Spinach Gomae Recipe

I've adapted a recipe for spinach gomae that I found online. If you've never had it, spinach gomae is a Japanese dish with cold spinach in a heap in a bowl and a sesame dressing over it. It's fabulous. Most gomae recipes call for sake and mirin. Having neither, I fiddled around till I ended up with this:

Fill a large pot with water and bring to a boil. Drop your clean, fresh spinach into the pot and boil for one minute. Dump into a strainer and run cold water till the spinach has no more heat.

Dressing Recipe:
2 tbsp. soy sauce
3 tbsp. tahini (sesame seed butter - also good in hummus
2 tbsp warm water
1/2 tsp sugar

Whisk till smooth, drizzle generously over spinach - piled in a small bowl, and sprinkle toasted sesame seeds over top.

The way I've always cooked spinach is mostly greens, a tiny bit of water, and steam it till it's limp and somewhat slimy. I love this method of cooking it (credit for the basis of my recipe and the spinach cooking method goes to http://www.food.com/recipe/gomae-japanese-style-spinach-salad-396253/review#rz-w).

Another Story for your Reading Pleasure... I wrote this one many years ago...

The Long Way Home

Lonnie Facchina

Allison Hellerman woke up Sunday morning and stretched. Today was the beginning of the next phase of her life. Her new, retired life. Last night had marked the final hurdle to complete freedom - a retirement party, thrown by her coworkers. Their farewell gift was a week vacation in Mexico… leaving tomorrow!

         Allison planned her day with delight. She would shower and dress, then go for a walk. Afterwards she would pack and call her sister to let her know she would be away all week. She would have to ask Mrs. Miller next door to water her plants and pick up her mail. Allison was thrilled; she had never been out of Florida. Too busy working her butt off so she could retire at fifty-five. Now it was payoff time.

You’re still good looking, she thought, as she stared into her mirror and dried her short blond hair … no wrinkles yet. Nice white teeth. Not bad for an old broad…who happens to be heading for Mexico tomorrow! She grinned at her reflection. No more work… ever!  Allison manipulated the blow dryer to get her hair to look like it did when the hairdresser had done it yesterday. Messy without looking accidentally messy.

“You’ve got to be a contortionist to do this style,” she said to her reflection. As she switched hands to dry the other half of her head, the blow dryer slipped from her fingers and fell into the toilet.

Allison spun around and grabbed the dryer, which was bubbling and frothing the water like a cappuccino maker. She pulled it out of the toilet and felt a slight numbness as the shock ran up her arm. Her legs buckled and she sagged to the floor. As her eyes drifted shut she was aware of the coolness of the tiled floor against her cheek.

Allison opened her eyes slowly. She was walking into a room she didn’t recognize. Stunned, she spun around to look back into the bathroom. It wasn’t there. In its place was a hallway leading to unfamiliar rooms.  A man’s voice she had never heard before asked her what was wrong. Startled, she spun back to look at him.

“The weirdest thing just happened. I thought I heard someone behind me,” a kid’s voice answered the man. The voice was coming from Allison’s mouth.

 “WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?” Allison shouted, panicked.

“What’re you talkin’ about, Dad?” asked the kid.

“What? Robbie, what are you talking about?” The man stared quizzically at Allison.

“What did you just ask me?” The kid was confused.

“WHO ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?” Allison screamed.

“Did you just hear someone yelling?” the kid asked the man, who shook his head, one eyebrow raised. 

I can’t feel my heart, maybe I did die, Allison thought. This is what happens when you die? You end up in someone else’s body, in someone else’s life? God, please, no!

The kid was Robbie Porter. He was thirteen and getting ready to go to hockey practice. Something weird had just happened, like he had gone schizo or something. He thought he heard voices in his head.  Robbie shook it off and ran out to meet his Mom, waiting in the SUV.

Allison was sure she was dreaming, and it was vivid. She was trapped inside some kid's head. She could see through his eyes and hear his thoughts, which were about hockey practice and somebody named Roy, whom Robbie really hoped wouldn’t show up today.

Robbie crunched through the snow, heaved his heavy hockey bag onto the back seat, and climbed in next to his Mom. Their Jeep puffed thick plumes of white exhaust into the winter air.

