Twitter Facebook

Bird Poop

poo rail

The poo rail.

I have really enjoyed the bird feeder. I have especially enjoyed watching the mama birds wean their chicks these last couple of weeks. It has been quite a show. But now? Now everything is covered in bird poop. Everything. Ev.er.y.thing. Even my plants. My plants!

The finches (there are now as many as eleven on the balcony at one time) finished the last feeder-full of seed in two days (pigs!) and I haven’t refilled it since. I’m not sure what to do. I love watching the birds – it makes me incredibly happy. But I don’t even want to sit out there now because there is bird crap all over everything. I’m going to have to clean it up and I am not happy about it. But I miss the birds! I’m torn. What to do?

Hiker Geek

HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY! Three cheers for our country’s heroes. Let’s take a minute to reflect on this country of ours and thank the men and women who helped it become what it is. You may say it is  flawed  and I would agree, but it is still a great country and we are lucky to live here. We’d be even luckier if we all had access to health care and jobs, but still.

This post was written on Friday, May 27, 2011. I’m only mentioning it because I think it matters. That sounds kind of weird but I don’t mean it to.

***

Today we got all our vaccines. This was, so far, the most expensive part of our trip. We have been saving up for this trip for a whole year, so it wasn’t a big deal, but still. I hate spending money in large doses.

The good news is we are now vaccinated against yellow fever, diphtheria, pertussis, tetanus*, hepatitis A, and after we take the live virus pills in our refrigerator, typhoid fever. Isn’t that reassuring?

I was really nervous about the shots because I hate needles, but I kept it together. I kept it together so well that Michael treated me to lunch afterwards. It was awesome. Then we went shopping!

Only not for seedlings or pots at the Garden Center. Instead we went to R.E.I. for their gigantor anniversary sale and we bought the most expensive clothing I have ever owned in my entire life. Not because we were trying to be fancy, but because everything is meant for the utmost comfort while carrying gear amounting to a third of your bodyweight in a backpack on your back while walking uphill for ten hours a day. I let Mike pick everything out and you guys, he picked the cutest stuff. I mean, it’s as cute as convertible hiking pants, merino wool under layers, and fleece hoodies can be, but it’s super cute. He picked colors that look great on me and every.thing.was.on.sale. Also? It’s all really high quality clothing that will keep me comfortable on the trail, and that’s really what counts. I was going to do a little fashion show and post pictures of all my new outfits and everything, but you’re going to be seeing a lot of these clothes for the next couple of months, so I decided against it. But you guys? I am totally hiker chic.

This Sunday we will hike Mount Wilson. I don’t even know what Mount Wilson is, but Mike had me read a yelp review about it (read the fourth one down – it’s hysterical) and it sounds pretty serious. It’s six miles and will take between five and six hours. And it is almost entirely uphill. This is going to be a six hour walk, friends. Six hours, uphill, in the California heat. But I have a brand new, really cute and unbelievably comfortable outfit to wear (I am so excited about these clothes it is ridiculous) and we’ll be hiking a real trail in a real national park, instead of just the empty lots behind fancy houses we’ve been hiking.

It’s funny that I had that complete melt down last weekend, and now I’m so excited to hike this weekend. It’s just that I finally remembered why I decided to go on this trip. I didn’t want to miss sharing this with my husband. The John Muir Trail was such a hugely positive experience for him and I was really sorry I chose not to go. I didn’t want to miss another one. Besides, I’d rather be miserable in a field of stickery thorny waist-high weeds with him, then miserable in the comfort of our apartment without him.

And now a photo of a hairy wiener:

needsSLR

Mama needs an SLR

*Have you had your tetanus booster? Because it’s really important to. Apparenty you don’t only get tetanus from a rusty nail. Tetanus lives in the soil everywhere in the world, including where you live, and tetanus is a terrible way to die. GET YOUR TETANUS BOOSTER.

