Month: April 2020

There was a time when had this idea that I would buy a farm and live on it. This would be out in the sticks where the wild things are and I would grow my own food and live off the land. We “almost” bought 225 acres one county over but in the end decided against it because it was really too far away from “civilization”. I mean you couldn’t just pop down to the store to shop, you would have to go into town for “provisions” once every other week. In retrospect this would have been a great financial move, given the way this area has exploded over the last 15 years or so. Another opportunity frittered away on the wings of practicality.

Anyway, you don’t need 225 acres to grow truffles, which was another idea I had. Truffles, as you may know, are a form of mushroom which are famously difficult to grow but if successful, very profitable. The fungus grows on the roots of certain kinds of trees in soil just so. The weather and soil of North Carolina is pretty conducive to truffle farming, as are the pigs ruffle farmers used to use to hunt and dig out the hidden truffles. Apparently pigs become quite defensive of their prize and defend their meal vigorously, so these days specially trained dogs get the job done but with less biting. I note here in passing that Truffle Hounds would be a good name for a rock band.

I doubt I will ever get around to living this dream as I expect that time has passed. Truffle farming, with all its complex rules and uncertain outcomes provides a nostalgic look back at an earlier, simpler time. I have often wondered what a truffle tastes like? Perhaps I’ll try a truffle dish one day to see what I have missed.

Those of you who have followed these musings will know that from time to time I perform small but intense acts of behavioral malfeasance. Over the years these sad events have created tiny yet visible marks upon the social contract; a contract, I am quick to say, that I never formally agreed to. I refer to these episodes as Doing A Fenton.

I am a fan of certain curry dishes and will, now and then, prepare a simple curry dish of rice and chicken or salmon. I cheat and use pre-made packets of curry sauce, acquired down at the local Korean market.

We are in Covid-19 self-isolation and the little curry sauce packets have dwindled. Yet never fear for I discovered, way in the back of the freezer, a small sealed container of curry sauce circa some date in prehistory. But hey, it’s been frozen like a mammoth and it’s curry so how bad can it be?

I thaw it out, mix in some with rice, add the chicken and nuke the whole thing in the microwave for three minutes. I take it out and it sure smells like curry so I proceed to wolf it down, only stopping to glance around for potential competitors to be dispatched with the swipe of one mighty paw.

Man this curry is REAL strong and hotter than anything I have ever eaten by a factor of like a thousand. It is so hot in fact that I decide, rather late in the game, to read the list of ingredients on the side of the curry container. Rather than ingredients I see the word, “Instructions”. Uh-oh. Apparently this was a container of concentrated curry paste, designed to be added (in small portions) to other ingredients to make a curry sauce. I was eating the concentrate directly on rice and was surprised when my head burst into flames.

It’s like buying frozen concentrated orange juice, thawing it out and drinking the resultant slurry directly without adding water. I bet that would make a wicked citrus bomb, with the flavor of one billion oranges.

Depending on where you live and whether you have a yard, you may be involved with a time-honored rite of Spring called mulching. Mulch comes in various flavors but I have grown accustomed to a type called “triple-shredded hardwood mulch”. This material is a rich loam that I place around trees and shrubs and other wild areas of the yard.

I envy folks who can order their mulch in neatly wrapped plastic bags because I have to buy mine in bulk, 12 cubic yards dumped in an imposing pile on our driveway, leaving just enough room for a car to squeeze by. There it sits, daring the wheelbarrows and rakes to come and spread it far and wide.

The smell of this mulch is robust and natural; an attempt to make the yard appear to be a cultivated forest floor, like DisneyLand rising from the savanna, absent beasts and mushrooms.

One year the mulch pile apparently contained the eggs of millipedes, which then hatched and began walking around. These little critters are just pests in the sense that they can’t hurt you, but having them all over was disconcerting. I hope this year does not repeat this problem, but we’ll see.

There are some admirable folks who make their own mulch or compost. This amounts to a large plastic drum with a top that closes, into which you can put various waste products. Over time biological processes break down the material into compost or soil. We tried that some years ago but lacked the discipline to follow through. Hence our mulching bin sits forlornly near the back fence, its potential lost in hope and promises. No millipedes though, so there is that.

That time when the
Damp sheets billowed
Like sails trapped
In winsome air,
Giving up the sea
For sun and wind.

Hard to hear the music
Harder still to remember
Those times when
The world stopped
At the horizon,
And that was far enough.

Every now and then
A song is played,
And the years
Slide away like
Rain on leaves;
That very moment
Says hello again.

Our stories come
Wrapped in music
A personal symphony
Only we can remember;
The circle broken or whole
Has always been there,
One and many
And back again.