Allison was surprised at the coldness in the air freezing Robbie’s nose and fingertips, when just a moment ago she was in her muggy bathroom in Orlando.

Where the Hell am I? Snow and mountains... Allison noticed the license plates on a row of parked cars and they all read “Beautiful British Columbia.”

This has got to be the weirdest, most real dream I’ve ever had, but I have to wake up. Come on Allison. Snap outta this.

After a five-minute drive through a quaint little town perched on the side of a mountain, Robbie’s Mom pulled up in front of a large, yellow-painted concrete building.

“There you go, Robbie. Have a good practice. No bashing any heads in, ’K?” she joked.

“Aw, Mom. You take the fun out of everything!” Robbie grinned as he jogged off to catch up to his buddies.

         Hockey practice involved lots of yelling, skating hard, falling and being pushed into the boards. Allison was exhilarated by the unlimited energy of a young boy pushing all his muscles to the limit. The treadmill at her gym had never been this intoxicating.

         After an hour and a half on the ice, she unwillingly joined the boys in the shower room. Their joking conversations were silly and childish. Allison would have blushed… had she known where her cheeks were. She tried not to listen. Suddenly there was tension in the shower. She felt Robbie stiffen as he slowly turned towards a big, red-faced boy plowing fully clothed through the shower room. Robbie silently moaned. It was Roy, and he was focused on Robbie. The other boys acted casual but backed away. Robbie had nowhere to go.

“Yo, Porter. Where’s the twenty bucks you promised me today?”

“I never promised you snot, Roy.” Robbie’s voice was strained and Allison tasted his fear. Roy lunged and a squeal escaped from Robbie’s throat as he was slammed up against the wet concrete wall. Roy grabbed his balls with a fat hand and began to squeeze. The pain was intense, nauseating. Suddenly Allison screamed, “ROBBIE! TELL EVERYONE ROY MUST BE GAY BECAUSE HE’S GROPING YOUR CROTCH!”

Robbie automatically hollered, “Hey, everybody, Roy must be gay ’cause he’s gropin’ in my crotch!” Robbie forced a grin, but there was only misery in his eyes.

Roy backed away in surprise as all the boys laughed. His face turned purple and he muttered as he left, “Stupid cunts.” The laughter followed him right out of the shower room. Now Robbie was the center of attention. All his teammates surrounded him, thumped him on the back and relived the moment in the way only teenagers can.

Robbie was quiet on the ride home. His Mom tried to draw him into conversation, but he was preoccupied. She decided he was having one of those moody teenage moments and let it go.  

When they got home Robbie went straight to his room. He looked at himself in the mirror and for the first time Allison could see him. He was tall and slender, with blond hair and brown eyes. Handsome in a smooth-faced, boyish way. His hair was sticking up all over, still damp from the shower. He subconsciously smoothed it into place. He stared hard at his face and she could hear his thoughts.

What’s up with Roy? Why me?  Robbie was near tears. Now if I don’t stand up to him next time all my friends will think I’m a weenie, but I don’t want to end up fuckin’ dead… This is so bad. What made me call him gay? What was I thinking? Shit, this is all I need.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME ROBBIE? MY NAME IS ALLISON.” She yelled so he'd hear.

“Where are you?” Robbie demanded, spinning around, eyes darting to every corner. Who was this voice that kept yelling at him?

“What did you say, Robbie?” his Mom hollered from the kitchen.

“Nothin’, Ma,” he hollered back. “Where are you?” he whispered.

I think I’m in your head, Allison said quietly. Now that she had his attention, Robbie could hear her and she didn’t need to shout. I can see through your eyes, but I usually can’t make you move. I’m sorry, I’m the one who told you to say that Roy was gay. I thought it would help. I have no idea what’s going on here…

“How did you get in my head?” he asked, leaning closer to the mirror to look into the depths of his eyes, as though he’d see a little person poking out.

I think I electrocuted myself. I dropped my blow dryer in the toilet.

Robbie giggled, despite himself. Down the hall in the kitchen his Mom smiled. She imagined him on his computer, chatting with his friends online.

