Monday, September 29, 2014
In praise of a new handyman and friend...
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Friday, September 26, 2014
Ten-Grain Bread with Sunflower and Flax Seeds
The latest from the Townhill bakery: ten-grain bread with sunflower and flax seeds. Took a little bit of kneading to get the shape, though. Crusty and yummy!
Although "a prudent cooks never leaves his kitchen," if you can't come join me for this one, I'll try another one 'down there,' regardless of what prudent cooks say!
I had no recipe to go by. This is my own concoction:
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups spelt flour
1/2 cup sunflower seed
1/4 cup flax seed
1/2 cup 10-grain cereal (Bob's Red Mill)
3/4 tsp. salt
1 pack rapid-rise yeast
2 to 2 1/2 cups water
Mix until dough pulls away from bowl. Cover with a towel and let it rise 8-10 hours.
Refrigerate covered (bowls with lid). This makes enough dough from two 1-lb loaves.
To form the loaf, take half of the dough, flatten out on floured work surface, fold in half. Repeat four or five times, then form your dough and let proof for two hours.
Preheat oven with stone to 475 degrees.
Powder stone with corn meal and place loaf. Bake for 35 minutes, take out and let cool completely before slicing.
I have a Pampered Chef stone with dome cover here. I supposed it will also work out well on a pizza stone. The Pampered Chef dome probably retains at least part of the moisture and creates a fine crust. Without that dome, I suspect I would put a pan with water into the stove so the atmosphere in there is saturated with steam before I'd place the dough in.
I added the light kneading after trying without but the loaf did not hold its shape--flattened out a bit too much even though I proofed the wet dough in a basket. The dough in the picture was done with just two cycles of flattening and folding.
Now you have the whole secret. Enjoy.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next iteration:Doubled the seeds.
Did a little more kneading.
Also did a quick boil on the flax to soften those seeds up a bit.
The loaf held its form nicely. Weighs 1 pound 11 oz.
Next iteration: add a few nuts?
Sunday, September 21, 2014
A Fire Burning in the Stove
Up here it looks like the time for camping is over. Already, the leaf peepers are clogging the roads on weekends. The Candlelight B&B had three guest cars in the parking lot! Busy time is coming for local business. It got so cold and raw here yesterday, I had a fire burning in the stove.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Reflections on the Scottish Highlander
Interesting observation: since some ten years, the Morses are keeping two Scottish Highlander cows on some of their pastures that border the woods. These animals feed on weed and underbrush just like goats, only in larger quantities.
Basically, they are meat cows, but the Morses have not bred theirs now for many years and if they are indeed ten years old plus some, they would probably cause a boon in the profession of dentistry wherever their remnant might be marketed. In the meantime, they are busy clearing the underbrush around the DePalos home.
They are beautiful animals! And their horns would probably cause any but the bravest of the Spanish bull fighters to quit the arena on simple sight of them. A stiletto would appear to be a dull instrument in comparison with these animals' headdress.
Basically, they are meat cows, but the Morses have not bred theirs now for many years and if they are indeed ten years old plus some, they would probably cause a boon in the profession of dentistry wherever their remnant might be marketed. In the meantime, they are busy clearing the underbrush around the DePalos home.
They are beautiful animals! And their horns would probably cause any but the bravest of the Spanish bull fighters to quit the arena on simple sight of them. A stiletto would appear to be a dull instrument in comparison with these animals' headdress.
Upon release from the hospital with a clean bill of health...
New the rest of the story: Dr. Mensh, 'der Unmensch,' contradicted Dr. Tarnas on all points and I am back on medication and back off all enjoyable beverages. This is supposed to continue until mid-October, when there will be another blood test with the possibility of release at the time when the test results are analyzed. At this point, Dr. Mensh estimates that some 70% of the healing process is behind us. So, there.
After the visit and the doctor's office I went shopping for supplies and received a phone call from the DePalos with an invitation to coffee and cake. Bless AT&T for making this communication possible! I arrived at my hosts' appointed hour and we had a nice chat again over home-baked caked and cookies and then I went home and took my revenge on Mensh: I had a can of sardines and two glasses (160 ml) of white wine, and now I go back to being a good boy on dry land.
