Chicken of the Woods

Our homegrown fungus

(Warning:  despite the title this is an animal-free post) 
            Somedays the most wonderful surprises arise in the most ordinary places.  Yesterday we were enjoying a relaxing Sunday afternoon with a hint of autumn in the air, when a neighbor knocked on the door.  He and a friend wondered if it would be alright to cut the fungus out of our front ash tree.  
             The mushroom was one of those frilly, yellow-orange shelf varieties that I have admired my whole life and have even photographed, never dreaming it was edible.  Apparently it is and it tastes like chicken and is quite delicious fried in butter. Its official name is Chicken of the Woods. As a mushroom lover myself, I certainly couldn't say no to their request.
             The young man took one of those saws on the end of a long pole that people use to trim branches and sawed it off while his friend and kids stood below to catch it.  Sadly, it was too dried out to be edible, so the fungus hunters left.  
             Several minutes later there was another knock at the door.  There was our neighbor with an offering of a fresh "chicken" they found down the block. (I LOVE small towns!  I can't imagine this would happen in a big city.)  They wanted to give us a chance to taste this wonderful delicacy.  Guess what's for lunch today?  I can't wait to try it.  
             On this morning's walk, I found myself scanning the trees instead of the sidewalk.  Maybe mushroom hunting is in my future. 
(Postscript:  I fried the mushroom in butter and it does have the exact texture and taste of chicken.  Two thumbs up!)

The Return of the Clowder

Toby hides in the garden to avoid being petted

                My apologies, clowder fans.  I had no intention of staying away so long, but life got in the way and writing moved to the low end of the priority list.  (Writing was still higher on the list than exercise and housework, which speaks sadly of the state of my body and home.)  The good news is that you were spared the story of Frank eating a large beetle and then barfing its parts onto my sandal, and the tale of Jersey's latest vet visit.  Talk about a tough old gal—Jersey, who spent the 30-minute car ride with projectile diarrhea and vomiting and is about age 96 in cat years, was able to fend off five people (three of them trained animal  care specialists) so her blood draw attempt failed miserably. 

                I know I am not alone in having a hectic schedule, but for my quiet drama-free husband and I, it all but undid us to cram several years' worth of major events into one summer.  There were wonderful moments of joy and dreams, beginnings and endings, and all the messy, get-your-hands-dirty stuff of humanity.  My daughter married the love of her life.  They bought a fixer-upper nearby with eleven layers of wallpaper on the walls.  A storm put a tree through their roof and ruined ours.  We learned how to plaster and texture walls.  We met in St. Louis at the beginning of summer and ended the season watching freighters pull into the Duluth harbor.  We spent a month saying goodbye to my mother-in-law—so much living in such a short time.

                Needless to say, the clowder does not appreciate the latest track of our human journey.  Not only have I not been available 24 hours a day to cater to their every whim,  I have refused to hold the kitchen door open and wait for 2-3 minutes while they each take a turn deciding whether to go out or stay in. 

                Their displeasure is manifested in many ways.  For example, one cat has been naughty…repeatedly… on the carpet in the corner of the dining room.  The carpet is wet.  It smells bad.  My blood boils over, but I can't prove who did it.  Of course there are the usual suspects (FRANK!) but no eyewitness evidence.  Toby registers his anger with us by refusing to let us pet him, except at 3:00 a.m. when he wants constant stroking and bites my elbow if I fall asleep and stop.  The remaining cats pin me down the only chance they get—when I'm trying to sleep.  They've adopted a "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" sleeping formation, with Jersey on my head (she rats my hair with her claws so I awake looking like a poodle), Frank on a shoulder, Finnegan on my knees, and Biff weighing down my toes.  Biff likes that spot because he can bite my feet if I try to move or kick off the covers.

                September has returned with a sense of routine and normalcy.  Hopefully the cats will pick up on that soon and start concentrating on what they do best--living out new storylines that I can share with you.

The Blink of an Eye

The family tree is now a cat jungle gym

                Outside my window, a flurry of crab apple petals has turned my beautiful green view into a late spring blizzard. Just three days ago I sat beneath the tree commenting on how breathtaking it was, looming over our rooftop with all the grandeur of a snow-capped mountain, exuding the pale sweet scent of heaven.  Sigh…such a fleeting moment.  As Robert Frost so perfectly put it, “Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour.  Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day.  Nothing gold can stay.” 