 “Can you leave my head any time you want to?” he asked.

I don’t know…she was surprised at the idea. I don’t even know how I got in your head, let alone how I’d get out. I know I don’t want to be here. I have just lived 55 years as a woman; I’m not ready to start over as a twelve-year-old kid.

“I’m thirteen,” he shot back.

His Mom poked her head in as she walked past and saw Robbie staring intently in the mirror. “Who are you talking to?” she asked.

“Myself,” Robbie replied, annoyed. His Mom backed off and he closed his door.

“Look, maybe you should just be quiet.” Robbie was agitated. “I can’t be having conversations with some imaginary friend. People will think I’m schizo.”

Allison was offended. She’d just been told to shut up by a thirteen-year-old. Shit. She wasn’t even sure she could keep quiet. This was supposed to be her future? A silent passenger in a teenager’s life? Was this hell?

Robbie turned away from the mirror and sat down at his computer. Allison had been dismissed.

A loud clanging startled both Robbie and Allison and, in the dim morning light, Robbie rolled over and turned off his alarm. He quickly rolled back to the warm spot he had just vacated and laid there thinking. He hadn’t heard the woman in his head since he had told her to go away, and now he wondered if she’d left, or maybe she’d never been there at all.

“Are you still in there?” he said aloud, hoping he wouldn’t hear anything.

Allison decided not to answer. Let him think she was gone. He’d relax and it would give her time to decide what to do.

Going back to school was dreadful. Allison had forgotten how juvenile kids were. This was the "dropping-snowballs-down-girls’-pants" age. Also, Robbie was becoming sexually attracted to girls and it didn’t take much to get him going. Allison found the sensation of getting an erection amazingly pleasant, but Robbie’s embarrassment overrode the pleasurable feelings.

The morning passed in a fuzzy haze of Social Studies and English. Lunch hour was a welcome break from the intense boredom of class. Robbie was the center of attention because he’d challenged Roy yesterday. He glimpsed the bully once during lunch, skulking around by the pop machine. When their eyes met, Roy drew his hand across his throat and mouthed the words, “You’re dead.” Robbie snorted and turned back to his friends. Allison felt his heart race.

Finally school was over for the day. There was laughter and joking as a group of boys headed for the pond with skates and hockey sticks slung over their shoulders. They played hard till the winter day sunk behind the mountain, then they all headed home for supper. The evening consisted of homework and chat lines.

Tuesday at school was a repeat of the previous day. Allison began to help Robbie with his schoolwork, subtly at first, then bolder as Robbie seemed to accept her presence. She could explain his subjects better than the books provided by the school.

What were the authors thinking? These books are so boring. Allison was animated as she explained Robbie’s math to him. She loved the subject and Robbie responded to her enthusiasm. As the days passed his knowledge flourished with her help. She was inordinately proud one day when his math teacher complimented him in class.

The week went by in a blur of school, hockey and family time, when the three Porters sat together in their living room and laughed at sitcoms. Allison learned to ignore Robbie's life and spent much of her time worrying about hers. While he was chatting on his computer after supper one night she thought about how her sister and nephew had taken the news of her death. Allison wondered if they missed her. A thought slammed into her mind.

 Maybe I haven’t been discovered yet! Maybe I’m dead on my bathroom floor with a blow dryer in my hand, rotting in the Florida heat. Oh my God!

ROBBIE! She shouted. He winced and snapped, “There’s no need to yell, okay?”

Oh God, please! I need you to phone 911. I might be dead at home. Tell them that Allison Hellerman of 16653 Yucca Lane in Orlando, Florida was electrocuted. Ask them to check it out!

Robbie reached for the phone next to his bed.

No, Robbie, wait. They will be able to trace your call and there's no way to explain this. Call my neighbor instead. Her name is Mrs. Miller.

Allison gave the number to Robbie and he began to dial. Halfway through he dropped the phone back into its cradle. Both he and Allison said “pay phone” simultaneously. Robbie grabbed the calling card his Grandma had given him last Christmas, threw on his ski jacket and boots and hollered that he was going for a walk. His parents didn’t even look up. Five minutes later he arrived at the phone booth outside the 7-Eleven store and dialed Mrs. Miller's number as Allison recited it.