Yucca

yucca

Here is a happy Michael, less than an hour into our training hike last weekend. He is standing in front of my favorite plant of all time, the yucca. The yucca plant is a unique plant. It grows in the dessert and it has lots of magical properties. (I may be exaggerating slightly when I say “magical”.) The particular variety found in the desserty-wild places of the San Fernando Valley was near extinction in the eighties because back in the seventies people thought it was hilarious fun to tie a yucca to the back of their pickup truck and then drive away really fast, ripping the plant from the earth, dragging it for miles, leaving nothing but a pulpy stump behind.

People are idiots.

But I’m getting off topic.

yucca blossoms

Not bad for a point-and-shoot

The reason I say the yucca has magical features is because each part of the plant has a beneficial use. The long, sword-like leaves at the base of the plant are made up of dozens of strong fibers. If you pull the leaf apart, separate the fibers, then braid them together, you’ll have rope that only compares to hemp rope in its strength and durability. The leaves have razor-sharp needles at their tips, which you can use as sewing needles. A little yucca strand and one of those needles and you won’t ever need a needle and thread again. Also, the liquid that is released from the leaves when you are harvesting the yucca threads makes a fabulous natural shampoo. The icing on the yucca cake are its blossoms, which are edible and as sweet as candy.

edible blossom

Mike didn’t believe me that the blossoms were edible and delicious, so after we took this picture I ate one. It was kind of gross.

So much for magical qualities.

(Not) The Garden Center, The End

Two cliff hangers in one week? (If you can even call them that.)
(Not) The Garden Center
(Not) The Garden Center, 2

By the time we made it back to the car, we actually felt pretty good.  For the last ninety minutes of our trek we walked  a wide trail in beautiful country. When we got home there was still plenty of afternoon left to go to the Garden Center or putter around on the balcony for awhile, but we were so exhausted, we fell asleep on the sofa in our hiking clothes. Except I didn’t sleep. Mike slept and I sat there making lists in my head until I thought I might explode. Then I got up and started chores.

We had wanted to hike San Jisento this weekend, but Mike’s been asked to pick up some extra shifts at work. And it’s ok, because I don’t think I’m ready for a ten-hour day and a thirty-pound pack. However, I am kind of excited to train this weekend.  Even if it’s only a six hour walk, even if it’s mostly uphill, even if there are bees and sweat and stickers. I just don’t want to have to use my trekking poles to hold foliage away from my face. Is that too much to ask?

wild flowers

I took this photo of wild flowers at least two hours before the business with the stickery waist-high weeds. There were no photos taken of the stickery weeds. Misery is not conducive to flora appreciation.

(Not) The Garden Center, 2

Picking up from where I left off yesterday…

We turned around and started trekking back through the waist-high thorny weeds towards home. And then I started crying. Really quietly, because I didn’t want him to know I was crying. After all, what kind of wimp starts crying because of some thorny weeds? This kind of wimp, apparently.

I trekked along, quietly crying, a litany of reasons why I’m horrible and hiking is horrible and all of this is horribly running on a loop through my head when suddenly the stickers poking into my socks, tag-alongs (care of the weeds) I’d been collecting for the last hour, became intolerable. I stopped, trekking poles tucked under one arm, right foot propped on left knee yoga-style, lost my balance. Squatted slightly and started picking at the stickers that stabbed at my ankles. But they were horrible things, twisted and curled through the sock, through the silk sock-liner, scratching into my bare skin. And then I noticed that the tongue of my boot formed a cup against my foot and that cup was brimming with weedy stickery things so I tried to pick them out but then I thought, what if there is a bug in there? Or a spider? Or a tick? WHAT IF THERE IS A TICK?

And then I really started crying. By now Mike was a few hundred feet away (I have no idea how many feet. Maybe it was forty, I have no concept of distance) and so I had to call attention to my plight by shouting, “I need to stop! I have to take my shoes off!” Mike stopped and turned, stunned I was so far behind him. I stared at the ground, tears dripping off the end of my nose while I grit my teeth and tried to stop f***ing crying.

