, being the oldest, was named Aunt L No. 1. “She really should carry a cell phone on her bike rides,” he said. Well, AL No. 1 wasn’t born yesterday and after her first trip to ER figured that out too. And, at the risk of totally embarrassing NL No. 1, I’ll share with you all that I now carry a cell phone close to my heart on all bike outings … that’s why God gave women cleavages!

Good Eats: Chef Wille, another nephew, offered to make dinner the other night. For those of you with late summer beach plans (or a good seafood store nearby), here is a novel way to celebrate those lovely cherry tomatoes that are weighing down your garden plants.

Wille’s Drunken Mussels

Saute sliced Vidalia onions in a large frying pan. Scrub, de-beard (if they haven’t been cleaned already) and rinse a pound or two of fresh mussels.  Remove any mussels that are open and do not close when you press on them. Toss cleaned mussels into the bed of onions with a nob of butter, a couple handsful of cherry tomatoes (Wille used Sungold, a nice color contrast with the black shells), and a splash of beer. On a medium-hot burner, cover pan and steam until mussels pop open (3 to 5 minutes). Ladle mussels, onions, tomatoes and broth in individual bowls, accompanied with slices of toasted whole grain bread to sop up the delicious broth. (Be sure to place several empty bowls on the table for the shells.) Mmmmmmmussels.

Fleur-de-Planted

In the past week or so, many of you have encouraged me to bloom where I’m planted. I don’t think any of you meant face first.

I blame it on the ghost in the machine, but some of you can write comments on the blog and others cannot, and so you send emails. Either way, I’m glad you are staying in touch. I just wish I could make it easier for you but I haven’t been able to figure out the details of blogdom.

When I moved to State College, I decided it was important for me to take the time to do something for ME … and my knee. Since my knee surgery in January, I’ve been a little stiff and arthritic. I decided bicycling would get me out and about, and stretch any of the kinks in my joints. And, we have wonderful bike paths around town.

The one closest to my mother’s house connects to Slab Cabin Creek Park where, during the winter, there is a tobogganing hill and marshmallow roasting fire pit. I started out with short excursions, early in the morning.  Unlike other summers when I would make elderberry or blackberry jelly at the farm, this summer I’m making jelly legs, thanks to all the hills on the bike path.

Then came Sunday. It was a glorious morning. I stashed a camera in my knapsack and was headed to my favorite bikeway bench with a stunning view of Mount Nittany. I coasted down the first hill and then noticed my watch was upside down. I reached over to fix it … and next I knew I dove into the asphalt, face first.

The only pain I felt was that of embarrassment. I didn’t want anyone to see me. So I stood up, retrieved my water bottle, lifted up my bike and pushed it home. I was bleeding, from my cheek to my knee, but my lips were the worst. In a matter of minutes, I looked like a poster child for Botox Gone Bad. My brain was working in slow-mo – "Ice pack," it told me. So I held one to my mouth and drove to Mount Nittany ER.

For the first half hour, a couple dozen nurses and aids quizzed me on the details of my accident: I was riding a bike. Yes, I was wearing a helmet. I tried to adjust my watch and crashed.  Two hours later, X-rays showed a cracked cheekbone A follow-up the next day in the dentist’s office yielded good news – teeth and roots are OK, a little bruised, but OK. If this only happens once every 57 years, I can take it. Yes, I was wearing a helmet. On the ER pain scale of 1 to 10, I gave myself a 4. The only question that stirred a little concern came from a rotund RN who asked, “Were you riding a stationary bike?”

Too many years ago, a fellow told me he knew why I became a swimmer: “You’re the clumsiest thing on two feet.” Now I can add, “Two wheels,” but honest, what do you take me for? It was a regular mountain bike with spinning tires, annoying seat, the whole nine yards … not a stationary bike.

