August peace

It’s been the most per­fect sum­mer weath­er, all the dif­fer­ent bits of it.

First, of course, July sailed in on wings of intense heat and humid­i­ty, just as it should.  We were grate­ful for the air con­di­tion­ing and for the cold tap, and for filmy t‑shirts and brief shorts.  The hydrangea remained stub­born­ly green, caus­ing me to wor­ry as I do every sum­mer, “What if it does­n’t blos­som in time for us to see it?”

Then August came and brought first a cou­ple of days of heavy rain, then a spate of com­plete­ly per­fect sun­ny after­noons, descend­ing into evenings of untold peace and tranquillity.

We’ve spent num­ber­less hours on the ten­nis court, and HOW I wish I had had my cam­era when we were present for The Great Grumpy Alter­ca­tion of Sum­mer 2013.

Of course, The Grumpy Old Men are often can­tan­ker­ous, hence their moniker.  Not a game goes by with­out tem­per flares, accu­sa­tions of senil­i­ty, ref­er­ences to “some­body for­got his Via­gra today,” etc.  Dis­put­ed calls are the norm, with balls being described as “so LAWNG,” and “not even close, you idiot.”  But what we have not had until last week was this exchange.

“Whad­dareya, nuts?  No way that was in, John.”

“Ya think I’m blind?  Of course it was in, noth­ing clear­er, you old coot.”

Well, OK.  Ya got a rep­u­ta­tion to uphold, after all.”

(Preg­nant silence.)

“Rep­u­ta­tion for what, exact­ly, Ira?”

“For bad calls.”

A rack­et crash­es to the ground.

“I don’t have to take this s**t.  I’m out­ta here.”

And as we tried not to look as if we were cran­ing our necks, the old guy grabbed up his rack­et, zipped it into the case, and stormed off the court, out the chain-link fence, and flounced into his beige Chevy Mal­ibu, peel­ing out of the park­ing lot with a showy spray of gravel.

I’ve been won­der­ing ever since how on earth the oth­er Grump­sters will patch this up.  Luck­i­ly, they play with a five­some, let­ting one guy sit out at a time, so they were able to con­tin­ue their game that day, albeit with mut­ed enthu­si­asm.  Nev­er a dull moment at the ten­nis court!

One of my favorite places on earth, real­ly, with the Town Pool and Pavil­ion (not sure what the Pavil­ion is, to be hon­est) shin­ing in the distance.

The kit­tens con­tin­ue to amuse, of course, learn­ing new tricks every day.  These are use­ful tricks like walk­ing, hold­ing one’s head straight, even drink­ing from a water bowl (most­ly sneez­ing at first).  We had a love­ly pho­to shoot on the pic­nic table, one at a time so as not to upset Mum.  Here’s dear, dear Mul­der.  She resem­bles the tor­tie Mum the most.

And then there is Dick­ens, apt­ly named.  It was not easy to get a pho­to with him in con­stant motion.  I love how his fur looks like he’s stand­ing in a strong breeze.  He wasn’t.

Rip­ley always looks as if he’s been in a fight.

And of course beau­ti­ful Dar­cy.  Luck­i­ly she has a per­son­al­i­ty to match, as our fem­i­nist house­hold does not believe in trad­ing on one’s appearance.

The days have passed by in a stretch of absolute­ly noth­ing hap­pen­ing.  This is love­ly for adults, but per­haps a lit­tle dull for Avery.  She has com­pen­sat­ed for our utter lack of plans by tak­ing the most gor­geous pho­tos: of food, of the prop­er­ty.  She can make even a plain, scrap­py pick­et fence look like magic.

The sug­ar maples that grace our acres  have beck­oned to me every since we bought the house, beg­ging to be immor­tal­ized, but until Avery this sum­mer, no one has been able to cap­ture their scale, and the sense of pro­tec­tion and majesty they bring to Red Gate Farm.

I love it when lunch is the high­light of the day, because absolute­ly noth­ing else has hap­pened, or will.

Yel­lowfin Tuna Tartare

(serves 4)

12 ounces/340g fresh sushi-grade yel­lowfin tuna, diced small

3 spring onions, minced

hand­ful cucum­ber, seeds removed, diced small

zest and juice of 1 lemon

sprin­kle chili flakes

1 tbsp Japan­ese mirin (rice wine vinegar)

1 tbsp mayonnaise

Sim­ply mix every­thing togeth­er and chill thor­ough­ly.  Per­fect with sour­dough toast.

