The Tea Party Hostess

One of the many surprising things about my life is that I host tea parties. Tea parties were not something I grew up with. I don't even remember drinking tea as a kid. I do remember going maybe once to one of those tea rooms, the fancy restaurants that serve tea and tea foods. But it wasn't anything close to normal thing.

My first experience with tea as an event came at Blackrock, with its wealth of china for every occasion, and the MiL, the baker extraordinare. The older boys looooved tea parties as little ones. They had their personal tea cups and even their own little creamers. The MiL would sometimes bake scones for them, or I would just make them little plates of crackers and cheese or whatever. It was very low-key and thus, much more frequent than something very fancy would be.

However, boys are not likely to have tea parties to host their friends. They still love the food that comes along with a tea party, but the delicate china and elegant table? Not so much.

But now I have a girl! And she has girl friends! And they reeeeally love the delicate china, elegant table, and the chance to dress up.

Although I used to have tea parties without the nice china, I now have the delicate china thanks to my sister. She has the entire set of my maternal grandmother's lovely set of wedding china. My sister never used the tea cups and saucers, so she asked me if I would like them. Indeed I would. 

Waiting for a tea party.

That is why I am able to host a fancy tea for little and big girls alike. As I did yesterday in honor of the MiL's visit. I invited Poppy's best friend, her older sister, and her mother, who is also my friend. 

I always bake at least one thing fresh for a tea party. This time it was just biscuits. I had made strawberry jam earlier in the day, and I also set out plum butter my sister had made, and apple butter some little girls at school had made and given me. In addition, I made cucumber and cream cheese tea sandwiches (meaning they were cut very small and had the crusts removed), some pumpkin bread I had had in the freezer, peanut butter cookies from the cookie jar, and cheese and crackers. The tea was decaffeinated black tea and an herb tea.

Our guests brought with them a big bunch of wildflowers from around their house, which went right in the middle of the table. All the foods went on small plates to be arranged around the table, I set out the tea with the cream and sugar, and it really was quite a lovely table.

Tea for six.

Our guests always arrive in tea party apparel--dresses and sometimes hats--and I put on tea party music. The MiL, who is a classical music aficionado, suggested Mozart. The perfect atmosphere for elegance.

There were also four boys--the brother of the girls came to hang out with my boys--and A. roaming around the house. We've done this a few times now, so I know better than to invite the boys to join us. After we've had our tea party, they get paper plates and can fill them from the food left on the table. I make enough to ensure they get plenty, and then they can take it outside and have a nice, masculine time chowing down without worrying about being polite. A. does get invited to the table after we've mostly finished eating, so he can have his tea and finish off whatever food is still there.

I don't know when Poppy will age out of tea parties, but I'm enjoying it for now. And so is she.

Snapshots: Flowers and Tea

So many dainty photos this week.

Buds on the apricot tree, which turned into . . .

Flowers on the apricot tree.

Unfortunately, it's unlikely there will ever be many apricots on the apricot tree. We usually get a bad freeze or wind storm that kills off the blooms or tiny apricots. But you never know! This may be our year!

Meanwhile, in the mechanic's-pit bulb garden . . .

Crocuses!

The children associate the MiL with tea parties. With good reason, as some of you might recall if you've been reading here a long time. (Wookit da widdle baby boys!)

So of course, we had to have a tea party while the MiL was here.

Tea table.

I made scones, whipped cream, and strawberry jam*, and also put out cheese and summer sausage for the less-delicate among us who needed a heartier tea.

The mugs you see there are some of my dad-the-former-fighter-pilot's squadron mugs. Definitely not delicate, but fun for the children to use.

There you have it! My life, snapshotted.

* Yes, I actually made the jam. I'll tell you all about that on Tuesday.

Floating Islands: A Labor of Love

In an effort to, um, encourage the older two children in their bathroom-cleaning endeavors this summer, I decided on a combination threat/bribe. 

The threat is that if they don't do their bathroom chore, they don't get Sunday dessert. 