I am a novice bicyclist and still grind my way through the handlebar gears, but my problem was not bicycling; it was multi-tasking. So I’ve made a pact with myself: No more multi-tasking while biking. Sure, I can breathe, and think, and wipe the Neosporin-laced sweat off my chin, and occasionally break into song, but that’s it. When I’m biking, I’m biking. And, in the meantime, I’m healing. With a gentle pat on the arm, and somewhat gentle words: "Your face is really a mess, but it will be OK," Mother Marie is taking care of me. Laurie Lynch

As Promised: Oh the shame! Called out in the Fleur-de-Lys blog! Argh! Sorry I didn't get this to you sooner ...

Garlic Ice Cream, Kutztown Style

2 cups of cream*

2 cups of whole milk

1-2 cloves garlic, crushed

1 cup sugar

1 T honey

1 T vanilla

In a saucepan, mix together the cream, milk, and crushed garlic. Heat well, but do not allow to boil. Remove from heat and stir in sugar. Allow to cool. Add honey and vanilla. Refrigerate until thoroughly chilled. Stir, freeze, and enjoy!

*We use cream from Jersey Hollow Farm in Kutztown -- it's so thick you can turn the jar upside down and the cream stays put! Also, the milk we use is the top of the raw milk, so it's basically light cream. Call it what you like. Lisa

Slow Food, Soft Food:  Monday morning, battered face and all, I had commitments in Allentown. I went into the Master Gardener office wearing a surgical mask to hide my bruises and swelling but Dear Diane said the mask was scarier than my face, so I continued the day au naturel. I had a half dozen errands and ended up at dinner with two friends. They knew about my road burn accident and figured I couldn’t open my mouth wide enough for a veggie burrito and probably didn’t want to be seen in a restaurant. So, we “ate in” and they made an assortment of “soft food” – tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil salad, hummus, and something called “Skillet Squash Sandwiches” minus the sandwiches:

Saute one or two each sweet onion and summer squash/zucchini in olive oil. Add 1-2 tablespoons red wine vinegar and chopped or dried tomatoes.  Saute until vegetables are the way you like them. Sprinkle with mozzarella cheese. In separate bowl, mix 1/4 cup mayonnaise, 3 cloves crushed garlic, amd 8-10 chopped basil leaves. Serve sautéed vegetables and place a dollop of mayo mixture with each healing helping.

Local Food, Famous Food: The other day nephew and culinary-nutrition graduate Wille took the bus from Providence RI into NYC to sample Watermelon Gazpacho and peruse menus of his favorite restaurants. Chef Thomas Keller (The French Laundry on the West Coast and Per Se on the East Coast) listed on his menu: “Salad of Eckerton Hill Farm Cherry Tomatoes” (Tim Stark’s place near Lenhartsville). Cool beans!

Written on Slate: "When I go biking, I repeat a mantra of the day's sensations:  bright sun, blue sky, warm breeze, blue jay's call, ice melting and so on.  This helps me transcend the traffic, ignore the clamorings of work, leave all the mind theaters behind and focus on nature instead.  I still must abide by the rules of the road, of biking, of gravity. But I am mentally far away from civilization. The world is breaking someone else's heart."  -- Diane Ackerman


Fleur-de-EatDrinkStink

Last week, after pulling garlic from the field at Fleur-de-Lys and nestling the harvest in the bed of my pickup truck, I had a vague plan – very vague. I had 13 bins brimming with 13 varieties of heirloom garlic, each carefully labeled. Then the rains came. Luckily, a friend’s carport sheltered us (the garlic and me) from the first storm. The same friend convinced me to place each label in a plastic Ziploc – to avoid losing years of careful nurturing and monitoring by preventing the names from bleeding into unreadable ink spots – and helped me tuck everyone (the 13 garlic families) under a heavy-duty tarp.

I was barely out of Berks County when the downpour came, windshield wipers slapping from the Susquehanna to the Juniata, and then up over the Seven Mountains to Happy Valley. I backed into the “cart shed” with my precious cargo and recruited my son Richard and sister Leslie to help me unload.