                The crab apple tree  reminds me of so many fleeting moments.  It was in full bloom the day, two decades ago, that my husband and I moved in.  Our bedroom window looked into the tree’s center, and we were lulled to sleep after a hard day of unpacking by the breeze filling the room with apple blossom scent. 

                When our daughter was young, the tree was truly our “family tree,” the center of daily activities.  Its branches were perfect for climbing.  From one branch hung a tire swing and from another, a trapeze.  It was a hiding place for the neighborhood Easter egg hunt and the shady setting for a crazy neighbor kid performance of “The Big Bad Wolf,”complete with script, costumes, and props.

                Beneath the tree sat a huge wooden bench salvaged from the basement.  It was a rustic seat, made of old barn wood, but it was the perfect size for a mother and a preschooler and a bag of library books.  Of all the fleeting moments I miss most, snuggling up to read with my daughter is the hardest to let go.  Clifford and Little Bear and Corduroy and Dr. Seuss were just some of our many book friends.  Now my daughter is a month away from getting married. The home she and her fiancé will move into has an apple tree in the back.  I’m excited for the wonderful moments ahead of them.

                When I was a child I had a vivid recurring dream of talking with Jesus under a flowering tree.  It was so happy and peaceful, that the scent of apple blossoms brings it instantly to mind.  Maybe the dream was a glimpse of what heaven will be like, or maybe it was pointing to the moments of heaven on earth that awaited me as an adult.  Either way, I’m sad to see the petals fall again, but I know next spring will bring more joy.

Big Meanie

             Today the cats voted me the meanest pet owner ever. Here it was, a glorious spring day--sun shining, birds singing, bugs hopping--and I was completely ignoring their heart-wrenching pleas to go outside.  My husband had sprayed the lawn with weed killer and until it dried, there was a "no cats on the grass" policy in force.  
              I calmly explained this to the clowder, many times.  I brought them each a tender shoot of catmint to munch on.  I opened the windows to draw  the outdoors in to greet them.  Did they appreciate any of this?  Of course not!  Instead they piled into the five square feet of space by the kitchen door and howled in discontent.  If I left the kitchen, they followed, continuing their mournful cries.  After an hour of this, cat turned on cat and fur and claws flew in angry frustration.  (Actually, this may have been a ploy to get kicked outside--starting fights is usually a sure way to be evicted.)  
             The hour of fighting turned into another hour of despair.  Mutual misery turned enemies into friends.  Wonder of wonders, Biff and Frank actually snuggled together on the kitchen door threshold.  The remaining three ganged together for a campaign of chaos, another tactic to get ejected from the house.
             By this time the lawn was dry and I couldn't take another minute of their presence.  I threw them all out.  Hopefully their systems can take a little weed killer--it can't be any more dangerous than the wrath they inspired in me.

Man's Best Friend

Finny greets us from the car hood

            Non-cat people often ask me what the point of having cats is.   I'll admit that I've asked myself that more than once, usually after an especially "cat"astrophic  moment or when feeling "cat"atonic from another sleepless night due to cats hogging all the bed space and covers. (My deepest apologies for the "cat" references--I just couldn't resist!  I'll try not to let it happen again.)
             All I can say is that there are moments when they love you unconditionally and make you feel special.  Like when we return from a trip to the grocery store: Finnegan is on the car hood meowing about how much he missed us before we can even open the doors.  Sometimes a little love IS the point of having cats. 

Special Delivery

                Hmm...The box says it contains one "LP Gas Tailgate Grill" in hunter green.  It doesn't say anything about varmints and it didn't come with airholes.

Bath Time

            We really need rain.  Every time I put my face near a cat I sneeze thanks to the thick coat of dust they picked up from rolling in the yard.  Jersey, our once black and white cat, gets her annual shots tomorrow, so we just forced her to bathe to lessen her street urchin appearance.  As you can see from the after photo, we only succeeded in removing the first layer of grime. If there were more sunlight in the bathroom, we could grow plants in  

Almost white again

  the soil left after draining the sink.
              I'm also including a picture of Henriette's bath time.  Hedgehogs are buoyant and are suppose to delight in floating on their backs in water.  We haven't found this to be true.  Henriette spends most of her bath time frantically trying to escape the tub.


                  

Henriette's bath