Here I go, dating myself
again. As the refrain of Peter, Paul and Mary’s hit “Leaving on a Jet Plane”
rattles through my brain, it’s time to pack my blog with updates and follow ups
and general catch ups.
First,
an apology to Elaine in Arkansas who, in an April blog comment, asked for my
elderblossom cordial recipe. First, I just discovered the request about a week
ago, and then, after I responded in the comment section, the recipe disappeared
into cyberspace. So, here it is, resurrected:
Elderflower Cordial
20 heads of elderflower
4 lbs. granulated sugar
1 1/3 quarts water
2 lemons
¼ c. citric acid
Shake elderflowers to expel
any lingering insects, and then place in large bowl.
Put sugar into pan with
water and bring to boil, stirring sugar until completely dissolved.
While sugar syrup is
heating, pare zest of lemons off in wide strips and toss into bowl with
elderflowers. Slice lemons, discard ends, and add slices to bowl. Pour boiling
syrup over flowers and lemons, and then stir in citric acid. Cover with cloth
and leave at room temperature for 24 hours.
Next day, strain cordial
through sieve lined with muslin and pour into plastic container to freeze.
Scoop out as needed.
I add a teaspoonful of
elderflower cordial to my tall glasses of ice water on hot days. It adds a
refreshing flavor.
Hay Bale Hoedown: We had our April showers in May, so the daily watering of the hay
bales was the primary responsibility of my cohort, Mother Nature. She did a
splendid job leading up to the urea application for Week 3.
Richard did offer to have his
campfire cronies, a 20-something crowd of S’more-slurping, cooler-popping
fellas, take aim at my hay bale garden – but did I really trust these guys to
walk the length of Beaver Stadium in the dark, find the garden gate, walk down
the garden path, and use Mrs. Lynch’s hay bales for target practice? As Richard
would text, “nah”.
Suffice to say that once
again Mother is the necessity of invention. My nighttime collection device used
over the course of several weeks and stored surreptitiously in my bedroom
closet (away from the eyes of the older and younger generation who would in
unison scream, “Gross!” or something to that effect) worked.
I made two trips to the
garden a few days apart, with just shy of three gallons of liquid gold each
time. I zeroed in on two potential planting spots for each bale, and only once
got my foot instead of the intended goal. “Gross!”
Week 4, I inspected the bales
and saw mushrooms growing – once again, Mother Nature was ahead of me. I stuck
my hand down into the approximate spots on each bale and was rewarded with
warm, composting hay. “Gross!” some might say. But as I pulled out handfuls of
the hay, steaming with biological action, my confidence grew.
My Mother’s Day wheelbarrow
was filled with a generous mixture of composted leaf mold from the woods,
composted llama manure, and Ace Hardware potting soil. I used my Dad’s trusty
trowel to slide a few scoops into each planting pocket. Perfect. Meanwhile, the
Poona Kheera cucumbers, Thai eggplant, Costata Romanesco Zucchini, Thelma
Sander Sweet Potato squash, Jimmy Nardello and Golden Marconi peppers, Katanya
and Cream of Saskatchawan watermelons, were hardening off on the shady patio. By Memorial
Day, the traditional Fedon family planting day, I was tucking my babies hay bales.
What a Guy:
During week 4, Richard presented me with an OJ bottle labeled “URINE” that he
had filled. Too late for the hay bales, but just in time for a urea application
for the garlic crop!
What a Gal: A
true friend not only gives you a couple dozen stalks of rhubarb for your spring
tonic of stewed rhubarb but also digs up a clump of rhubarb roots for you to
plant! Ah, the riches of Rebersburg farmland. Thanks, Sharon!
Wildlife at Fleur-de-Lys Central: We’ve had a squirrel problem in the golf cart barn/garlic
curing shed/storage nook/garage band staging area for quite some time. The
squirrels crack walnuts all over the place and gnaw up anything in their path,
but when we noticed they actually ate the cover off half of a golf ball … it
was time for action. After a few calls, The Hundred Cat Foundation stopped by
with a crate containing Houdini and Cali. HFC is set up to humanely reduce the
number of feral cats through spaying/neutering and then find homes/barns for
them.