I grew up just behind the second tee at Centre Hills Country Club, in the house where my mother still lives. This location created a youthful enterprise – Sugar and Spice Stables – where my four sisters and I rented spaces for golfers to store their golf carts. We bought our first pair of llamas, Paco and Suzette, with the proceeds. My mother still rents spaces for three golf carts and, after several generations, has one llama left (Belladona).

My vague plan was to somehow hang the garlic from the cart shed rafters … but serendipity prevailed. There, amongst the boxes of my life in storage, I spotted my antique shoe drying rack. My Italian grandfather, Abele, came to Pennsylvania from the Old Country with few belongings and a trade that served him well over the years – he was a cobbler and shoemaker. For years at 440 Hottenstein, this rustic wooden rack was used as a telephone shelf and storage place for my endless piles of paper. There it was, empty. The perfect place to cure my garlic – plenty of air circulation and racks for stacking the labeled garlic bins, and a few knobs to drape tied bunches of special garlic. Somehow it seemed especially fitting that the “roots” of my garlic found a home on a shoe drying rack amongst all of my earthly possessions.

Settling in has been a smooth adjustment. Our tomatoes and peppers and shallots look great, but the garden is overrun with brazen groundhogs and voracious bunnies who mowed down the green and purple beans, zucchini, yellow squash, and Poona Kheera cucumbers. I brought pots of chocolate mint and a Fleur-de-Lys fig, and spent a morning repotting Mother’s Day gift plants of avocado, guava, and Meyer lemon. (More on the tropical leanings of Fleur-de-Lys Central in a future blog.)

My mother loves having company and running errands to interact with people, even if she gets a bit perturbed with her eldest daughter. And vice versa.  She absolutely deplores my Fleur-de-Lys fashion, or lack thereof, and her favorite questions about my attire are: “Aren’t you going to change?” and “Are you going to wear stockings?”  It’s like I’m 15 all over again.

So, we stop at the neighborhood bank, and no, I didn’t change, and I wasn’t wearing stockings.  We walk up to the bank manager (“the handsome one,” she always points out) and my mother has already complimented him on his tie (as she does on every visit). He takes one look at me and says, “Eat, Drink, Stink?” Well, yes, it has been 90+ and humid as a rainforest but … then I look down at my chest. I’m wearing an Easton Garlic Festival T-shirt emblazoned with the motto: Eat, Drink, Stink.

I mumble something about being a farmer without a farm, with a shed full of garlic, drivel, drivel, and his eyes light up. “I love garlic!” I asked if he grows it or just eats it – only the latter. I asked him where his ancestors were from. “Italy, of course.” And I told him I’d be back with a gift.

A few days later I bundled up and labeled some soft-neck Chet’s Italian Red and some gorgeous hard-neck German White, stuck them in a paper bag and we were off on a road trip to the bank.  The conversation in the car went something like this:

 “Why are you taking garlic to the bank?”

I retell the T-shirt story.

“He’s so handsome. Are you flirting with him?”

“Mothhhhhherrrrr, he’s married.”

“How do you know?”

“Because every time you compliment him on his tie he says that either his wife or his daughter bought it for him.”

“Well, he is cute but I don’t know why you’re bringing him garlic.”

“I’m bringing it to him and all of the bank tellers because they like garlic.”

“Well, it looks kind of messy with those stalks sticking out of the bag.”

“I thought it was a good way to show them how garlic grows.”

“He is really handsome. Do you think he’s married?”

Ah, life at Fleur-de-Lys Central, where I’m just spreading the holy grail of garlic, one bank at a time. Laurie Lynch

Good Eat: Once there was the Egg Lady, now there is the Chicken Wing Man! Richard won the Hartranft Hall Chicken Wing Eating Contest the other night. Magic number? 32. While we were moving, Richard took one look at me: sweaty brow, pitted out T-shirt, etc., and said he knew where his sweat genes came from …  I’ve never eaten “Wings” – too boney for me -- so I can’t take any of the credit for his culinary appetite genes.