Dr. Mensh's orders are caused by pure selfishness: he does not want to see me again. In a way, I can understand that and somewhat share his position. He is a great guy, and I would wish to count him among the friends of my family, but if seeing him means having sprung another leak, I'd rather not maintain an active acquaintance with him.
Speaking of leaks, he is a sailor, too. There are pictures in his office that tell me that, even though his professional attitude does not allow stray-talk into person territory such as what he is doing during his spare time. Oh well; being a sailor is enough to make him a good guy.
Good night, all! It is supposed to be a wonderful day again tomorrow, and until then, we all will have a wonderful night.
Love, Opa
After the visit and the doctor's office I went shopping for supplies and received a phone call from the DePalos with an invitation to coffee and cake. Bless AT&T for making this communication possible! I arrived at my hosts' appointed hour and we had a nice chat again over home-baked caked and cookies and then I went home and took my revenge on Mensh: I had a can of sardines and two glasses (160 ml) of white wine, and now I go back to being a good boy on dry land.
Dr. Mensh's orders are caused by pure selfishness: he does not want to see me again. In a way, I can understand that and somewhat share his position. He is a great guy, and I would wish to count him among the friends of my family, but if seeing him means having sprung another leak, I'd rather not maintain an active acquaintance with him.
Speaking of leaks, he is a sailor, too. There are pictures in his office that tell me that, even though his professional attitude does not allow stray-talk into person territory such as what he is doing during his spare time. Oh well; being a sailor is enough to make him a good guy.
Good night, all! It is supposed to be a wonderful day again tomorrow, and until then, we all will have a wonderful night.
Love, Opa
Sunday, August 31, 2014
The Jacksonville Bridge of Flowers
This photo was taken at the lower edge of the pond, which is actually an ancient beaver pond, the main dam being situated right there, where the road comes out of the forest and crosses the brook, which is fed by the pond.
Just in front and to the left of the peninsula, in the center, there used to be the ancient beaver house-- and in the early years, when Lulu started her life up here, you could see the beaver family playing in the water, gathering food or maintaining their dam. Occasionally, passing vandals would break the dam, but every time the beavers would rebuild it under the applause of the residents, and in a few days the pond would come back up to its established level.
The brook that takes its beginning at the dam, by the way, is the same as the one that fills the pond at the cemetery and forms that artificial waterfall just below the bridge over which the road to the cemetery crosses the water. This bridge, which earlier I called the 'cemetery bridge,' I just learned, is called the "Jacksonville Bridge of Flowers." Two local families, the Colmores and the Joneses, purchase all the flowers and organize a planting bee. Families is Halifax and Jacksonville share in the watering.
Friday, August 29, 2014
Sunday, August 17, 2014
An Incredibly Varied Life
Something or someone spoke to me while I was peacefully reading my current book. Whatever it was, It caused me to stop the reading and to google Madeleine Sitterding (my cousin) and found among many other publications with her tag—many by her—this obituary. She was six years my senior and passed away in October 11, 2008.
I am sending you to this link because there is a picture with this obituary which shows her as a yet young woman of about thirty, the time frame when I saw her last. The obituary describes an incredibly varied life, wrought with family and professional hurdles. Yet she prevailed. She had to finance her studies herself, and was often interrupted, but earned the respect and support of many of her colleagues.
She earned her PhD in Archeology and worked mostly in Switzerland, but also in Turkey and Italy. She held several high-ranking positions, towards the end of her career in archeology as 'State Archeologist' to the Canton of Thurgau. The list of publications in this obituary reveals a very varied and interesting as well as a productive career, indeed.
Late in life she left her profession and went back to study psychology, which she completed successfully. She practiced in this as therapist while she also worked as publisher of the trade magazine of her field until her death. She died of what is described as a progressive illness.
The colleague who wrote the obituary refers several times to her stubbornness which would put her squarely into the line of her family inheritance. It is shown to us in that she never let any of us know of any difficulties and never asked for help, even as her own father repeatedly addressed his brother for support after his return from Africa in the fifties.