Houdini and Cali were rescued
with 20 or so others in a few colonies living at Rockview State Correctional
Institution. One inmate smuggled out food to feed the strays living in barns
around the prison, but the (cat) population got out of hand. So Hercules (the
name that continues to come out of my mouth instead of Houdini) and Cali took
up residence at our place. For the first two weeks, they were on lock down so
they could get acclimated. Last week, we set them free and have only caught glimpses
of them since, but know they are still around by the emptying food bowl.
Deadlife at F-d-L Central: Richard and his grandfather’s .22 are curbing the groundhog
population. Seven down so far.
Really Dating Myself: In a recent copy of the AARP Bulletin, I came across
a wonderful idea: the Little Free Library.
A fellow in Wisconsin made a doll-house size repository for books
(compete with a glass front that opens up, allowing people take a book, return
a book,) and planted it in his front yard, like a mailbox. The idea took off.
There are building plans at www.littlefreelibrary.org,
with at least700 mini-libraries in 45 states and 20 foreign countries
True Confessions: I am leaving on a jet plane.
Richard and I are flying to Brussels for Marina’s Vesalius College graduation. After that, the three of us will take a
celebratory trip to Venice and northern Italy to trace my father’s roots (you
can’t beat $100 round-trip air flight from Brussels to Venice). Then, we’ll
return to Brussels for more visiting, re-charging my daughter-batteries for
another separation. (After spending the summer in Brussels, Marina will head to
the University of London for graduate studies.) So, you won’t hear from me for
a while – and when you do, I’ll be a changed woman.
You see, I’ve crossed this
line before. When I was in college, I became smitten with Charleston, SC.
Collected books on Charleston, “Porgy & Bess” albums, skate egg cases and
sand dollars from Isle of Palms, Spanish moss from Johns Island, a Mount
Pleasant wooden spool with a string to tie to chicken necks to lure blue crabs
into a waiting net. I ended up living there for five years, sprinkling my vocabulary with y'alls, and creating a place in
my heart for the Lowcountry.
Then, just before we bought
the farm on Hottenstein Road, Paul and I took a trip to Provence. Once again,
geography (and culture, and food, and people, etc.) pulled me into an undertow
of place. This is the French-ness that
created Fleur-de-Lys, from periwinkle blue shutters to cuckoo maran roosters,
French lace curtains and Purple Passion asparagus, crystalizing simple country
ways into a good life with family and friends.
And now, during the last few
weeks, I’ve felt a strange sensation coming on.
I first noticed it on a visit
to the local library. As I slid a few books into the return slot, I actually
heard a book on display call to me. Moments later I was checking out The Glassblower of Murano. Weeks later,
I went armed to the AAUW used book sale with a list – and found Death in Venice and The Broker—as well as a first edition Venetian Stories. On my last visit to the library: Venice, Pure City; La Bella Figura: A Field
Guide to the Italian Mind; The City of Falling Angels; and No Vulgar Hotel, The Desire and Pursuit of
Venice.
Then, I bought a dress for
graduation. The sales clerk commented on the Fortuny pleats. Was she drinking
too much Prosecco? Was I?
Luckily, Judith Martin’s No Vulgar Hotel explained the beginnings
of my malady—I may be turning into a Venetophile—and I haven’t even boarded the
plane.
Ciao. Laurie Lynch
Written on Slate: “O, Venice is a fine city,
wherein a rat can wander at his ease and take his pleasure! Or, when weary of
wandering, can sit at the edge of the Grand Canal at night, feasting with his
friends, when the air is full of music and the sky full of stars, and the
lights flash and shimmer on the polished steel prows of the swaying gondolas,
packed so that you could walk across the canal on them from side to side! And
then the food – do you like shellfish? Well, well, we won’t linger over that
now.” – Sea Rat in Kenneth Grahame’s The
Wind in the Willows