Good Drink: I’m still waiting for my buddy Lisa to send me her recipe for Garlic Ice Cream … but until then, I’ll share this cooling tip I borrowed from the Dynasty Restaurant in Tiburon, CA, when Richard and I visited my mother’s dear friend and college roommate Trig. The waiter carried a water pitcher that was stuffed with mint leaves and then filled with ice water. So refreshing.  I’m doing the same (in an old juice bottle), filling it with chocolate mint leaves and adding water to keep in the frig. Give it a try.

Good Read: “The Novel” by James Michener. Made the easing out of Berks County and the Lehigh Valley a little less abrupt and less painful.

Good Escape: To get away from the stifling heat my mother, sister Larissa and I went to see “Midnight in Paris.” Yeah, I loved it, and I bet you will too. Great scenes of a beautiful city and fabulous concept for fellow bookworms.

Fleur-de-Farewell

Well, this hasn’t been the easiest newsletter to write.

Do I talk about the Jim Tammen lilies blooming in the cutting garden or the New Dawn roses framing  the front porch as I said good-bye? Or, do I reminisce about Libby and Fleurry in their new home just outside of Stony Run or the six hens that left on New Year’s Day to live on another hill on Hottenstein?  Or, do I get down to the nitty-gritty of packing 20-plus years of memories (14 at 440 Hottenstein Road) onto a 20-foot U-Haul truck that I was scared as hell to drive?

OK, I’ll write about the truck.

My neighbor Beverly set me up with a brand-new (2,000 miles) automatic monster with air conditioning and airbags. My neighbor Gayle, who drives her Eagle Point Farm Market box truck from Leola to Trexlertown like it’s a VW Bug, said simply: “Use the mirrors.” And when fear and trepidation set in (i.e. backing out of the steeply sloped driveway with less than an inch to spare), I let  a certain 6-foot-6 19 year old hop into the driver's seat. But actually, as a recent veteran of the Kutztown-to-State-College-and-back-again run, I can look back and say, “It was a breeze” and recommend it to any of you. Sure, there was a gnawing cramp from my right bicep across my shoulders and neck to the left bicep from gripping the steering wheel like it was going to roll out the window, but as the miles flew by I passed a few slowpokes, pulled up to a gas pump (twice), made it up the Seven Mountains by downshifting, and, I used the mirrors … as well as my excellent co-pilot Richard.

The packing went really well. Dina supplied a bunch of bicycle boxes for the odd-shaped, over-sized items and Vanessa carefully wrapped and stashed all of those necessities you use up to the last minute and then have to pack. We even found two foam rubber panels to protect the glass Hoosier doors – and remembered that our daughters (Abby and Marina) used them to dress up as matching dominoes one Halloween many years ago. Richard, Celso (our former Brasilian Rotary exchange student, KU graduate, and soon-to-be executive assistant for a national recycling firm), and farmer Steve and his crew, Blake, Sam and Caleb, added muscle to the move.

Nick the Cat is the original mellow yellow, so he was unfazed by the process. Magoo the Bouvier, a completely different story. In the weeks before the move, as each room became a maze of boxes, he was unsettled. As the boxes began disappearing, he began piling up his toys on the couch so he could keep track of them. And every once in a while he’d give me a jab with his big, black rubbery nose as if saying, “Hey, forget all the work, let’s go play with the Frisbee.” But the most poignant moment was when he took a giant leap into the back of the U-Haul, and tears came to my eyes knowing I couldn’t take him, and all of you, with me. Laurie Lynch

Fleur-de-Lys Central: The only thing that hasn’t changed is my email address: fleur.de.lys_farm@mac.com. My new mailing address is P.O. Box 842, State College, PA 16801. I’m living with my mother at 101 Timber Lane, State College. Home phone: (814) 238-1774. Please keep in touch.

Too Small Most Agreeable Town: While Marina was visiting in early June we were shopping in a local drug store and bought a copy of a bridal magazine. Then, just the other day, there was a knock on the door at 440 Hottenstein asking if congratulations were in order. The answer is “no” and “NO”.  The magazine was a gift for Ziggy’s (Marina’s boyfriend) mother.