A cautious, elderly voice answered on the third ring and asked, “Hello?”

“Hello Mrs. Miller. You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Allison’s next door and I think something may have happened to her. Can you please phone the police and ask them to break into her house? I think she might be hurt or dead or something.”

Robbie hung up and waited for Allison to say something. She didn’t. He understood. He turned and trudged the four blocks home under the cold, sparkling stars.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny and Robbie bounded out of bed. It was Saturday and he was meeting his buddies at the pond for a game of hockey. He quickly dressed and ran down to the kitchen for toast and cereal. His Dad was reading the thick weekend edition of the paper and his Mom hummed along with a song on the radio while she did dishes.

As Robbie settled into his chair with his Mini-Wheats the song ended and an announcer’s voice reported the nine o’clock news.

“Police are baffled by an anonymous tip phoned in to an elderly woman in Orlando last night. The call was made from a pay phone in Clancy, British Columbia at about nine-thirty pm, Orlando time.  The caller, evidently a young boy, asked the woman to call local authorities to check on her neighbor, whom he thought might be hurt or dead. The police gained access to the house in question late last night and there a woman was found, apparently the victim of an accidental electrocution.

“The woman, whose name cannot be released pending notification of next of kin, had gone undiscovered for almost a week. Coworkers assumed she was in Mexico on holidays. The woman had recently retired.

“Police are questioning residents of Clancy, BC, hoping to find a lead to help them discover who called from a 7-Eleven pay phone, and just how a young boy knew about a death four thousand miles away.”

Robbie dropped his spoon with a clatter and both parents turned to look at him.

“Allison,” he whispered, stricken.

“Who’s Allison, Robbie? Did she make that call?” His Mom started across the room towards him. He looked like he was going to faint. His face was unnaturally pale and his eyes, sad and shocked, seemed sunken into his head.

“Rob? You all right, Buddy? Do you know what’s going on?” Robbie ignored his parents’ questions and pushed his chair back. He half-fell over it as he spun around and bolted. Moments later his parents heard the slam of the front door.

“This is strange,” Robbie’s Mom said.

Robbie was still trying to ram his arm into his coat sleeve as he ran down the street. He had no idea where he was going, but slowed as he approached the 7-Eleven store. A police cruiser was parked out front and people were milling around the parking lot.

“Allison?” Robbie spoke the word out loud. Nothing. Was she gone now that her body had been discovered? Was that why she’d been in his head in the first place, so that he could help her be found? But why him? Was he psychic or something? Robbie hoped not. He certainly hadn’t liked having some old lady listening to his every thought. Inexplicably he found the silence in his head sad and lonely.

Charlie, one of his hockey buddies, saw him standing at the edge of the parking lot and ran towards him, ungainly in his clunky Sorels.

“Hey, Robbie! Did you hear? We’re famous! We have a murderer in town who killed some lady in Florida and called the police last night from that phone!” Charlie pointed.

Robbie couldn’t pretend. Muttering something about having to get home for breakfast he turned and jogged back the way he’d come, leaving Charlie staring after him as though he’d sprouted broccoli from his head.

By the time Robbie got home he was pretty sure that Allison had gone. He avoided his parents and, once alone in his bedroom, slumped into the chair at his computer. He didn’t feel like chatting, so he checked his email. Five messages, the first four from his buddies passing on the time they wanted to meet at the pond today, the fifth from someone he didn’t know… alliswell@hotmail.com. That message read, “A word of advice, Robbie. Always put the lid down! All my love and profound thanks, Allison.”

I added writing to my blog title today...

This really was a big step for me. I used to write. Then I stopped. Suddenly I began blogging and now I actually feel the writing bug returning. This is a good thing.

I want to cut and paste one of my stories here, but first I want to talk about my day. My goal is to blog in a way that will be interesting and/or funny, and not like something in my private journal. I haven't perfected this art yet, so bear with me...

