Green Bean Time

What with the drought and everything, the beans have been slow coming in this year.  But today, after a weekend away, I found my drought-stressed plants nevertheless in full swing.

I like picking beans, but it's a delicate task.  The plants are fragile.  The hairy heart-shaped leaves are as thin as batiste handkerchiefs.  You brush against one and, unlike, say, a pepper leaf, it doesn't spring back, but stays looking crumpled and resentful.  The stems are knobby and turgid, ready to break off in your hand at the merest tug. And the early beans grow low in the plant, so that you have to swish the foliage around to get to them.

I hate it that, when I'm through picking, the entire patch is left looking harassed and upset.  But bean plants are drama queens.  I know that by tomorrow morning, revived by the dew, they will once again resemble a miniature jungle, the dark, impenetrable habitat of that fearsome predator, the daddy longlegs.

I pick my beans as young as I can get them, aiming for a maximum diameter of two-eighths of an inch.  But in every basketful I find some that already show the swelling of early pregnancy, while others, pre-pubertal, are about as thick as one of Wolfie's whiskers.  That means that after I wash them and snap them and give the stem ends to the chickens, my beans will--horrors!--cook to different levels of doneness.  They would never pass muster in a green-bean-processing plant.

But my beans, some fat, some thin, all born from seeds that I personally pushed into the ground with my planting stick, melt in the mouth and taste like the food of the gods even to people like me, who don't really like green beans.

December 7, 2008 "Subverting Simplicity"

The question came up in conversation the other day about what I would do if I had lots of money. And for a while, I couldn't come up with anything. Does that mean that I have attained perfect happiness? Maybe. But what it really means is that I live in Vermont. And because I live here, money for travel means nothing, for who would want to leave this place? A fancy car? The only thing you need in a car in Vermont is all-wheel drive. Otherwise, all cars look the same under a thick coat of mud and road salt. Gorgeous clothes? The only requirement is warmth, otherwise the same answer applies as to cars. And so on.

I did eventually come up with something, though. I would fence-in the front field. And why would I do that? Because in that field I would put... a donkey. Not just any donkey, but a Miniature Mediterranean Donkey (MMD). Or rather, two--donkeys are herd animals and are happier with a friend. I want a couple of MMDs because they are tiny (36” or less at the withers), friendly, and adorable.

And because they remind me of Spain. When I was growing up there in the 50s, you could still see them all over the countryside. They were the poor man's horse, eating little and working hard. During the long summer evenings I used to stand in front of my grandparents' farm house and watch the little old women, dressed in black, black kerchiefs on their heads, riding their donkey back to the village. They sat bareback and sideways, as confidently as if he were a kitchen chair, and on his croup they balanced a large basket filled with grass, to feed the rabbits that would in turn feed their families. The women nodded as they passed by, “Bona nit!” The little donkeys quickened their pace at the smell of the approaching village. And I wished that my grandparents were poor, and kept a donkey.

Heading Home

Now I wish I were rich, and could afford one. I can see myself riding it to the village store for the NY Times. I would dress in black, scarf and all. I would save gas...

But my simple life would get more complicated. There would be farrier appointments, a worming schedule, hay to shop for, grain to buy, brushing and grooming to be done, and quality time to be spent, plus training, of course. I can see myself, on a cold, snowy night like tonight, having delivered a hot dish to the hens, trudging across the yard to the shed with a bucket full of steaming water, spreading hay for extra bedding, hading out extra grain, and for my reward, the gratitude in those dark, liquid eyes.

November 15, 2008 "The Amazing Apple Smasher"

Left to his own devices, my husband would live in a condo, surrounded by computers and electronic gadgets, and eating TV dinners. Homesteading, going back to the land, living the “simple life” are strictly my obsessions, not his.

He is, however, an extremely accommodating fellow, and over the years has built, mostly out of scraps, a number of objects that have enabled me to live out my fantasies. He has made chicken feeders and chicken roosts and nesting boxes. When I had goats he made me a couple of elaborate milking stands, hay feeders that minimized waste, and a cheese press.

But of all his creations, the one closest to my heart is the latest, the Amazing Apple Smasher.

This was a terrific year for apples in Vermont, and even the wild apple tree in our front field was covered with fruit. The trouble was, the apples were small, hard and bitter. Still, they were apples, so I figured that somebody should eat them. The answer, as always when a questionable food item is under consideration, was the chickens. After all, they adore spent broccoli plants and discarded Halloween pumpkins. Surely they would love those apples.

We picked a great barrel full and carted it to the chicken yard. We threw a little green apple on the ground, where it bounced and rolled like a golf ball. When it came to a stop, Buffy, the boss hen, gave it a peck, but she turned away in disgust when she couldn't make a dent. Not even Charlemagne, our 50-pound rooster, could crack that apple.

“They'll eat it if I break it up for them,” my husband said, hitting the apple with his heel. Sure enough, the apple flew into fragments and the chickens gobbled them up.

“Here, you do it now,” he said, handing me another golf ball. I put it on the ground and stomped, then jumped on it, but I couldn't smash it. All I got was a sore heel.

“This isn't going to work” I said. “I think we should just throw the apples in the compost.”

“Just hang onto them for a while,” my husband said, and went into the basement.

That evening, he handed me two scrap pieces of two-by-four, hinged together at one end.

“What's this?” I said.

“It's an apple smasher. You put an apple between the boards and stomp on the top board, and that smashes it.”

How can any woman turn down such an offering? I didn't think it would work, but to be gracious I carried it to the chicken house, set it on the floor, put an apple in and stomped. Pieces of apple exploded in all directions, with the chickens after them. Then they came back for more.

Now, when then see me with the apple smasher in hand, they gather round expectantly. They love the apples, and I love the stomping. There's something cathartic about the stomp-squish-scatter sequence. And thanks to the apple diet the egg yolks in our eggs are still as bright orange as they were in the summer.

Which goes to show you that you've got to have high tech, if you want to live the simple life.

Apple Smasher and Hen