it's harvest time in the city -- errrrr --- country

When combines emerge and dust starts to fly, I basically start singing, "It's Christmastime in the city" because harvest means fall and fall is basically winter and winter is essentially Christmas, so I'm pretty much ready to start wrapping presents. 

While summer will always be my true love, I cautiously admit to not completely disliking fall and the sound of all the activity in the field, hearing the dryer on the grain bins running at night, sleeping with the windows open and watching the leaves change colors. 

 

But, oh summer, how our little family will miss you. Fall and winter bring their joys, but gone will be the days of playing in the kiddie pool, scratching around in the sand box, eating our snacks on the front porch, picking flowers from the garden and smelling freshly mowed grass. 

 

Farming, perhaps more than most livelihoods, reminds us of the seasons. It's not just switching from lemonade to pumpkin spice latte weather. It's switching from drinking gallons of water and trying not to get sunburned while welding on hot tin roofs to wading through the muddy slush of winter, chipping ice from ponds for cows to drink and warming hands around thermoses of coffee before heading back out into the cold. 

But it's not winter just yet. So for now, we will wave at the combine, cheer for truck drivers, disregard all the dust, slow down for tractors on the highways and light a fire in the fire pit when the evening gets cool. 

Summer may be on its way out, and winter may be on its way, but for now, it's simply harvest time in the country.

we grew pumpkins, people!

In case you've missed out on this week's installment of the Zucchini Wars: Forget Zombies, These Are Way Worse, we are losing. 

To quote Lieutenant General Chesty Puller of the United States Marine Corps, "They're on our left. They're on our right. They're in front of us. They're behind us. They can't get away this time!"

Loosely translated, THEY'RE TAKING OVER. 

But you didn't stop by to talk about zucchini. 

Again. 

Can we instead talk about the fact that there are pumpkins on my porch that have not been eaten by dogs? 

This may not seem like a blog worthy post to you, but I stopped putting up any outdoor decorations after year 1 of marriage. The Christmas wreath got chewed up. A bunting on the deck was -- I don't know -- eaten presumably? Corn husks were dragged across the yard and dismantled. Pumpkins were gnawed apart. You name it and our dogs attempted their best to destroy it. 

So there our deck sat -- alone and sad and decorationless -- until this year. 

Thanks to my father-in-law and a couple of gates, no dogs are anywhere on the deck. And they're certainly nowhere near the pumpkins -- or "poppins" as the toddler calls them -- we somehow managed to grow ourselves.  

 

My sister gave my farmer some pumpkin seeds from a massive pumpkin patch near her house -- the kind that sells season passes because there's so much to see and do there -- and they didn't disappoint. 

Not bad considering I weeded them about three times, watered them about the same, and then watched them take over the garden. 

Well, the part of the garden that wasn't being ransacked by guerilla zucchini plants taking no prisoners. 

 

We grabbed some corn stalks from the field, a handful of mums from the 'Marts, and called it a day. 

A good day, because have I mentioned? NONE OF THE DOGS ARE EATING MY DECORATIONS. 

Next question: What's the verdict on spraypainting zucchini orange and pretending they're decorative squash?

Asking for a . . . friend.

thanksgiving 2016

I'll never forget the Thanksgiving that I woke up and realized my left eye was swollen to the size of a ping pong ball and people from church were coming over for the meal. 

Ahh. 

Memories. 

     

 This year, my farmer and I hosted Thanksgiving for the first time. We felt like grown-ups.

And none of our eyeballs were swollen.

I'd consider that a success.

As a child, I spent a fair amount of Thanksgivings watching my mom whip up delicious meals in her red kitchen or staying out of my grandma's way while she made dish after dish after dish. It was like the food never stopped coming when it came to either one of them. 

One of my grandma's staples, and a favorite of mine because we never had it at home, was creamed corn. I was convinced no one could make it like my grandma could. 

Until one Thanksgiving I saw her pouring creamed corn out of a can. 

OUT OF A CAN. My world was upended.

I had no idea such deliciousness could just be gotten at the grocery store. It changed everything. 