One of the most heart­warm­ing bits of the sum­mer has been the streams of vis­its from lit­tle girls.  Kate is very keen on the kit­tens and can spend any amount of per­fect­ly qui­et time, just cud­dling them one by one.  It is a joy to hear her earnest lit­tle voice say­ing some vari­a­tion of, “Oh, Mul­der, you are so adorable.  Oh, Rip­ley, you are so fun­ny…”  She is a doll with them, extreme­ly gen­tle and patient with their baby claws and teeth, mar­vel­ling at their tiny feet.

It’s not all kit­ty respon­si­bil­i­ty, though.  Kate, and Tay­lor from up the road often raid the doll­house for an after­noon of dra­ma.  I love lis­ten­ing in on their conversations.

“You be the but­ler.  He’s in love with the maid.”

On that par­tic­u­lar after­noon, our road was abuzz with activ­i­ty.  Tay­lor’s dad Mark sent his con­struc­tion crew to help build a lit­tle cause­way for Anne’s pond to spill over under the road.

Mark him­self trun­dled down the road in his bush-clear­ing trac­tor to demol­ish the tall plants in Anne’s mead­ow, prepara­to­ry to some organ­ic gar­den­ing.  And John and Dave… fixed the mail­box­es, just as I promised you they would.

Here’s how they looked at the beginning.

How the two of them labored away in the hot sun! Post hole dig­ging, search­ing in vain in the barn for a suit­able board on which to bal­ance them (after a brief and whol­ly unan­i­mous dis­cus­sion on whether to replace the mail­box­es them­selves: NO!).  John drove into the vil­lage for a new board, the first pres­sure-treat­ed lum­ber ever to grace the prop­er­ty of Red Gate Farm.  How modern!

I spent the after­noon alter­nate­ly pro­vid­ing lemon­ade and choco­late milk to the girls, help­ing Avery with the kit­tens, deliv­er­ing icy water to the boys, and con­coct­ing an enor­mous pan of lasagne and a huge bowl of freez­ing-cold cole slaw with pop­py seed dress­ing.  What a nice way to spend a day.

Pop­py Seed Slaw

(serves lots)

1/2 head white cab­bage, out­er leaves removed, chopped to your liking

3 car­rots, grated

2 bulbs fen­nel, out­er leaf removed, chopped fine

dress­ing:

1/2 cup olive oil

1/4 cup apple cider vinegar

juice and zest of 1 lemon

1 tbsp unre­fined sugar

2 tbsps sour cream

1 tbsp mayonnaise

2 tbsps pop­py seeds

sea salt to taste

fresh black pepper

Whisk all ingre­di­ents for dress­ing togeth­er and toss with the cab­bage, car­rots and fen­nel.  Serve ice-cold.

**************

My love­ly sis­ter and her fam­i­ly arrived for our splen­did lasagne din­ner, to cel­e­brate Jane’s eight-and-a-half birth­day, a bit of a tra­di­tion with our two fam­i­lies.  As my sis­ter and I sat around gos­sip­ing, get­ting din­ner ready and shar­ing a cock­tail, the real dra­ma of the day became the mail­box­es.  Would they, or would­n’t they?  John trot­ted sweati­ly back and forth across the road, now delv­ing into the tool­shed, now the barn, for sup­plies.  There were occa­sion­al bursts of laugh­ter from the con­struc­tion site.  I went out for anoth­er water deliv­ery to find Dave stand­ing bemus­ed­ly by the posts, sur­round­ed by trail­ing ten­drils of ivy and lilac.

“There is a rea­son I don’t do this for a liv­ing,” he said.

“Yes, but look at it this way: most peo­ple who DO do this stuff for a liv­ing don’t also write books.  You can do BOTH.”

Final­ly, the moment of truth.

Amaz­ing!  That mail­box stand will out­last us all.  Nev­er mind that inside, you can see day­light at the back where a mouse once sought shel­ter.  A lit­tle duct tape, no problem.

We cel­e­brat­ed both the dar­ing feat of con­struc­tion, and Jane’s half-birth­day, with cup­cakes brought by her dad.

Of course, after that excite­ment, it was a chal­lenge to find anoth­er project to engross us all.  It would­n’t do just to sit around, appre­ci­at­ing the scenery…

Avery and I solved this prob­lem by spend­ing a day mak­ing cheese­cakes.  We have come to the con­clu­sion that even though I don’t “do” dessert, read­ers of our even­tu­al cook­book will feel dif­fer­ent­ly.  So we exper­i­ment­ed.  Choco­late chip cheese­cake?  Yes, decisively.