Written on Slate: I am still determined to be cheerful and happy in whatever situation I may be, for I have also learned from experience that the greater part of our happiness or misery depends upon our dispositions and not upon our circumstances. – First First Lady Martha Washington

Fleur-de-MakeAnOffer

Good Morning,

Busy week ahead as life as I knew it at Fleur-de-Lys Farm winds down. Friday and Saturday, from 9 a.m. until 3 p.m., we will be selling the contents of "the shop", including many of the decorative items, antique games, cooking and gardening books, birdcages, farm-y collectables, as well as our Sayings on Slate, luffas, and vegetable brushes. We also have two saddle and bridles for sale, as well as a wooden horse cart with harness. No reasonable offers will be refused! Laurie Lynch

Fleur-de-FoxHunt

In the wee hours before dawn I often lie in bed waiting for the hour hand to click a little closer to 6, head cradled in my pillow as I mentally review my to-do list. A few days ago this tranquil time was interrupted with a startled clucking from the henhouse, the sound of alarm.

I rushed to the window. The hillside looked so peaceful blanketed in the dew and mist of early morning. I blasted my tough-sounding, burglar-chasing, no-funny-business warning call: “Hey!”

I tumbled downstairs, stepped into my Birkenstocks, grabbed the leather leash and clipped it onto the collar of, by now, a very alert Mr. Magoo. We were about 200 yards up the hill when I realized I was still in my pajamas. Fashion plate, I’m not, but if I were ever spotted in public in PJs, I guess these would be my choice. They are the only thing I own from Nordstrom’s – light blue flannel sprinkled with hearts and stars and crescent   moons – purchased by my parents too many moons ago.

More than four decades have passed since I was in eighth grade and my parents went to a conference with my English teacher, Mrs. O’Neill.  (Yes, this is my timely plug for the value of public education and teachers everywhere.)  It was one of those good-news-bad-news reports.

“Laurie loves to read … but she should start reading something other than horse books.” This was not news to my parents, of course. There were ponies in the paddock, the binding on my copy of “School for Young Riders” was worn to shreds, and the family’s summer vacation plans included a visit to Chincoteague, VA, for Pony-Penning Day after I had become totally absorbed in Marguerite Henry’s “Misty of Chincoteague”. My young life’s dream at the time was to go to England and ride in a fox hunt.

My parents repeated Mrs. O’Neill’s comments but let me continue grazing through my horse-lovers library. Still, the criticism rubbed, like a girth cinched too tight on a saddle. I don’t remember how or why I selected my “breakthrough” book – but I remember it well, and it haunts me still: “In Cold Blood” by Truman Capote. This nonfiction novel was about the murder of a wealthy farmer, his wife and two children in 1959.

Today, I’d have to describe my reading habits as voracious and eclectic, with a leaning toward intrigue and mystery – as far from my reality as possible. And, it may be thanks to Mrs. O’Neill that I spent a chunk of my newspaper career as a police and courts reporter.

As Magoo and I continued up the hill, I saw the crime scene: a patchwork of white feathers scattered about the grass. Just a few mornings before, I spotted a beautiful golden-red fox trotting across our meadow with a limp Black Australorp in its jaws, taking breakfast to its den. A serial killer was on the loose. As Magoo and I entered the top pasture, I saw the dark silhouette of a fox crossing the hill. I opened the metal gate and Griffey, the newly appointed guard horse, thundered into the pasture.

After the commotion died down, the quiet began whispering. I realized that sometimes we reach our dreams in unexpected ways.  Up until then, I joked to myself that the closest I had ever come to my teen-age dream of riding a Thoroughbred across the English countryside decked out in a hunt cap, scarlet coat, white breeches, and black boots was my first job after college – waitressing at a place called “Tally-Ho”. Yet just this week, surrounded by green rolling hills, a bellowing hound named Magoo, and my trusty steed Griffey, I was chasing a fox into the hedgerow and saving my flock … in my pajamas. Laurie Lynch

Beauty and the Bridge:  For a year or more PennDOT people have been measuring the Eagle Point Bridge that borders our meadow. A woman from Harrisburg stopped in the shop last summer, bought a few things, and told me we had nothing to worry about with the bridge repair work.