 I planned to bake fruitcake today, and then after lunch, Norm and I were going to finish our apples by making juice. At 9 a.m. I thought to myself, "I have three hours to make my fruitcakes... LOTS of time." Have you ever made fruitcakes? First... you should always read the recipe at least twice several days before you begin. I had to forget about soaking my dried fruit in booze :-(  (Why does this site not have emoticons?). Norm isn't into booze unless it's cooked, so I soaked the finished product in apple juice - fresh-made apple juice. But that was at 3 pm... first I had to scald three pounds of raisins and one pound of minced dried apricot. Cutting up dried fruit is a crappy, sticky, time-consuming job. Our neighbour dropped by in the middle of it and told me to dip my knife in hot water (which I happened to have as I was scalding raisins!). I told her she needs to come over every day and teach me things. Her husband died in June and I was telling her today that we should have gotten him to teach us how to operate the tractor. Now we own it and we are having a tough time figuring it out... But I digress. The fruitcakes seem to have turned out well, but I'll wait a month before tasting them to allow them to mellow. Right after lunch we started on the apples. The big box of gravensteins were too soft to put through the peeler/corer, so we ended up making applesauce too. The macs were also pretty old, and we had a lot of waste. Next year we'll try to remember to do this in season... sigh.

Just as we were cutting up the last of the apples, Norm said, "Should we finish off the apples we got from Jack too?" ARRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!! We still had apples from JACK? That was months ago that we picked those. I thought we processed them already and I was so tired. But Norm helped and we got it done.

Then we voted. Today is election day in BC for municipal and Regional District reps. The polls close in 4 minutes. I hope my candidate wins. I hope I can keep my eyes open long enough to hear the results. Okay, this has now turned into a journal entry. I can't seem to help myself. Here's a story I wrote several years ago. Norm likes it... I hope you do too!

Jed and the Garden

Lonnie Facchina

The neighbor’s gray cat perched atop a stone pillar. There were six pillars surrounding Jed Huggins’s yard, linked together by an ornate black iron fence. Trees and shrubs snugged up to the fence on the street side, allowing only teasing glimpses into the fairy tale garden beyond.

Jed’s property was unexpectedly large, considering it was in the center of Hartville. Behind the stern wall and wrought iron gate a path of stepping-stones led to Jed’s house – a white-painted, two-story Victorian. Fuchsias spilled from baskets suspended along the front porch. The house was well kept and quaint, but the yard was amazing. It overflowed with blooms –Canterbury bells, lilies, hollyhocks, roses in an astonishing range of shades, mums, fragrant sweet peas, tall cosmos and daisies with happy faces. A stream meandered across Jed’s property and spilled into a pond full of water lilies and goldfish. Draping willow trees shaded the pond and the rustic garden benches that flanked it. Artfully arranged terra cotta pots added splashes of color here and there. The lawn itself was a thing of beauty. Not a single weed marred the luxurious green carpet. It was a garden that inspired and delighted all who viewed it.

The gray cat, oblivious to the beauty, groomed herself. She licked her front paw then sensuously slid it over her ear, across her closed eye and down her cheek. Her tongue popped out to meet it (destroying any illusion of sensuality) and the process began again. Her ears, like little radar antennae, spun back and forth. They worked independently of each other, picking up every sound in the neighborhood – the whiz of a passing bicycle, the clatter of a lid placed on a garbage can a half block away, the drone of bees in the garden.

It was August, and the town of Hartville was lazy in the midday heat. Folks stayed inside on days like this, when the humidity hung so thick that it pressed against your chest and made it hard to breathe. People slouched in darkened rooms, their faces intent on computer screens and TV sets. Others just lay on their beds with cold cloths over their eyes. Air-conditioning units, one in every home, hummed in unison.

Down the street a lawnmower sputtered to life. The cat’s radar ears both swiveled towards the sudden noise. The distant whine of big trucks traveling the highway and the steady thump thump thump of the bass on someone’s stereo were proof that life existed in Hartville, even if the town did appear abandoned.

A porch door squeaked open and then slammed loudly shut behind a large man in khaki shorts and a gray undershirt. The cat bolted at the first sound of the

screen door. She knew that sound meant danger. Sure enough, the man threw a stone, narrowly missing her as she darted under the fence and back to the safety of her own yard.