Berry coulis?  Absolutely.

Mini Cheese­cakes

(makes about two dozen)

10 oz/280g gra­ham crack­ers, or diges­tive bis­cuits, crushed fine

1 stick/114g but­ter, melted

2 packages/500g Philadel­phia cream cheese, room temperature

3 eggs, room temperature

3/4 c/95g unre­fined sugar

sprin­kle vanil­la extract

zest of 1 lime and 1 lemon

16 oz/454g light/half-fat sour cream

2 cups mini choco­late chips

1 cup blackberries

1 cup strawberries

1/2 cup water

1/4 cup unre­fined sugar

Heat oven to 350F/180C.

Mix the cook­ie crumbs with the melt­ed but­ter with a fork, fluff­ing light­ly.  Line a muf­fin tin with muf­fin papers, then place a heap­ing table­spoon of the cook­ie mix­ture in each and press down with your fin­gers.  Place in the fridge and chill while you pre­pare the oth­er ingredients.

With an elec­tric hand  mix­er, beat the cream cheese for a minute or so to make sure there aren’t lumps.  Add the eggs one at a time, beat­ing at a low speed between each and scrap­ing the sides of the bowl.  Add the sug­ar, vanil­la and zests and beat for 1 minute more.  Add the half-fat sour cream and beat for anoth­er minute.  Do not let it get frothy.

Using a small soup ladle, fill each muf­fin cup near­ly to the top and sprin­kle mini choco­late chips on half.  Place in the cen­ter of the oven and bake for about 20–25 min­utes, until the cheese­cakes are stiff but still jig­gly.  Care­ful­ly remove the paper sleeves from the muf­fin tray and place on a cook­ie sheet.  Place in fridge for at least four hours.

As you bake suc­ces­sive batch­es of cheese­cakes, place the berries, water and sug­ar in a saucepan and cook over medi­um heat, mash­ing with a pota­to mash­er, until a jam­my con­sis­ten­cy is achieved.  Pass this mix­ture through a c0arse-ish sieve into a bowl.

When the cheese­cakes are all cooked and cooled, driz­zle or glaze the non-choco­latey cheese­cakes with the berry coulis.

**********

Nat­u­ral­ly Anne and Kate came to sam­ple them, on a rainy, cozy evening.

Yes­ter­day Avery and I decid­ed to spend the late after­noon at the Town Poo, as it will for­ev­er be known since the “l” fell off sev­er­al years ago.  When we arrived home, it was to find our love­ly neigh­bor Regi­na here, chat­ting with Anne, who had in tow not only her own Kate but also Tay­lor, whose dad was water­ing the hors­es.  He appeared a moment lat­er to join David and John in much chat­ting about machin­ery and guns, and prob­a­bly mail­box­es.  The Dads of San­ford Road, what a trio!

And then Mike and Lau­ren turned up on their way home from an after­noon hike, bear­ing Abi­gail, the Most Beau­ti­ful Child On Earth.  I am so fond of her.

How valiant­ly she crawls, across hard stone!  Always attend­ed faith­ful­ly by one of the adults, or chil­dren.  “She CAN walk,” Lau­ren smiles.  “She just choos­es NOT to.”

It was one of those after­noons where I try to appre­ci­ate it all, enjoy every­one’s con­ver­sa­tion, store it all up for the grey Lon­don months to come.  We talked about the char­i­ta­ble efforts to raise enough mon­ey to save the piti­ful old falling-down Phillips Barn up the road.  Anne is rue­ful.  “Not even I, with all my grant-writ­ing expe­ri­ence, could find any suit­able hyper­bole to describe that structure!”

The lit­tle girls jumped on the tram­po­line in the late sun while Avery and Lau­ren and I paid a vis­it to the kit­tens.  They are just entrancing.

Final­ly, reluc­tant­ly, we all decid­ed it was time to move, to get up, get seri­ous about get­ting chil­dren home, din­ner cooked.  It seemed sad to dis­perse, so many of my favorite peo­ple in one place.

 But I could see, to my intense joy, that one of the beau­ties of the sum­mer was intact, after all.  The hydrangea has begun to bloom, for yet anoth­er sum­mer.  Thank good­ness for that.