I will include a reprint of this obituary in the family papers.
I am sending you to this link because there is a picture with this obituary which shows her as a yet young woman of about thirty, the time frame when I saw her last. The obituary describes an incredibly varied life, wrought with family and professional hurdles. Yet she prevailed. She had to finance her studies herself, and was often interrupted, but earned the respect and support of many of her colleagues.
She earned her PhD in Archeology and worked mostly in Switzerland, but also in Turkey and Italy. She held several high-ranking positions, towards the end of her career in archeology as 'State Archeologist' to the Canton of Thurgau. The list of publications in this obituary reveals a very varied and interesting as well as a productive career, indeed.
Late in life she left her profession and went back to study psychology, which she completed successfully. She practiced in this as therapist while she also worked as publisher of the trade magazine of her field until her death. She died of what is described as a progressive illness.
The colleague who wrote the obituary refers several times to her stubbornness which would put her squarely into the line of her family inheritance. It is shown to us in that she never let any of us know of any difficulties and never asked for help, even as her own father repeatedly addressed his brother for support after his return from Africa in the fifties.
I will include a reprint of this obituary in the family papers.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
What a day!
Sunday! Get up early, shower, get dressed, have breakfast, make sure
your fingernails are clean and you have a fresh handkerchief in your
pocket and get to church before the door closes and the congregation
starts on the first hymn--which they sometimes do before the door
closes! But make a detour to the cemetery and take a full watering can
and deadhead the flowers! Pressure? No! All self-made.
I had time for a quick bowl of my favorite: raw bits with banana, today dressed with a tiny harvest of first blueberries from the bushes down by the pond. The flowers at the grave were beautiful. I had some minutes to stay, and look and breathe the calm mountain air.
Doug's sermon was on Philippians 4:4-9 and the thrust was "relax, don't worry"--all is under control and all will come out OK.
After church, the blue sky and the fresh air sidetracked me. I decided to go for a little walk. I drove to Wilmington, and this weekend you must know your way along the back roads because teh main road, VT 100, is cut off for bridge construction. The official detour must be about 20 minutes down to Readsboro and up Searsburg and down Rt 9 to Wilmington. Along the back roads, you have a trip maybe two miles longer, and is it beautiful out there! It is probably beautiful anywhere, on a day like this.
When I reached Rt 9 I drove through Wilmington and west another couple of miles or so and then turned onto the National Forest Road #71 that takes you up to Somerset Reservoir. There, the road ends and trails begin. On the schematic below, Somerset reservoir is in the upper left corner. This sign saw only when I came out of the woods after I had put Doug's message to the test.
I chose the East Side Trail that leads along the lake shores. It begins as a wonderful trail, smooth and clean as if you were walking through a groomed park, and I was glad about it, because I was dressed up in my Sunday's best for church.
Soon, there appeared obstacles--fallen trees, rocks, boulders, creek crossings where you had to dance over stones to keep your feet dry. I felt good! After all, just a few years back, Lulu and I crossed the Alps on foot along, over mountain trails. We were then 15 and 13 years old. We had our backpacks and sleeping bags and good shoe work and we were on our way for five days. So what can a lakeside trails hold for me other than the views over the lake, the peace of the woods, and the blue sky overhead? My only company was that nice woman's voice in Runkeeper that keeps you apprised of time and speed, and if you want more information you can pick up your phone and get to know all those other details.
For one who has done nothing for the past four or five weeks because of back aches and arthritis, I did pretty good. After a warm-up I was prancing along the trail at a decent clip of about 30 minutes per mile. I thought it was a good clip, because the prancing was slowed by the need to watch where you put your feet on the next step.
But the going got tougher and then there were some obstacles that made me think going forward would be easier than trying to go back. Eventually, I thought, without looking at a map, I get around this lake and back to the parking lot where I had left the car.
There was a crossing over a creek on shaky stones, and I realized that I was not as secure on my hind legs anymore as I used to be. There there were some boulders you had to climb up and over, or you had to jump down from. And the trail often became almost invisible at times, overgrown with weeds or defined only by the way stones were lined up over wet areas; definitely man had been here before and, thoughtfully, nailed an occasional way-sign to a tree. Those signs were between seven to nine feet above ground and hardly served as guides, because one had to keep one's eyes on the ground to determine the next step and occasionally raise one's sight quickly and just enough to make sure one was still going in the right direction.