The bribe is that whoever is on toilet-cleaning duty (they trade off every week) gets to choose what the Sunday dessert is.

This is how I found myself making Floating Islands last weekend.

There is, of course, a backstory to this, because Floating Islands is not a dessert your average 11-year-old would think of on his own. Or even your average 21st-century person, of any age. It is a very old-fashioned dessert. Which is why A. knew about it.

See, when A. was growing up, Floating Islands was a kind of a running joke in his house. The rich older relatives of more-affluent times in his father's family were served Floating Islands by their servants. And so, when A. was a kid, the joke was that the only proper dessert was Floating Islands.

The MiL actually made it a few times, so A. has had it. And he, in turn, has told that story and the joke to our children.

So when Cubby was presented with the opportunity to choose any dessert at all, he chose something he knew I would never otherwise make: Floating Islands.

I, of course, have never made this, nor eaten it. And it's not in any of my cookbooks. So I looked up recipes online, and decided to play it safe with a Julia Child recipe for it, via this blog.

It's a very detailed recipe, which I appreciated, because this recipe is a complete pain to actually make. The prep time for it is two hours.

Yeah.

I split it up over two days. So on Saturday, I made the creme anglais, which is a very thin vanilla-flavored custard. That's what the "islands" float in.

The "islands" are meringues. In this recipe, the meringue is baked, all in one big pan. I've never made meringue before. It was kind of fun how it puffed up in the oven.

Dramatic.

Somewhat disappointingly, it deflates as it cools, though.

Definitely not as dramatic.

The meringue, incidentally, tasted just like a giant marshmallow.

Then there's a caramel sauce to make at the end. The final dish is a pool of the custard with a piece of the meringue in it, and the whole drizzled with the caramel sauce.

Like so.

The whole thing was kind of annoying to do, because every step requires quite a bit of slow cooking and attention. And that does not jive with my life. The kids were really excited that I was making this famous dessert, and spent most of the time I was making it in the kitchen with me. So right behind me while I was carefully stirring my creme anglais so the eggs didn't scramble, or watching the caramel sauce to make sure the sugar didn't burn, I had this:

Just like Julia Child's kitchen, right? Oh wait. SHE HAD NO CHILDREN.

Everyone was SO excited to try this:

Including this curly girl.

And in the end? Eh. 

As I was making it, I noted the granulated sugar I was dumping in quantity into every part, and thought, "This is going to be way too sweet." And, indeed, it was definitely too sweet. It was also very one-dimensional in flavor with the vanilla in everything. 

And really, really sweet.

The MiL found a different recipe for me to try, with less sugar, should I ever make this again, but I can't say I'm that motivated. 

It was fun to try, and definitely more an Event rather than just a dessert, but I would much rather have some chocolate pudding.

Help Me Make Amends, Please

I forgot about the MiL's birthday on Thursday. Well, that's not true. I actually remembered in all the days leading up to it, and throughout the day on Thursday, but then I was actually working that day and meant to call when we were done with dinner, and then things got nuts, as they often do after dinner, and . . .

Well, these are all just excuses. The fact is, I forgot to call her or otherwise acknowledge her birthday.

So here, publicly, I will apologize to her, wish her very belated but nonetheless sincere birthday happiness, and also ask you to join me in the comments. Maybe if a bunch of people online that she has never met also wish her happy birthday two days late, it will make up for the fact that her actual family didn't.

Sorry, MiL. But happy birthday two days late!  

A Long-Distance Farewell

Very, very sad news from Blackrock: The MiL's dog Sky was killed on the road in front of the house this weekend. He was chasing a deer on the lakeshore and was hit by a car on his way back across the road. 

The MiL said he was killed instantly and didn't suffer, which I suppose is some comfort. But still. He wasn't even three years old. It was definitely too soon to lose him.

Good-bye to one of the cutest puppies that ever was.

Friday Family Fun: Send In the Substitutes

This week's Friday Family Fun featured the MiL and Rafael, who stood in for me and Poppy on an adventure into the canyon.