So what we've learned thus far is this . . . normal-sized eyes and creamed corn: It doesn't take much to keep me happy. 

Beforehand we had wine and a charcuterie board with salami and Vermont cheddar and olives and goat cheese.  

We also nibbled on a new tradition: the Thanksgiving pumpkin cheeseball.

And by "tradition," I mean this is the second year I've made it. Does that make it an annual cheeseball now?

And really, isn't the goal of any appetizer just to hold your guests over long enough so that you can finish the rest of the meal? 

Or try to salvage the turkey if you wrecked it?

Both maybe?

    

Thankfully, these appetizers were just for fun. Once we prayed, we started passing the good stuff.

We started with a spinach and pear and pomegranate salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, and creamed corn.

Not the can kind.

The kind that involved three sticks of butter and two cream cheeses.

Sorry, arteries.

My farmer did a bang-up job of cooking an Alton Brown-approved turkey, and our dogs though the neck and the carcass were the best Thanksgiving feast they'd ever had.

So everyone came away a winner on that front.

We also had butternut squash and cranberries with honey and cinnamon and feta . . . and some sweet potatoes from our garden thrown in for good measure. 

It was like farm to table . . . except we were still on the farm so . . . farm to farm?

Did I mention the turkey was super moist? Alton Brown's theory is to go high heat--as in, 500--for a short time to basically sear the skin and hold all the juice in. And it worked. 

We had a cranberry-walnut-apple salad, green beans wrapped in bacon, stuffing, rolls and pumpkin cornbread, deviled eggs, a heart attack. 

Whoops. How'd that last one sneak in there? 

And maybe don't ask me if I got juice from the cranberries and apples all over the front of my cupboards--the night before Thanksgiving--while I was grinding the two in my KitchenAid.

Because I totally didn't. Not at all. 

I didn't even contemplate sitting down on the floor and crying. Not even for a second. 

I'm also a really bad liar.  

We moved past the cranberry and apple juice incident by eating delicious desserts, because when you've eaten your allowable caloric intake by the time you get through the mashed potatoes and pumpkin cornbread, why not go for the gold?

We had a hot cocoa bar, even though we were basically all so stuffed at that point that the thought of more decadent calories made us want to . . . well . . . let's just say we were full. 

    

We also gorged ourselves on slices of pecan and pumpkin pie, chewy brownies with hunks of dark chocolate, and a salted caramel pumpkin cheesecake, which the recipe swore wouldn't develop a crack if I left the oven door closed for an hour and a half after baking. 

It promised. 

IT LIES. 

But better than all of that, we gave thanks for one another, learned more about our family traditions, and even managed to talk theology and the election . . . and no one slung mashed potatoes or flipped the table or tossed a glass of wine . . . or went home with a bugged out eyeball. 

Sometimes, even on Thanksgiving, it's the little things.

Harvest Time

I looked out my window today, saw this and collapsed in a pile of tears. 

Not actually. 

But it did cross my mind. 

Harvest basically equals early onset winter. Winter equals snow and, worse still, darkness starting at about 3:30 in the afternoon and not letting up until about 10:00 a.m. the next day. 

I don't love winter. And harvest means winter is coming. So really, if I'm needed, look for me in a pile of fur coats, mourning the warmth of June sunshine. 

My husband graciously reminds me that winter here isn't like winter in Iowa, which starts in October and lets up in about June. But it doesn't matter. I don't like dark. And I don't like cold. So there. 

To help with my denial that snow boots and black ice are on the horizon, I'm keeping myself busy with baking pies, which I've never done, 

Canning corn relish with corn from our garden, which was one of the few plants that didn't end up overtaken by weeds, 

Trying new recipes and then forgetting where I found them so that when my farmer asks me to make them again, I get a look of panic and mild confusion,

And enjoying the sunsets, even if they are moving earlier and basically starting at 5:00 p.m. in the afternoon. 

So here's to you, Harvest, even if your arrival does mean that soon the cold northern winds will be whistling through the trees and howling outside while Jack Frost traces designs on the windows and the dogs grow thick wooly coats. 

It's a good thing you're beautiful. 

It's a darn.good.thing.