Then on Friday the 13th, a Right-of-Way Representative came with a letter from PennDOT saying they are pleased to offer us $$$$ for a slice of our property along Eagle Point Road. And, by the way, construction will start in the next month or two.

There go the hop vines, the blackberries and the black raspberries, not to mention a fourth of our Eagle Point garden, two bald cypress trees (one towering at least 30 feet), a river birch, a Sorbaria, sorbifolia, a couple winterberries, red-twig dogwoods, close to 500 feet of fence, and who knows what all else. The Right-of-Way Representative suggested we dig the plants up and move them. Same with the fence. Oh, and if we want a professional to “evaluate” the acquisition, they’ll give us up to $4,000 for legal fees. In other words, they will give our lawyer twice as much as they’ll give us for our land and trees, and then “acquire” the land anyway.

And you know what? I’m moving. It shouldn’t matter. But it does. We raised these yard-high whips into stately specimens. These plantings were my legacy to my children, to my community. It was my small attempt to create a wildlife habitat, a refuge, a sanctuary. Gone.

Temper, Temper: OK, now that I got that off my chest, I understand that we need safe bridges … just not in my front yard, ha, ha.  The night after the PennDOT visit, as I read the Legacy chapter in Joan Chittister’s “The Gift of Years, Growing Older Gracefully”, words, not trees, jumped out at me:

“We leave behind our attitude toward the world. We are remembered for whether or not we inspired in others a love for life and an openness to all of those who lived it with us. We will be remembered for our smiles and for our frowns, for our laughter and for our complaints, for our kindness and for our selfishness.” Miles to go before I sleep …

Please Vote Tuesday: As Americans, as Pennsylvanians, as Berks Countians, as Kutztown Area School Districtians, and Maxatawnians, we have to believe our vote counts.

Fleur-de-Lys Central: We planted the first square of our four-square garden at my mother’s house with Picasso shallots, Rainbow Swiss Chard, and Royal Burgundy beans. Next, Richard will plant St. Pierre, Green Zebra, Carolina Gold, Giant Belgian (in honor of Ziggy), Orange Russian, and Cherokee Purple tomatoes, courtesy of Steve and Gayle Ganser of Eagle Point Farm Market.

Blog Photos:  Jen’s photo of eggs awaiting cake baking, the last fall for our beautiful Bald Cypress, Picasso shallots bound for Fleur-de-Lys Centre County, and our Brasilian family: Celso Santin, Celso Jr. and girlfriend Sarah, Rui, and Samba Mama Tania.

At Fleur-de-Lys Farm This Week: Eggs, asparagus, ba-bob-a-rhubarb, rhubarb, and inspirational slate signs. 

Written in Slate:  (19^th Century, author unknown)

Dear little tree that we planted today,

What will you be when we’re old and gray?

The savings bank of the squirrel and mouse,

For robin and wren, an apartment house.

The dressing room of the butterfly’s ball,

The locust’s and katydid’s concert hall.

The schoolboy’s ladder in pleasant June,

The schoolgirl’s tent in the July noon.

And my leaves shall whisper to them merrily

A tale of the children, who planted me.

Fleur-de-TravelAtHome

 This week, I’m going to share a secret. Well, two.

Perhaps because I know I am soon leaving my home of 14 years, I am discovering local charms that I simply have to pass on to all of you.

The first is an event I’ve known about for years but never took advantage of until a few weeks ago: Kutztown University’s International Banquet. What a way to travel around the world in the faces and personalities of college students!

Jen, perhaps Bethlehem’s most devoted Fleur-de-Lys Farm hen fruit customer, emailed asking if I wanted to buy tickets to the event. Who could refuse dinner out for the price of a $5 ticket? I ordered a half-dozen to share.