A. had called Rafael to see if he needed help harvesting the rest of his vegetables before the hard freeze that's supposed to hit on Sunday night. The result was everyone but me and Poppy going to Rafael's ranch in the canyon. Including the MiL, who arrived on Thursday night from Tucson for a few days.

Poppy and I didn't go because there was some concern that the road would have too much water on it from recent rains and there might be some hiking necessary if anyone got stuck. For this reason, Rafael drove his truck and A. followed in our Honda. Rafael almost got stuck in mud at one point, but everyone made it out in the end.

Anyway. I wasn't there, obviously, but the MiL kindly took some pictures for me.

There are, of course, cows on the ranch.

There are chickens, too, but I don't have a picture of them.

Because I am well-accustomed to what adventures with A. are like (that is, long and remote), I made sure to quickly throw together some picnic food for him to bring with him for the boys. Cheese, crackers, and nuts and raisins go a long way in making for a fun day without whiny kids.

No picnic tables to be seen. Squatting picnics are common for us.

Rafael gave A. one of his precious calabazas, too. Not a calabacita, which are the immature ones eaten like zucchini, but the mature calabaza. Unfortunately, I didn't get a picture of it before A. brought it to our new house for curing, but it is indeed quite large. About the size of a volleyball. Also kind of warty. Apparently, we can cook it like a winter squash after it's cured. 

I'll let you know what it tastes like when I do. Stay tuned for that excitement.

The whole trip was about five hours. Poppy and I had lots of time to bond while they were exploring the ranch. This week we'll go back to our regularly scheduled Family Fun with Mommy and Baby, but I can't say I was disappointed to have half a day in a quiet house with just a baby for company.

Friday (and Saturday!) Family Fun: Now With More Family

The MiL arrived Thursday night for a visit (she made the drive from New York in TWO DAYS--that's some serious driving), so she was here for this week's Friday Family Fun.

She went with A. and the boys to see the swimming hole in the canyon while Poppy was taking a morning nap, but I was home with Poppy so I don't have any photos of that.

And then we all went up to our new house, where she got to see the hideous paneling in real life. And then she got to see me start to tear it off the walls. However, there were three boys "helping" me and a baby crawling around underfoot, so I don't have any photos of that, either.

In fact, the only photo I have is a boring one of everyone sitting around our house:

Family Fun in the living room.

But today! I have SO MANY pictures from today. The MiL left this morning to drive to Tucson to see A.'s brother and his family--she's stopping here again for a few days on her way back to New York--and right after she left, Cubby asked A. if they could go camping.

A. was amenable to the idea, but then he checked the forecast. It was calling for thunderstorms in the morning. The boys were crestfallen, so I suggested maybe they could camp up at the new house. I meant inside the house, but A. said he would set up the tent near the house. 

So in the afternoon, we all went up to the new house. I finished removing all the paneling from the living room walls:

Well, except that little bit on the back wall there. It was glued on or something.

Then I pulled out the excessive number of nails that were all over the walls. Jack helped me:

Or maybe he was playing ninja. Hard to say.

It was too late to start spackling the nail holes, because I had to take over with the baby so A. could start the fire to grill our dinner.

There's an outdoor fire thing at our house that was built by one of the previous owners. It appears to be for possibly roasting meat. You know if we had any lambs, A. would be all over that, but he had to make do with sausages*.

I took over the fire so A. could set up the tent. He put it right in our front yard area, because that was the flattest place.

Poppy approved.

The road is actually only about twenty feet from where he set up the tent, but considering this is what you see from our house . . .

And there are no houses for about fifty miles down that road, I don't think they have to worry about being disturbed by the traffic. There isn't any. Unless a cow gets out from the pasture across the road.

It was actually pretty cold and windy, so we had our dinner inside on the dining room floor:

Poppy thought it was the greatest thing ever that everyone was sitting down at her level and she wasn't restrained in any way. She spent the whole time crawling around, trying to steal sausages and spilling cups of water. She's never had so much fun at dinner.