When he got to me I was a snotty, sweaty, blubbering mess. You think you know ugly crying? You have never seen ugly crying.

“I f***ing hate this! I f***ing hate this! This is horrible! Why do people do this?!?”
“Ok, can I help you take your shoes off? There you go. I’ll pick the stickers out of your shoe while you do your sock.”
(Sniffling) “Thank you. This is horrible. I hate this. You married the wrong girl if you wanted someone you could do this with.”
“That’s ridiculous. Just stop.”
We were both quiet for a minute. We picked the stickers out of my footwear.
“What do you hate?” he asked.
“This! It’s horrible! The weeds and the foliage in my face and bugs smacking into my head. It’s horrible!”
“This has sucked. This is not what Bolivia is going to be like.”
“YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT BOLIVIA IS GOING TO BE LIKE. YOU’VE NEVER BEEN TO BOLIVIA.”
“We’re going to the highlands. This is not the highlands. This is the valley.”
He looked at me. I swiped at my tears and sniffled. “You don’t know.”
“We’re going to be hiking Inca roads, not fields of weeds.”
“But I don’t want to spend every weekend for the next two months doing this.”
“We don’t have to.”
“But we have to train!”
“We have to train, but we don’t have to do this ever again. This was a bad hike.”
“But I hate it!”
He heaved a sigh, but even I was getting tired.
“If you hate it next weekend, you don’t have to go. Ok? Honestly. I thought you would enjoy this but if you really don’t enjoy it you have a free pass to stay home. No hard feelings.”
“Really?”
“Of course! There’s no point in forcing yourself to do something that makes you miserable. You wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors. But, I don’t think you’ll hate it. I just think this was a bad hike. How are your feet?”
“Good. Thanks for helping me pick the stickers out.”
“Anytime.”

I don’t know why on earth he puts up with me, but I’m super glad he does. It helps that he has magical skillz when it comes to talking me off ledges. It is one of the reasons I married him. That and he’s really handsome. But I digress.

But wait! There’s more! (For tomorrow…)

(Not) The Garden Center

apricot

Taken Sunday, May 15, at the Garden Center.
(You guys. It’s a baby apricot!)

We love the Garden Center. It’s our favorite place to spend a Sunday afternoon. We love it so much we spent the morning of our fifth wedding anniversary at the Garden Center, then we spent the afternoon planting our treasures and tending our little balcony garden. It was the happiest day of the year.

We try to spend at least an hour together, every Sunday, working in the garden. This often involves a trip to the Garden Center for a bag of soil or something and it’s wonderful because it’s garden + shopping = love, you know? But this Sunday we didn’t get to go to the Garden Center. We didn’t even get to work on the balcony. No, no. Instead we spent four hours stomping around in waist-high grasses carrying twenty-five pound packs on our backs.

It’s not that the backpack was heavy. Because actually, my backpack felt great. The weight is evenly distributed across my hips so that I’m literally lifting with my legs. Last weekend I had burns and pale bruises from the hip straps after only two hours, but this weekend, after four hours, my hips were fine. Plus, I am totally working out butt muscles I didn’t even know I had, which is awesome.

And it’s not that my feet hurt, because my feet felt fantastic. Mike had a couple of hotspots, but he didn’t get any blisters, and I didn’t even have hotspots. My hiking boots are like giant blocks of oddly comfortable wood. They are awkward as anything in day-to-day life but on the trail they are the best thing I have going for me.

I didn’t even mind when we were hiking uphill for fifteen minutes through a field of wildflowers so full of bees the air was vibrating. (I am horribly, awfully, terribly, very, very badly phobic of bees.) But I wasn’t thinking about the bees because I was distracted by the sweat pouring down my face, into my contact lenses, rendering me nearly blind. (I think it was the polyester shirt that made me sweat, because Mike wasn’t sweating at all in the sixty-five degree breezes.)