“Stupid friggin’ cat,” the man, Jed Huggins, murmured as he crossed his yard to retrieve the stone. He put it with the rest of the pile he’d collected to discourage animals that came onto his property. Still muttering aloud, he sank into his wooden porch chair.

“I worked too hard on this garden to let any goddamned animal shit in my dirt and mess things up. You hear me, Cat?” Jed’s muttering crested into a shout, with a fist-shaking thrown in for good measure. The cat stared at him, haughty and unconcerned, safe on her own veranda.

Jed needed his garden to be perfect, especially today. This would be the tenth year in a row that he planned to win the Hartville Garden Contest. The judges would arrive this evening and Jed was willing to sit here and guard his perfect yard all day if he had to. He pulled a can of beer from his shorts pocket. It made a satisfying “pfffffft” sound as he opened it. The cold liquid, shocking and refreshing, rushed down his throat. He took a deep breath. The air was intense, thick with humidity. Jed heard the lawnmower down the street and wondered if it was someone preparing for the contest tonight. No one else would be fool enough to mow their lawn in this heat.

Jed was known in town as a beer drinking, foul-mouthed, angry man who, folks said, had ruined his wife’s life. Clara had been a tiny, sweet young thing from the next town over. They’d married seventeen years ago, and a baby was born not three months after the wedding. Her parents told anyone who’d listen that Jed had raped her, but Clara had always denied it.

Clara had truly seemed to love Jed. She had followed him around the house like a puppy, always doing her best to win his approval. The more she did, the more he seemed to expect, until she was half crazy with trying so hard. Tongues wagged as Clara started to gain weight. Only five foot three, she’d been dainty and petite when they’d married. After five years with Jed she weighed over two hundred pounds and no longer fit through the turnstile at the Shop n’ Go. In utter defeat, Clara had jumped off the bridge over the Hart River gulch. She had been holding their son. It had been little Mickey’s fifth birthday.

Jed had looked properly grief-stricken at the funeral, but afterwards, when Clara’s family ganged up on him and accused Jed of driving his wife and son to their deaths, Jed’s eyes got cold and grim, and he turned and walked away. He never spoke to them again.

That cold, grim look had stuck. No one was welcome in Jed’s yard except the five judges of the Hartville Garden Contest. This year the judges were all new. A slight shiver of unease passed over Jed as he sat on his porch appraising his pride and joy. He knew in his heart that there wasn’t a nicer garden anywhere in the entire town of Hartville. On the other hand, he’d won the contest nine years in a row. New judges might decide that it was someone else’s turn for a change.

“Afternoon, Jed. Hot enough for you?” The ever-cheerful mailman opened the gate, bounced along the stepping-stones to the porch and handed Jed a bundle of mail. A big grin split his face.

“Afternoon,” Jed was a man of few words. Cheerful people made him nervous. Happiness wasn’t natural in Jed’s opinion, and it came across as phony and patronizing from others.

“Your garden is perfect, Jed. Good luck in the contest. You’ve got it made, if you ask my opinion.”

Jed softened with the praise and nodded his thanks. He watched the mailman leave, whistling and bouncing to his next delivery, then polished off his beer and heaved himself out of his freshly varnished porch chair. He had lots of work to do before 7:00 pm tonight. That was when the Garden Contest judges would be arriving.

Three hours later Jed was sweaty, tired and finished. There was not a dandelion in sight, not a single yellowed, withered leaf on a single plant, not a stray long blade of grass that somehow missed the mower blade this morning.

Jed smiled grimly. “Let them beat this,” he thought with satisfaction. He went into his house to shower and change.

At seven twenty that evening the five judges filed out of Jed’s yard. The last one turned to pull the gate closed and waved at Jed in a final good-bye. They may have been new judges, but they had lived in Hartville all their lives and Jed knew each of them. He was confident that he would win yet again. They were impressed, awed with the color and design displayed in his yard. Now he just had to wait. Tomorrow was Saturday, and the results wouldn’t be published till Monday. This was the hardest part, as Jed knew from experience. By Sunday evening he would begin drinking to pass the time. He usually blacked out around midnight and would wake up Monday morning to find himself on the couch (last year it was the floor in front of the couch) with a massive headache and the foul taste of stale scotch on his tongue.  He always grabbed the morning paper first thing, and each year he’d find his yard featured in full color on the front page. The headline would be “Jed Huggins Does it Again” or “Huggins Garden Still the Best in Hartville”. 