Shortly thereafter, I took Poppy home and put her to bed. And now here I sit, alone in a silent house with nothing to do but go to bed myself. It's definitely not quiet and restful for A. right now, but at least he's a shoo-in for Father of the Year. 

* They were Italian sausages, transported all the way across the country for me* by the MiL. It seems like a silly thing to do, but man, those sausages were SO GOOD, and I am SO HAPPY she brought them.

** She also brought me squashes, tomatoes, celeriac, and two different varieties of apples. This is why we get along so well.

Mystery Solved

One of the things that always amused me about the MiL was her habit of giving me the Latin name of whatever plant we were talking about at the time. I was impressed by it, but it was wasted effort for me, because I would never remember the Latin name. I barely remember the common name most of the time.

I appreciated it nonetheless, however, because that's a sign that the person you're talking to has a very in-depth knowledge of plants. The Latin name is the way real horticulturists differentiate between different varieties of the same general kind of plant, or clarify when there are many plants with a similar common name. And the Latin name is the same in any language.

I am not a horticulturalist, and my knowledge of plants and their Latin names is woefully lacking, but I know the MiL at least is going to be happy I've figured out the Latin name of Rafael's calabacitas.

Here are Rafael's actual calabacitas on my counter, with a pen for scale.

The confusion here came from the fact that calabacita is a Spanish word meaning literally "little squash." That does nothing to clear things up.

The key to solving this admittedly minor mystery was when Rafael referred to them as "Mexican squash." I did a Google search for that, and an image came up that looked like his. I clicked on it and . . . bingo.

Rafael's calabacitas are cucurbita argyrosperma. They are also known as cushaws, silver-seed gourds, and Japanese pie pumpkins.

You can see the confusion.

I found it very interesting that they are apparently cultivated specifically for their seeds in some cases, which are ground up and used like flour. Rafael had mentioned eating the seeds to A., but didn't give any specifics. I'm not sure I'll go to the trouble of making seed flour--seeing as I have other food sources than the limited native ones here--but its good to know.

It seems to be a very versatile squash. As Rafael noted, it's eaten both at the immature stage like zucchini, then when mature as a winter squash. It's used as a medicinal plant, and the seeds can even be used to extract oil. Though I should imagine that last one would be a bit labor-intensive.

So there. I've figured out the official name. Although they'll always be calabacitas to me. Sorry, MiL.

Fourth Time Around

Yesterday as I was preparing to kick the boys out for their mandatory outdoor time, I thought, "Hey, it's 42 degrees outside and not too windy. I can take Poppy out if I can find something to put over her clothes to keep her warm."

Could I find such thing? Oh yes, indeedy. Brace yourselves for the return of . . .

The Cubby Suit: Take Four

Yes, Poppy is the latest baby to be dressed as an adorable if somewhat ridiculous bear. The MiL bought that suit for Cubby before he was even born. 

He wore it. 

Charlie wore it. 

Jack wore it. 

And now Poppy can wear it.

When Cubby saw her, he grinned and said, "Hey, the bears are waking up for spring."

They sure are, my clever child. And so are we.

How They Took It

So how did Charlie and Jack react to being left out of the Great Arizona Trip?

With nothing.

That's right. I braced myself for tears and shrieking and got nothing. Not even a, "Why can't I go?"

Never have I been more surprised. And pleased.

I assume the travelers made it to Tucson late last night, though I only know for sure they made it as far as Atlanta, because that's where A. called me from early last night. He briefly mentioned that the exhaust more or less fell off the Subaru completely when they were on the road in Canada and he had to wire it back on and drive very carefully the rest of the way to the airport.

Good thing it happened to him and not me, because I doubt I would have been able to jury-rig anything like that on the side of the road.

I had my own driving anxiety this morning as I drove the three home children to the pediatrician's office to get Jack's suddenly very swollen eyelid checked out*. I had no reason to believe there was anything wrong with the Honda, but I really do not like driving 50 miles with small children and no one at home to call if anything does go wrong.