Hosted by the International Student Organization, this buffet dinner from around the world is accompanied by a parade of nations, geography games, and an international student talent show. This year’s entertainment included students demonstrating tai chi, singing Egyptian songs, playing a Turkish guitar and Chopin on piano, and a great round of drum jamming. As I sat in the all-purpose room of McFarland Student Union, I remembered all of the other events I attended there with the kids, from History Day and Model UN to health fairs and the KAHS After-Prom Party -- dinner, arm-chair travel, and a trip down memory lane for five bucks! Check out KU’s website next spring for info on the International Banquet.

Next treat, hop off the global circuit and head to the Kutztown countryside for a special Winemaker’s Dinner at Blair Vineyards, 99 Dietrich Valley Road, Kutztown. You will think you detoured and went to heavenly Napa Valley wine country. As you sit at the outside tasting pavilion, furnished with oak barrel tables and stools, you can scan the horizon (1.000-feet-plus above sea level) and feel as if you are sitting inside a crown encircled with the emerald hills of northeast Berks County. OK, maybe I was a little too tuned into the royal wedding. Don’t take my words for it; see for yourself.

Winemaker Richard Blair has monthly Winemaker’s Dinners where a different Blair wine is served with each course of a seasonal meal prepared by a guest chef. Now my wine vocabulary isn’t much more detailed than “red”, “white,” “sweet,” and “dry,” so I set my sights on the agricultural part of the endeavor and opened my taste buds to the rest.

First Course: Spring Pea Fritter with Fresh Mint Gremolata paired with Blair Vineyards 2009 Riesling

Second Course: House-Cured Salmon with Dill Creme Fraiche paired with Blair Vineyards 2007 Chardonnay

Third Course: Choice of Pan Fried Local Trout or Panko and Mustard Encrusted Baby Lamb Chops with Three Potato and Morel Mushroom Hash Paired with Blair Vineyards 2008 Pinot Noir

Fourth Course: Dark Cherry and Orange Bread Pudding with Vanilla Ice Cream paired with Blair Vineyards 2010 Off Dry Pinot Gris.

This Farm/Vineyard-to-Table treat is just that, a treat, forging partnerships between farms, farmers, and foodies. Reservations must be made in advance and the price is $60 per person. http://www.blairvineyards.com/  Laurie Lynch

At Fleur-de-Lys Farm this week: Eggs, asparagus, Picasso shallots, chives, parsley, lovage, sorrel, and the beauty of spring unfolding … check out this week’s photos: Asarum canadense (Canada wild ginger) and Heuchera villosa “Beaujolais’; Asian pear in bloom; and over-wintered parsley and chives.

Also Ripe for the Picking: Lest anyone think I sugarcoat this farming life I love, I will admit to spending too many hours pulling weeds. This week’s Top Five: dandelions, shepherd’s purse, henbit, thistle, and speedwell. And on the home front, Most Unwanted Pest: Brown Marmorated Stink Bugs (aka BMSB or in Lynch family lingo, Dinosaur Bugs).

Moveable Farm: I’ve potted up a few flats of Picasso shallots and a couple of tubs of potato plants to move to State College. I also have a few luffa seedlings and plan to create a garlic bed to keep my planting stock going until, well, until. In State College Borough zoning allows four backyard chickens, but my Mother’s home with four acres is in “rural” College Township, where you need to have 10 acres to house even one hen. So, I decided to think outside the coop … and came up with a plan.

Bees Please: When Paul and I moved to Fleur-de-Lys, we wanted to raise honeybees. We took a weekend course in beekeeping at Delaware Valley College (Aunt France farm- and kid-sat). We raised bees for two or three years but then I was busy with too many other things and Paul had a demanding work schedule so he decided beekeeping would be a better retirement hobby. When the last colony didn’t make it through a harsh winter, we put the hives in storage. Time to pull them out.

Written on Slate: “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”  E.M. Forester