Monday morning finally arrived. Sure enough, Jed had polished off the better part of a bottle of scotch last night and slept on the couch. He gripped his head with both hands to try and stop the pounding headache. His scraggly comb-over was tangled around his ear. He smoothed it back into place then rose with a groan and headed for his porch. The paper was folded in half with the top half hidden. He bent to pick it up, that simple maneuver causing considerable nausea. Before Jed had a chance to turn it over, his nosy neighbor – the one with the stupid gray cat – picked up her paper and hollered over the fence, “Good job, Jed! I’m not surprised to see that you won again!”

Jed hid his irritation at her spoiling his moment and turned his own paper over. He was greeted with the sight of his front yard and the headline, “Huggins Garden Tops for Tenth Time – New Record!” His headache was forgotten and tension flowed from his shoulders and neck so suddenly that Jed had to sit down. He perched on the edge of his porch chair and read the entire article, which briefly touched on the suicide/murder of his wife and son. “Stupid friggin’ reporter,” Jed thought, “Can’t ever just do a story about my garden. Gotta dig up all the dirt and rub my nose in it every single year.”

Finally he got to his feet and went into his house. As the squeaky porch door slammed behind him, he stood a moment to adjust to the gloom. Jed looked around the front parlor. That’s what Clara had always called it, as though it was somehow better than a regular living room. It was completely devoid of personality and contained only a couch, a coffee table, two armchairs and a small TV on a stand. No photos or paintings graced the mint green walls. There were no knickknacks in sight. All the curtains were closed. It was a sad room, the only thing out of place was the scotch bottle, three quarters empty, sitting alone on the coffee table.

Jed hurried down the hall, passing the bright yellow kitchen that always looked cheerful despite the gloom in the rest of the house. He went to his bedroom, took the newspaper to his dresser, picked up the waiting pair of scissors and cut the article out. With the skill of ten years of practice, Jed arranged the article and photo in a frame and turned to the wall behind him.

Nine articles, some yellowed with age, lined the wall in nine identical frames. A single nail remained. Jed hung the tenth frame and stood back with satisfaction. The wall was complete. He smiled softly, and the cold, grim look evaporated. Now the entire town would now know that he was not a failure. He could do something right and make it last. Jed tore his eyes away from the ten framed symbols of his success. He pulled a small pistol from his bedside drawer and sat on the edge of his bed. His eyes welled with tears. One splashed off the butt of the pistol and Jed tenderly wiped it dry with the hem of his undershirt.

The gray cat, perched on a stone pillar in Jed’s front yard, was the only one who heard the gunshot. Both of her radar ears swiveled momentarily toward the noise then, purring, she began to groom herself. 

Sick Chicken is Alive and Kickin'

So last Wednesday morning I brought Dawneen in the house, ostensibly to die. She wouldn't eat or drink, and couldn't stand up. For the past week she's been living in a little box in my office. A few times I tried to find her a bigger box, but there was nothing around and I abandoned my search. Yesterday was a week since she'd come in the house. Not only was she not dying, but she appeared to be getting better. On Tuesday I'd be working at my desk and hear activity. I would slowly peer over my shoulder and watch her preening and fussing with her grass bed. A couple of times she jumped out of her box (to poop on my rug... smart move on her part actually. Her poop really smelled bad and who'd want to lay in that?!). So yesterday I left my office for a minute and came back to her standing next to my desk, eyeing up my chair! That was it. She was caught red-handed, walking around and enjoying life WAY too much for a sick chick! So back to the coop she went. Just in time too as it snowed last night and this morning they were all huddled together inside, trying to keep warm. If I'd had her in the house much longer she wouldn't have been able to adjust to the cold weather. So now all that's left to do is keep an eye on her and make sure that she's eating okay... and buy myself a new rug.

Good Chicken Joke

Nursing Nurse Norm and a Sick Chick...