Not that I could have called anyone anyway, because A.'s cell phone stopped working right before his trip, so he has mine.

Funny how we all drove around without cell phones all the time until only about five years ago, but now it seems like a very daring thing.

Anyway.

We made it to the doctor's office--and the pharmacy--and home again with no trouble. The MiL is coming today to stay the night and provide some distraction, for which I am very grateful. Even if the two younger boys were incredibly good about not going on the trip, it is true that without their older brother and dad around, there's just not a lot of excitement. There's only so much I can do with a baby in arms. Especially a baby who is still up all night.

Maintaining those cheeks is a round-the-clock job, you know.

Only 3.5 more days until A. comes home. Not that I'm counting. Ahem.

* I could see yesterday that there was a sty there, but it was worse this morning and looked infected, so I brought him (and everyone else) in and came home with antibiotic eye drops. So fun to administer to a three-year-old.

Location, Location, Location

Hey, you know the best way to be instantly in the Christmas mood? Live on an actual Christmas tree farm. Then, when you're ready to get a Christmas tree, you can just walk 100 yards down the road and cut one.

Snow for ambiance is also pretty much guaranteed.

Of course, you still have to lie down in the snow to cut the tree.

And by "you," I mean "A."

There are also plenty of branches to cut when you decide you're going to be all crafty and make a wreath, forgetting you are not actually crafty and will inevitably give up on the wreath and go with a rustic decorative . . . something.

And by "you," I mean "I."

But then, if you've made good choices in life, your husband will notice your despondency over the wreath fail and will take the frame and make a wreath for you.

And by "your husband," I mean "my husband," because I definitely made a good life choice there.

Yup, Christmas is fun on a Christmas tree farm. Especially since we don't have to do any of the actual work on the farm.

Also Thankful for This

Hello, my lovelies! Is everyone jumping right back into work/school/whatever everyday drudgery awaited you after the holiday?

Yeah, me too. I did three loads of laundry yesterday, re-stocked the very bare refrigerator, and am currently home with all three children, as Cubby's cough this morning convinced his tender-hearted father that he should stay home from school.

I was going to send him. Lucky for Cubby he has such a nice dad.

Anyway.

I am here to tell you of a felicitous food accident that occurred during the MiL's many Thanksgiving food preparations. She made three different pies: one pumpkin, one apple, and one chocolate. The filling for the chocolate pie was a very easy recipe for a kind of chocolate mousse called pots de creme. The recipe--an old one from A.'s grandmother--involves simply blending together chocolate chips, sugar, vanilla, hot milk, and an egg, and then chilling it to set.

I happened to be in the kitchen when the MiL was pouring this chocolate mixture into the pie shell and she had just a little bit left over. I helpfully found a ramekin for her to pour the extra into.

My Thanksgiving labors were very strenuous, yes*.

Then I saw four small circular pieces of pie dough that the MiL had cut with a biscuit cutter from her extra dough and baked along with one of the pies.

The MiL mentioned that she thought the boys might like to have those as a treat.

They probably would have, but they never got the chance, because I saw those little circles of flaky pastry, and I saw the ramekin of liquid chocolate.

It was just inevitable that I dipped that pie dough directly into the chocolate and ate it standing there in the kitchen. Jack was in the kitchen with me, so he got to have a piece, but otherwise? All me. And the best thing I ate on Thanksgiving.

How about you? What was the best thing you ate last Thursday?

* Okay, I also made some mashed sweet potatoes, but those are so easy they don't really count. Certainly nothing like making three pies all from scratch.

Aliens in the Kitchen

The MiL sent a stalk of brussels sprouts to me via A. the Courier this week. 

What's that? You wouldn't think of your daughter-in-law when you see stalks of brussels sprouts at the farmers market? Well, good thing you're not my mother-in-law, then.

Anyway. 

A. forgot about the stalk in his car until today. Luckily, brussels sprouts on the stalk are extremely hardy and can sit quite happily in a cold car for three days without any issues.