Then there came a crossing over a large, wet area. Here, the path was well-marked by a foot log, but when I stepped on it, it crumbled, rotten as it was under its bark. I lost my balance and sat in the muck.
Muck! I said. If you ever went skiing on fresh snow, a few feet deep, and tried getting up, you know the situation I found myself in. Like the ski pole that sinks to the hand grip down into the snow, so my arm sunk into the muck to my elbow, my feet disappeared, and the so-called foot log could not serve to push myself out and up again. One overcomes any obstacle if the other choice is giving up completely. I had not seen a living soul on this trial since I got on it, and I had visions that, perhaps late this evening, rangers would check out the parking area and see my car and start wondering where its driver and perhaps its passengers might be--"roughing it somewhere deep in the woods, sitting around a campfire and getting ready to turn into their sleeping bags? We'll have to come back tomorrow and check this out."
So eventually I maneuvered myself--half hanging, half sitting--onto that rotten log, and from that position I got up on my feet again and my mind was made up! I will not try this crossing again. I walked on.
At the full hour of my hike, curiosity overcame me. There was an old tree on the tail side and it served as a bench and I sat and took out my phone and switched to Google maps and I saw that I had covered about one third of the lake's length. You know of course that the Data signals you can get in a place like Somerset Reservoir, one hour's walk into the thick of the woods, are stronger than the ones we get at home! I was glad about that! Anyway: one third way in one hour, would make six thirds and six hours plus the end was formed by two long arms to get around which, by distance alone would be the equivalent of perhaps two more hours for a total of eight to hike round this lake and it was now almost noon. What would you have done? I turned around. I'm glad I did. When I came back to the muck, the hollow where I had taken my seat was filling with water, black as the devil's blood.
Going back out of the woods took me a half hour longer than going in. But I made it. The shoes I wore I had thought to wear to Evie's wedding. The shirt might have served for the same occasion, but perhaps not, because January in southern VA is not like August in southern VT. And my slaks--well, they are of an original color not unlike the muck with which they were caked, so maybe they'll serve. All of them, except the shoes, are in the wash. The shoes were new New Balance walkers. They have not given me a new balance, as I noticed now that I got proof I have lost my old.
During this day I thought a lot about the sermon this morning. I'm glad I was there to hear it. I came home and showered and changed and made me my meal--marinated grilled chicken tenders with stir fried mixed veggies, and a bottle of lil' Kola Chardonnay. All this in place of 'relax, sit back, have a home brew,' which in normal life replaces so easily the words Paul and Timotheus wrote to the Philippians.
I had time for a quick bowl of my favorite: raw bits with banana, today dressed with a tiny harvest of first blueberries from the bushes down by the pond. The flowers at the grave were beautiful. I had some minutes to stay, and look and breathe the calm mountain air.
Doug's sermon was on Philippians 4:4-9 and the thrust was "relax, don't worry"--all is under control and all will come out OK.
After church, the blue sky and the fresh air sidetracked me. I decided to go for a little walk. I drove to Wilmington, and this weekend you must know your way along the back roads because teh main road, VT 100, is cut off for bridge construction. The official detour must be about 20 minutes down to Readsboro and up Searsburg and down Rt 9 to Wilmington. Along the back roads, you have a trip maybe two miles longer, and is it beautiful out there! It is probably beautiful anywhere, on a day like this.
When I reached Rt 9 I drove through Wilmington and west another couple of miles or so and then turned onto the National Forest Road #71 that takes you up to Somerset Reservoir. There, the road ends and trails begin. On the schematic below, Somerset reservoir is in the upper left corner. This sign saw only when I came out of the woods after I had put Doug's message to the test.
I chose the East Side Trail that leads along the lake shores. It begins as a wonderful trail, smooth and clean as if you were walking through a groomed park, and I was glad about it, because I was dressed up in my Sunday's best for church.