Norm's come down with a bad cold... not good for him with his compromised immune system, but these things happen. He's actually kind of enjoying the mucus in his nasal passages (radiation 10 years ago eliminated most of the moisture in his head)...

And poor Dawneen has been living in a box in my office since yesterday morning. I'm surprised she hasn't died. No food or water till I tried grapes today and she wolfed them down. I didn't want to give her too many and risk an upset tummy on top of whatever she's dealing with, but she'll get a little chopped up plate of them for breakfast if she's still with us. Tracey at choir practice last night told me about chickens she once had who developed a virus that caused them to be unable to stand up, and it swept through the flock and they had to destroy all of them. I hope that's not what we're dealing with here... time will tell.

Donna and Dawneen

Donna's on the left, Dawneen on the right...

I'm worried about both hens we got from our neighbour, Don. Donna had an open wound that the others were all pecking at so my neighbour Jane and I had to do some first aid on her to cover the spot. It seems to be holding so she's hanging in there. This morning I noticed that Dawneen was really limping badly, and tonight Norm said he had to pick her up and put her on the roost, and that she tried to turn around and fell off. He picked her up and put her the other way and I can see by my "chicken cam" that she's still on the roost, but Norm says she's doomed. Sigh. It's sad, in the way that it's sad when a goldfish dies. You feel really bad, then flush it and go buy another one. I don't flush my chickens, but we do take them up in the forest for the wild animals... 


Considering I'm the biggest softie in the world when it comes to living things, I know my attitude is a tad cavalier, but the reality is that stuff happens, and then we cope. The only time I cried was when it was my fault two of our pullets were slaughtered by a raccoon. I left their little door open, thinking they'd be safe in their covered run. That raccoon was wily and he found a slit in the ceiling wire, climbed a post and got in. You could see his little claw marks up and back down the post. When Bea died I was fine till I watched Nini and Momo standing there staring at her, waiting for her to join them. That was sad... 


Sometimes I wish I wasn't responsible for any lives, but then I remember all the joy I've gotten from the chickens, and know that they've led happy, healthy lives with me (except for whatever's wrong with Donna and Dawneen... and the raccoon incident... and whatever happened to Bea... and the coyotes who got all the free ranging ones...). Sigh. 

Jack-O-Lantern Soup

Today was a gloomy rainy day and the snow crept so far down the mountain I'm surprised it didn't land on the ground at our house... grateful, but surprised. So I made soup. Chopped up the three jack-o-lanterns that my dad "stole" from the neighborhood the morning after Halloween, cooked 'em down and then made a huge batch of cream of pumpkin soup.

This is the best pumpkin soup recipe I’ve ever had…

1 ½ lbs fresh pumpkin or 1 lb (450 gr) canned

3 tbsp butter

½ cup chopped scallions – whites only (I use regular onions if I don’t have the green onion bottoms)

½ cup chopped celery

½ cup chopped carrots

1 chopped garlic clove

3 cups chicken stock

1 cup canned tomatoes, chopped with juice

¼ tsp red pepper flakes (I use less… they’re potent)

¼ tsp white pepper

1/8 tsp ground nutmeg

2 cups Half and Half (or 1 cup milk and 1 cup whipping cream)

Melt butter – sauté gently the scallions, celery and carrot. Add garlic and stir briefly. Add chicken stock, tomatoes, pumpkin, seasonings and cook slowly for an hour. Let cool and puree in blender till smooth. Reheat gently with the Half and Half. 

Then I made a huge batch of tuna, beans and veggies soup - I sort of made that one up and I'm not sure how it'll taste... . 

Norm and I went to Alberta last weekend and bought 20 large frozen chickens from the Hutterites and now I'm a little short on space in my freezer. Must stop making soup. But it's what I do on days like this. 

Speaking of days like this... five minutes after Norm left to soak in the hot springs for the day I discovered that one of my chickens has an injury that the other chickens have been pecking at, so the neighbour (Jane) and I had to catch her and bandage her up or they would keep pecking till she was dead. Good grief. I just went to close their little chicken door and lift her up on the roost and she made it up herself and the bandage is still intact, so it's all good.