Brussels sprouts stalks look really weird. I always think they look like little alien heads popping out.

Were I the crafty sort, I feel sure I could make an excellent Halloween decoration from this. But I'm not crafty, so we'll just eat them instead.

I cut off all the alien heads and have them soaking in salt water right now (to draw out any cabbage moth worms that might have taken up residence). I don't know how I'll cook them yet. I have some ham stock going on the stove at this very moment, which seems to be a natural partner to anything cabbage-y. 

Roasted is of course the most popular method of cooking brussels sprouts at the moment. That's good, too. The best brussels sprouts I have ever cooked (and eaten) involved shallots, bacon, and heavy cream--and how could it not be a winner with those ingredients, right?--all of which I happen to have on hand.

So many options, so many delicious aliens awaiting consumption.

It's a Family Tradition

Not, however, the sort of family tradition of which Hank Williams, Jr. sang. Much more wholesome than that. I speak of a tradition of the MiL's from her childhood that I revived last night for my own children: popcorn and ice cream for Sunday supper.

The MiL has told us many times that this was what she and her five siblings had on Sundays for supper. The reason they had this was because they had the traditional big Sunday family dinner in the mid-afternoon, and so there was no need for a real meal just a couple of hours later. Also, popcorn and ice cream requires little preparation or clean-up, which was probably a welcome change for her mother, what with the relentless feeding of six kids day in and day out*.

A couple of weeks ago, Charlie told me we should have popcorn for dinner. I explained that popcorn is not usually a good option for dinner. Except, I added, if you have a big meal in the afternoon like Grandma did when she was young, and then you can have popcorn and ice cream for dinner.

Well.

Charlie was approving of this idea, to say the least. Popcorn and ice cream are two of his favorite things, whereas the sort of nutritious, balanced meals we have for dinner are not usually his favorites.

And then, yesterday we had our big meal at 3 p.m. because A. had to leave to drive back to Blackrock in the late afternoon. This departure was unpopular with the children, all of whom of course prefer Fun Daddy to Boring Mom. So to raise spirits (and also, like the MiL's mother, to avoid cooking and cleaning up again), I let them have popcorn and ice cream for dinner. AND, because I'm not always Boring Mom, I even let them have their ice cream first.

I know. So wild.

I heartily recommend this tradition. It almost felt like a day off from serious meal preparation, because I did the real cooking earlier in the day and it was all cleaned up and done by the time I was ready to just flop down in the evening. There were obviously no complaints about unpopular foods from the children, and even Mia got to eat all the popcorn that inevitably ended up on the floor.

Happiness all around.

I probably won't do it every Sunday, but every once in awhile, I think we'll  honor Great-Grandma's memory with popcorn and ice cream for Sunday supper. Charlie approves.

* She also helped her husband run the family farm and worked as a traveling bookkeeper for other farms. She was a busy person.

Ah Yes, I Remember Now

Why don't I make enchiladas--cheesy, saucy, delicious enchiladas--more often? Because it takes forever, results in the whole house smelling like fried food, and makes a damn mess of me and the kitchen. At least, the way my mother did it, which is of course how I do it.

And what way is that, you ask? Well, it involves the following:

One pan in which to cook the filling. In this case, it was shredded duck and black beans (plus onion, garlic, and some of the enchilada sauce), though my mother made them with ground beef.

One pan with hot grease. In my case lard*, though my mother used vegetable oil to quickly fry the tortillas so they don't get soggy.

One pan with enchilada sauce in which to dredge the fried tortillas. My mother always used Old El Paso and so I do, too. I could make my own, I know, but I don't because we are obviously talking about Tradition with a capital "T" here. (Except for the duck and the lard, I suppose. So maybe not so much with the Tradition.)

A plate of grated cheese to sprinkle on top of the filling before rolling the enchiladas up.

And the baking pan with a layer of enchilada sauce.