Soon, there appeared obstacles--fallen trees, rocks, boulders, creek crossings where you had to dance over stones to keep your feet dry. I felt good! After all, just a few years back, Lulu and I crossed the Alps on foot along, over mountain trails. We were then 15 and 13 years old. We had our backpacks and sleeping bags and good shoe work and we were on our way for five days. So what can a lakeside trails hold for me other than the views over the lake, the peace of the woods, and the blue sky overhead? My only company was that nice woman's voice in Runkeeper that keeps you apprised of time and speed, and if you want more information you can pick up your phone and get to know all those other details.
For one who has done nothing for the past four or five weeks because of back aches and arthritis, I did pretty good. After a warm-up I was prancing along the trail at a decent clip of about 30 minutes per mile. I thought it was a good clip, because the prancing was slowed by the need to watch where you put your feet on the next step.
But the going got tougher and then there were some obstacles that made me think going forward would be easier than trying to go back. Eventually, I thought, without looking at a map, I get around this lake and back to the parking lot where I had left the car.
There was a crossing over a creek on shaky stones, and I realized that I was not as secure on my hind legs anymore as I used to be. There there were some boulders you had to climb up and over, or you had to jump down from. And the trail often became almost invisible at times, overgrown with weeds or defined only by the way stones were lined up over wet areas; definitely man had been here before and, thoughtfully, nailed an occasional way-sign to a tree. Those signs were between seven to nine feet above ground and hardly served as guides, because one had to keep one's eyes on the ground to determine the next step and occasionally raise one's sight quickly and just enough to make sure one was still going in the right direction.
Then there came a crossing over a large, wet area. Here, the path was well-marked by a foot log, but when I stepped on it, it crumbled, rotten as it was under its bark. I lost my balance and sat in the muck.
Muck! I said. If you ever went skiing on fresh snow, a few feet deep, and tried getting up, you know the situation I found myself in. Like the ski pole that sinks to the hand grip down into the snow, so my arm sunk into the muck to my elbow, my feet disappeared, and the so-called foot log could not serve to push myself out and up again. One overcomes any obstacle if the other choice is giving up completely. I had not seen a living soul on this trial since I got on it, and I had visions that, perhaps late this evening, rangers would check out the parking area and see my car and start wondering where its driver and perhaps its passengers might be--"roughing it somewhere deep in the woods, sitting around a campfire and getting ready to turn into their sleeping bags? We'll have to come back tomorrow and check this out."
So eventually I maneuvered myself--half hanging, half sitting--onto that rotten log, and from that position I got up on my feet again and my mind was made up! I will not try this crossing again. I walked on.
At the full hour of my hike, curiosity overcame me. There was an old tree on the tail side and it served as a bench and I sat and took out my phone and switched to Google maps and I saw that I had covered about one third of the lake's length. You know of course that the Data signals you can get in a place like Somerset Reservoir, one hour's walk into the thick of the woods, are stronger than the ones we get at home! I was glad about that! Anyway: one third way in one hour, would make six thirds and six hours plus the end was formed by two long arms to get around which, by distance alone would be the equivalent of perhaps two more hours for a total of eight to hike round this lake and it was now almost noon. What would you have done? I turned around. I'm glad I did. When I came back to the muck, the hollow where I had taken my seat was filling with water, black as the devil's blood.
Going back out of the woods took me a half hour longer than going in. But I made it. The shoes I wore I had thought to wear to Evie's wedding. The shirt might have served for the same occasion, but perhaps not, because January in southern VA is not like August in southern VT. And my slaks--well, they are of an original color not unlike the muck with which they were caked, so maybe they'll serve. All of them, except the shoes, are in the wash. The shoes were new New Balance walkers. They have not given me a new balance, as I noticed now that I got proof I have lost my old.
During this day I thought a lot about the sermon this morning. I'm glad I was there to hear it. I came home and showered and changed and made me my meal--marinated grilled chicken tenders with stir fried mixed veggies, and a bottle of lil' Kola Chardonnay. All this in place of 'relax, sit back, have a home brew,' which in normal life replaces so easily the words Paul and Timotheus wrote to the Philippians.
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