Project Homestead

stacking wood

 

Woodstacking lends itself to folksy phrases (which I'll translate later). My favorite is the old dandy, "stack it loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." Perhaps it's because every step of the way—from cutting the timber, to splitting it, to hauling it, and, finally, stacking it—leather-gloved hands are handling the wood. And those hands have time to think.

Burning wood is said to warm you three times (splitting, stacking, carrying it inside to burn). In our case, it's four. We made a mistake of inexperience our first year, when we we ordered "seasoned" wood. It was supposed to have been dry, ready to burn, we thought. But it wasn't. Wet wood takes far more time (and cursing) to heat up. So, that year, we burned through far more fuel oil—our heating insurance. That lesson taught us to season it ourselves. That means we order our firewood at least a year in advance. We stack it once in a "fieldstack" back behind the house, where it dries in warm sunshine and cool breezes. By the time we're ready to stack it near the house, patience has turned what was green and damp a warm, silvery gray. Deep cracks through its ends, known as checks, reveal that it's ready to burn. Then, we stack it once more. 

Well, by we, I mean Michael. He's got a knack for spacial relations and details. So we specialize. I haul it. He stacks it. And here's where the folklore comes in. He tells me that he learned a lot of what he knows about burning wood—from BTU output to stacking to fire-starting—from the astonishing Woodheat.org. (Go there.) Stacking wood takes ample patience and a fair bit of problem-solving ability. But one good trick is to bookend each unsupported pile with the familiar "Lincoln Log" pattern. It's bomber.

From there, you can get fancy. We left our stack ends wide open in the middle (using two logs per row instead of three) to allow for even more airflow ... we were also getting tired. In fact, this is a great way to ensure that your well-dried, well-built pile stays put through the coldest days of winter. As for the rest of the pile, we stack it straight on, piece by piece. And we nestle the logs together with gaps that are "loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." In other words, no gaping holes. But airflow is key. Remember: Dry wood = hot fires.

Woodstacking is a rite of autumn around here. But, log by log, it's also one that feeds a tangible, monetary, sustainable fire. Once finished, Michael couldn't help grinning and taking deep breaths of satisfaction every time he looked out the window at our pile of winter heat, waiting to be burned.

I'm off to bed, and feed the woodstove...

Fairly full from Common Ground

I just returned from a glorious, enriching day of lapping up organic living and growing in Unity, Maine, home of the Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association. The group's annual Common Ground Fair is so full of information, friends and amazing food, I left feeling full to bursting. Here's what I can remember...

• Angora goats are “addictive.”
• Organic, locally grown fair food is VERY expensive.
• The Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association, a.k.a. MOFGA, is magic: Its fair is simultaneously down-home and ethereal.
• Young bulls are called bullocks.
• Who needs roller coasters, when kids can slide down a grassy hill, using only cardboard, for two hours and 17 minutes?

• Top-bar beehives give bees room to build honeycomb in the size they naturally need. Some beekeepers plant lavender and thyme beneath their hives to keep mites at bay.
• If you have a cordless drill, you can whip amendments into worked soil with the nifty Tilther from Johnny’s Selected Seeds. 
• I pine for Johnny’s Six Row Seeder.
• “Chestnut” crab apples are sweet, juicy and bright; the perfect size for little hands or a few big bites.
• Apples are the most interesting fruit I know.
• You can make fire by rubbing two sticks together … after tying a basic bow, carving a peg to rub in a whittled plank, and kneeling very carefully while rubbing furiously. Having a friendly Maine Guide nearby is a big help.

• Sheep are far easier to herd than goats. Sheepdogs have an easier time doing it than kiddos.
• Spinning wool is a quiet art; spinning "in the grease" works wonders on dry winter hands.
• “Fingers look like carrots” to livestock.
• Friendships made in the course of pursuing your passions are lasting and real.
• Forests selectively harvested and replanted with varying species are less stressed than single-species stands of timber.
• Hula hoops whirl around hips longer if you stand with one foot in front of the other, spread apart a bit. If you can manage it, your kids will cheer.
• You can live without cell phone service for an entire day.
• Garlic is easy to grow in fertile soil (6 inches apart on 12-inch rows). Hardneck varieties are easier to peel than softnecks. Curing bulbs in a dry place will help them store them well for months.
• Abundance is all around us.

It's time to harvest just about everywhere. Eat up, and enjoy.

a fine day's rest

I tend to fill most free time with activity, like switching loads of laundry or planting neglected leek seedlings, or chicken tending or sewing (just one more seam!). But on my birthday, yesterday, I took a detour: I decided to simply recline. In every way. I let dear friends plan. I packed no lunches. I watched boys entertain themselves on the beach. And, I must say, it got me to thinking how restorative such rest days can be. DOING at all times takes doing. For those of us with unfinished gardens and dishes, not to mention conscientious lives to attend to—all of us, that is—being does, too.

After such a fine day, I remember now that doing nothing is worth the effort. Gazing, lazily, at trees jutting out of the endless blue makes the forest that much easier to see, once back home. Of course, bare feet, sand, and ample sunshine (following weeks of wool socks, mud and rain) may have improved my vision a bit.

Repeat after me: Take a load off... The weeds won't mind a bit.

promise

My three-year-old early riser and I awoke early the other morning to an unfamiliar friend — the sun! As it peeked over the eastern edge of neighboring pines and ponds, these gorgeous, plump, popcorn-like blackberry blossoms nearly glowed. They hold such promise... for birds and bees, for lovely blooms, for berries green-then-red-then-purple-then-deepest black, by summer's end. In the past, I'd say "I can't wait." But this year feels different.