It's a complicated dance. There are tortillas frying in hot oil, tortillas being dredged in sauce, tortillas being filled and rolled up, and the cook and everything in the kitchen inevitably ends up covered in enchilada sauce.

Then again, when it's all done and cleaned up . . .

Worth it. Though I would recommend getting your mother to make them for you if she doesn't live 2,500 miles away.

* Because the MiL just rendered some and sent some to me via A. the Courier. Thanks, MiL!

Funky Jelly

One of the interesting things about moving 250 miles north has been learning about the different plants around our new home. You wouldn't think there would be too much difference between central New York and northern New York, but both A. and I have been at something of a loss to identify many of the plants that the children have asked us about.

They are, of course, mostly concerned with those they can eat. Blackberries and raspberries are pretty obvious, as are the apple trees that are absolutely everywhere. But this bush we've been seeing everywhere with bright red berries?

Delicious or deadly? Let's not experiment.*

I told them to leave it alone, because I had no idea if it was edible. But then, when the MiL came to visit, we were walking down the dirt road and she saw those red berries and identified the plant as a highbush cranberry.

Actually she used the Latin name of Viburnum trilobum, because she's knowledgeable and precise like that, but then she helpfully added for us igoramuses that it's often called the highbush cranberry, even though it's not really related to the actual cranberry.

A useful person to have around, that MiL.

She also said it can be used to make jelly.

Jelly? Really? I'm in!

I've made a lot of jelly since we've been here. There are just so many free, wild-growing jelly fruits about. First the blackberries (yes, you can make jam from them, but I always make jelly from blackberries because I detest all the seeds). We have four pints of that in the utility room. Then there are all the wild apples and wild grapes. Three pints of that on the shelves downstairs.

But is seven pints of jelly enough? Not if you have three peanut-butter-and-jelly-eating children and also plan to give all the teachers, bus drivers, and mail carriers jelly for Christmas gifts.

So I decided to make viburnum jelly.

There's a standard procedure for all jelly-making: crush and cook the fruits, strain out the solids, add sugar to the resulting juice, heat to 218 degrees. I did do a cursory investigation online just to make sure there was nothing weird about the viburnum berries before I started, but I figured it would be pretty straighforward.

It was. Except for the smell.

One of the sites detailing the jelly-making I had quickly looked at had mentioned that the berries did not smell good when they were cooking. They really didn't. It was a very strange smell, something like cheese. Definitely not what you'd expect when you're boiling a bunch of berries. And definitely not very appealing.

A. was particularly repelled by the smell. So much so that he couldn't even bring himself to taste the juice when I had mixed it with the sugar. I tasted it, and although there was a slight funky taste, I thought maybe it would disappear during the actual jelling.

The juice jelled quickly and set up perfectly. It's a very pretty, clear red jelly. But it still has that funky smell and taste.

It's slight, and only in the initial taste. After that, it tastes just like cranberries. But I can't get past that smell and taste of slightly stinky cheese, no matter how minor. So now we have two pints of funky jelly that neither A. nor I will eat.

Luckily, the children don't seem to notice it. They'll eat anything sweet with peanut butter on their sandwiches, so I just hold my breath while I make them their funky PB&J and then get out the blackberry jelly for myself.

I may make more jelly, but I think I'll stick to the apple and grape variety from now on. Cheesy jelly is just not okay with me.**

* I lifted that image from this site, which is very interesting and informative, though specific to Prince Edward Island in Canada. You think Anne of Green Gables ever made cheesy jelly?

** Though it occurs to me that it might be good in some kind of combination with actual cheese, sort of like the classic Spanish pairing of quince jelly and manchego cheese. If you're into that sort of thing, which I'm not really.

The Return of the Fluffy Nemesis

Shortly after Sky, the MiL's Blue Merle collie puppy, arrived at Blackrock, Jack developed a distinct aversion to him. This of course had everything to do with Sky's habit of jumping all over people to play, which seems much less playful and a lot more menacing when you're not yet three feet tall. So every time Jack saw Sky, Jack would start shrieking and trying to climb up my legs.

