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