The part that did it for me was the part where we were hiking through knee-high stickery weeds for thirty minutes, followed by waist-high thorny weeds for another ten, until we came to the over-Mike’s-head stickery thorny bushes. That was when Mike finally stopped and said, “This sucks. We’re turning around.” Up until then he’d been stopping every ten minutes or so to say something like, “Look at that view!” Or “Do you think that’s a rabbit den?” To which I would roll my eyes and grumble, “Hmph.” Or “Whatever,” like a moody teen.

Why did I have to act like that? Because if one more branch of Goldfish-knows-what whacked me in the face I was going to f***ing kill someone. That’s why I acted like that. Not that it’s a good excuse, but still.

I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow…

Live Things

I’m always surprised when people are horrified by my love of dead things. Whenever someone comes over and I give them the tour of our apartment, the icing on the cake is always the mummified mice at St. Peter’s Gate  displayed in our bedroom. When I look at those mice, I see beauty. Their perfect little forms, tiny paws curled to silken whiskers, tails twisted and springing in mid-air, they are exquisite. Tiny sculptures formed by Mother Nature Herself. Which is why, even though it happens over and over, I am always surprised when my guest’s inevitable reaction is, “Ew. That is really gross. Are you okay?”

This is where I would like to assure everyone that I am not, in fact, some sort of psychopath. Honestly. I’m not interested in blood and gore. Photos of animals ripped up by cars make me cry. Animal cruelty is intolerable. I’m interested in the process of how our bodies go back to the earth. I’m interested in mummies. I’m interested in bones. And I’m not just interested in dead things. I’m also interested live things.

The following is a whole slew of pictures I snapped one afternoon while watching the birds at our feeder. (It is also an example of why I need an SLR.*)

63

The blur in the background, between the lantern and the bird feeder, is Atticus in flight.

70

72

73

How many birds can you see in this picture?**

88

Are you guys tired of bird pictures yet? Good! Because there are only 18 more to go. Just kidding. (Or am I?)

89

Look at them! I want to scoop them up and smother them in kisses! There’s four! And they’re all alive!

The joy that stupid bird feeder brings me is totally worth the fact that every surface of our balcony is covered with bird poop. It’s totally worth it. Totally worth it.

(At least dead things don’t poop.)

*I finally decided, by the way. I’m going to buy an SLR, but I’m not going to take it to Bolivia. I know it would take insane pictures, but I do not want that sh*t around my neck while I’m hiking. Do. Not. Want. It. More on that later.

**there are four! (One of them is not real.)


Dead Things

If you have a strong stomach and are as interested in the process of life (and death) as I am, then I will encourage you to continue reading this post until you get to the bottom where you will find the latest lovely in my collection.

If you do not have a strong stomach and have no interest in what the process of a body’s return to the earth looks like, then please, please, PLEASE do not keep reading.  Instead, why don’t you look at some pretty pictures of unicorns? Cupcakes? Babies smiling? Do ANYTHING but DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER. Leave this webpage now!

It’s not gory or anything. It’s a photo of a baby bird who fell out of his nest and died. But he’s a few days dead and a little dried out. I think he’s beautiful.  My heart breaks for him whenever I walk past him (he’s been in the carport for days). I wish I could scoop him up and breathe life back into him. But I can’t. So I take a picture instead. Because even in death, he is a beautiful part of creation. He reminds me of my own mortality, reminds me to treasure every moment, this moment right now because in an instant it could all be over. One minute we’re here, the next we’re gone. But we’re never gone. Even when our bodies have rotted away to nothing, or we’ve been burned into a million bits of ash and tossed by our loved ones into the wind, we are still here. The molecules of our being, our bacteria, the dust of our bones.