I jokingly called Sky Jack's fluffy nemesis, but it was actually kind of a pain in the ass.

Thankfully, Sky eventually settled down a little, and so did Jack.

Then we moved, resulting in Mia the Geriatric Spinster being the only dog in residence at our home. Mia doesn't jump up on anyone anymore. She barely wakes up for much of the day. She is definitely no threat to any small child in the vicinity.

But yesterday A. came back from his most recent trip to Blackrock with a passenger.

Dun dun DUN.

Sky is staying with us while the MiL is on a trip. Cubby was thrilled to see him and can't wait to get home from school so he can play with him more. Charlie was initially excited to see him, but lost interest pretty quickly. Jack took one look at Sky and tried to climb my legs like a tree.

Sorry, Jack. Your nemesis has traveled 200 miles just to torment you again. 

Ah, the Resiliency of Nature

Bats used to be a large feature of life at Blackrock. Not a particularly welcome one inside the house, where I found them far too often, but we had a nesting colony of hundreds in the attic, so they were everywhere.

Then they disappeared, almost certainly due to the White Nose Syndrome that killed off so many in such a short amount of time in the east. I didn't particularly miss them, because, let's be honest, a bat looks like a nightmare come to life.

But then, A. and the children discovered a small bat sleeping in the nook of the huge copper beech tree on the front lawn for a few days about a month ago. And just a week ago when A. ascended the porch roof to take the storm window off the upstairs hall window, he found quite a large deposit of guano on the roof there.

And then this morning, I found one in the washing machine, almost exactly six years after I first found bats in the washing machine*.

So it looks as if the bats are recovering from their plague. Hooray. I guess.

* And just like last time, the MiL removed it for me, because she's much braver than I am when it comes to bats.

Let the Puppy Games Begin

Okay, are you ready? I want everyone to take a deep breath before you view this photo, the better to make the appropriate exclamation. Here we go . . .

Awwwwww. 

That's Sky. He's a ten-week-old rough Blue Merle* collie puppy that the MiL brought home yesterday. He's her retirement gift to herself, but of course, she must share him with the small boys of the household.

Cubby has more or less not left the puppy's side since his arrival.

It's very cute.

Charlie likes the puppy, but is not so attentive.

Still cute, though.

Jack is mostly disinterested.

Puppies are okay, but not as fun as the ducks.

As for the older dogs . . . Mia is resigned to her fate as always, though doesn't go out of her way to engage Sky, and Otty tried to bite his face off within ten minutes of his arrival, so he prefers to hang out with the humans. Can't say I blame him.

At the moment he sticks close to the people and his crate, but I'm sure he'll grow into his natural role of raccoon killer and carrion chewer. He has plenty of time.

* This refers to his coloring and it means he has patches of black, white, and bluish gray. Rough means fluffy instead of short-haired like Mia and Otty.

What Remains

The other day I was making a recipe for cornbread that calls for an 8-inch cast iron pan. But I wanted to double the recipe, so obviously the original pan size would be too small. The MiL is usually the one who uses this recipe, and I knew she usually doubles it, so I asked her what size pan she uses when she doubles it. She uses the 10-inch pan. Righty-o.

I made some offhand remark about how it was kind of odd that twice the amount of batter should fit inside a pan that's only two inches wider.

Later that night, the MiL presented me with a list she had made of all our sizes of cast iron pans and their respective areas in square inches.

I looked at it for a second, and then said, "How do you figure out the square inches in a round pan?"

At which point, the MiL asked me very pityingly, "Didn't you take any geometry in high school? Pi times "r" squared?"

Yeah. Right. I took geometry in high school, all right. Almost failed it, too. The chances of me remembering anything from it other than the feeling of dread before a test are pretty much nil. On the other hand, I do remember how to sing "Rubber Duckie" in Spanish, which has made me pretty popular with Cubby, who is learning Spanish in school now.

We all have our own areas of expertise, I suppose. Geometry is not mine. But song lyrics I learned twenty years ago will never leave me.