I've planted so much more, from strawberries, blueberries and raspberries (to harvest next year), to many veggies in an entirely new and experimental garden site, that I'm excited to watch what happens next to each of them, one by one. I feel like a proud new mama of a happy but scattered brood. (Not all of those babes are in the ground yet, either.)

It's the middle of June, but days of cool and rain make it feel like summer is still just around the corner here. The Summer Solstice arrives this Sunday, so I suppose it is. It's the day the sun reaches its farthest point north of the equator, lazing its way through the year's longest day; this year, it falls on Father's Day (lucky papa!). And, lucky for us and the blackberries that surround us, the sun will be warming us even more as the days march on.

As much as I'd like to take credit for their vitality, the truth is, nothing here grows more effortlessly, and with as little human intervention, as these generous canes. Coaxing bud into blossom and tart into sweet, I am sure, is some benevolent and powerful force; one the dew drops on spring leaves, my early riser and I have been waiting to greet.

Welcome, summer. Go ahead, stay awhile.

the sap runneth over

Thanks to warming days and still-cool nights, the sugar maples are pumping in these here hills. All over Maine, craggy old trees are wearing silver necklaces of galvanized steel buckets, ready to catch whatever the trees will give them. 

Every time I pour some Grade A Medium Amber all over my plain yogurt or blueberry pancakes or vanilla ice cream (try it, you won't look back), I realize that I could nearly live on this earthy-sweet nectar of the gods. And I'd better get tapping to make some of my own.

It's simple alchemy, according to the kind Cooperative Extension folks at the University of Maine: In late summer and fall, maple trees stop growing and store excess starches in their sapwood. It stays put as long as the temperature in the wood remains below about 40 degrees F. Whenever the wood warms up, the starches miraculously convert to sugars, which flow into the tree sap. It's finite, though. When temps reach about 45 degrees, the conversion stops—and so does the sugar. 

Moved along by alternating spells of warm and cold, the sap pours from the tree into our waiting pails. Each tap hole, like this one, can yield anywhere from five to 15 gallons. But it takes about 10 gallons of sap to produce one quart of syrup. The time-consuming part of the operation is the boiling—the sap is mostly water, so it bubbles it until you're left with 66 to 67 percent sugar content at about 7 degrees F above the boiling point of water (here at the water's edge, that's 212 degrees F). 

I found a great home sugaring primer that lists a slew of resources and supplies, not the least of which is Lehman's, which I love. I'm pining for a hobby-sized maple syrup evaporator, essentially a wood stove beneath a large, shallow pan. The Half Pint Evaporator should do just fine...

Until then, I've been plowing through fresh syrup with this wonderful recipe. These cookies are both yummy and healthy, so I eat them with abandon. Try them with vanilla ice cream ... drizzled with a bit more syrup, of course.

Maple oatmeal raisin cookies

2 sticks butter, softened

1 cup Maine maple syrup

2 eggs

1 tsp. Maple extract

1 1/2 cups flour

1 tsp. Baking soda

1 tsp. Salt

3 cups rolled oats

1 cup raisins

Preheat oven to 375. Beat the butter and maple syrup together until well blended. Beat in eggs and maple extract. Combine flour, baking soda, and salt and sift together. Gradually add the flour mixture to the butter maple mixture and mix well. Stir in raisins. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheets and bake for 12-14 minutes. Cool for two minutes before removing to wire racks. Store in a tightly covered container (if you can).

loving (and missing) the bounty

Thanks to our wonderful heated watering pail and top-loading feed hopper that holds 50 POUNDS of organic chicken feed, we can leave our girls and not worry. They are amply fed, watered and safe from predators (and Noreasters). Except that they keep on making all those eggs... 

ah, applesauce

The apples we'd picked from our old trees were starting to soften in the fridge (apparently they're not great keepers). Given my irrational fear of pie crusts, I opted to make applesauce with Caleb the other morning. Natural applesauce is as uncomplicated as it gets, of course, but it's even MORE FUN when using the world's most charming apple prep tool ever invented. LL Bean calls it the apple-peeling gizmo. 

And, as you can see from these pictures, it doesn't just peel. It slices and cores them apples, while you're at it. The result: a never-ending ribbon of peel, great, uniform slices (unless your apples are lumpy, like mine, which can derail them), and happy, happy helpers.

an apple only a mother could love

The trees were here, perhaps planted by a passerby when horses and wagons travelled on what was once a dirt road. Now, it’s flat grassland. And on its edges sturdy apple trees lean toward the big pond as if reaching for warm sunshine and a cool drink. Maybe they were dropped by a bird who’d visited our neighbors' old orchard. Or it could have been the family who built our 60-year-old log cabin with their own hands, the notion I lean toward as I watch the boys clamber up one and shake down a few of the rosy, bulging fruits that weigh down its branches with the promise of good eating and apple pies (that I don’t yet bake). Even the fruits that aren't as sweet are useful; I can always make cider vinegar and applesauce.

Free organic food for the taking, from our own land, is impossible not to enjoy, no matter how humble it looks. Case in point: the apple above is from our “best” tree. (I’m still waiting for Fedco's John Bunker, the apple guru of Maine, to help me identify it and others here.) That would be helpful, in case it’s a variety that stores well or, even, improves with age. Lineage aside, its warts and dents and ruddy “rusting” are all part of its charm. I adore it for its juicy, sweet flesh. Its solid consistency. Its sheer size. And the fact that it’s HERE, with no hand or help from me.