Someone asked me the other day if I believe in God and I didn’t know what to say because I don’t believe in the God that I was taught about in Sunday school – the one who judges and scorns and throws non-believers into the fiery pits of hell along with the rapists and murderers. I don’t know what I believe in. But in studying these little dead creatures, seeing that even in their death they are part of the circle of life, I am reassured that there is a higher power, whatever or whoever it may be, and that we are a part of something bigger and more incredible than we can possibly imagine. We just don’t know what it is.

And now, a dead baby bird:

poor little thing

Bookends

Bookends

Just like little bookends, they are. Little, meowling, needle-clawed, hunter-of-house-finches bookends.

Sailboat Strawberry Pie

Yesterday I tried to post this recipe but instead I got carried away talking all about our wonderful anniversary/family visit. And as much as I loved pouring over family photos that week, I equally loved spending one-on-one time visiting with my mother-in-law. I realize that the cliche is a mother-in-law who meddles and sticks her nose in and disapproves of everything, but my mother-in-law is anything but that. She’s absolutely lovely. She reminds me a lot of my Aunt Sue – my mother’s beloved Aunty who passed away when I was 16. I spent my childhood at Aunt Sue’s heels while she baked cakes and served fairy tea in miniature china teacups. I spent hours with my head resting on her ample bosom, while she told stories about her childhood home, our nation’s capital, the illustrious Washington D.C.  She’s been gone for years, but I see her in my mother-in-law. The way Mom pads around the kitchen in red knit ballet slippers, telling stories about her childhood in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where her mother lived her entire life in a two-bedroom house with no kitchen sink. We spent our mornings immersed in photo albums, our afternoons cooking, and every evening I curled up at her feet like a cat and asked for more stories. More!

When Michael’s parents were first married, they owned a beautiful sailboat that they’d take out for weeks at a time. Michael cut his teeth sailing and I have seen the photos to prove it. (omgsoadorable.)  The following is a recipe for the strawberry pie Michael’s mother used to make on the boat whenever they went out to sea. It’s unbelievably easy and it’s probably one of the best strawberry pies I’ve ever eaten.

Sailboat Strawberry Pie

Oven: This will depend on the type of crust you use
Prep: 30 min.
Bake: Nada
What You’ll Need:
frozen/refrigerated pie crust
fresh strawberries
2 cups sifted powdered sugar
whipping cream
sugar
vanilla extract

We started with a Marie Callender’s frozen pie crust. I was skeptical because I’ve always insisted on baking my own pie crusts from scratch, but this pie crust was so delicious – flaky, tender, flavorful – I don’t know if I’ll ever go to the trouble of making a crust from scratch again. We followed the instructions on the box, which were something along the lines of “take the crust out of the box, prick it all over with a fork, bake it for 15 minutes, voila!”

While the crust was in the oven, we washed the strawberries, trimmed their tops off, and set them out to dry. It’s important that the strawberries are completely dry before you put them in the pie.

When the crust had baked and cooled, you sift 1 cup of powdered sugar evenly into the pie crust.

When the strawberries are completely dry, you arrange them in the powdered sugar dusted pie crust.

strawberries

We were only about half-done filling the crust with strawberries at this point…

Next, sift 1 more cup of powdered sugar over the strawberries, covering evenly and completely.

If you want to make your own whipped cream, now is the time. Add a teaspoon of vanilla extract to your whipping cream and whip on high while slowly adding sugar to taste. We forgot to buy whipping cream, but Mom had Cool Whip on hand and that worked perfectly.

Cover your pie with whipped cream (or Cool Whip) like so:

whipping cream

You want to completely cover the pie with whipped cream, much the way you would cover a meringue-topped pie with meringue – sealed all the way to the edges. Put the pie in the fridge for two or three hours to chill before serving. Voila! You’re done! Easy peasy and completely delicious.

fini

Now I wish I’d taken a photo of the pie once it was cut and plated because in addition to being delicious, it was also gorgeous. But you’re just going to have to take my word for it. Now onward! Make pies!