Happy Birthday

He's my husband. He's my best friend. And today is his birthday.

I'm at a loss of words. I struggle every year with what to say. What do you say to a man who evokes so many intense emotions in you? Someone who personifies unconditional love. One who is a rock (all be it, cute rock) when you feel uncertain. Although there are times where I might give thought to wringing his cute little neck, most of the time I want to hug it tight and let him know how proud I am of all he has accomplished in his short time on Earth.

Most of all, I want to thank him for choosing me as his partner in this adventure we call life.

I love you DJ.

And for you curious bloggers who want to know (and you know who you are!) what I got this great man . . . . . . A pair of floating binoculars (to replace the pair I dropped a few weeks ago kayaking).

It all started with this . . . . .

Before I begin, I must caution my readers that if you are squeamish, skip this entry. I think we all understand that nature has a way of working, though some of its 'workings' aren't exactly for the faint of heart.


It all started with DJ noticing the pile of feathers near the bird feeder at the screened porch. He pointed this out to me as we were headed down to the dock (to take pictures of the bulkhead-in-progress). (I was just excited to get outside and see a very bright yellow circle in the sky that caused me to squint when looked at directly.) Well, we start snapping pictures of the bulkhead (which I promise to post soon), when I noticed what appeared to be a branch on the communal dock (two docks over). What was funny is that although the wind was strong, the 'branch' wasn't moving. I squinted and exclaimed, "DJ! Is that a predatory bird over there?" Sure enough, it was and it didn't want to move. DJ walked closer and closer, yet the only thing the bird did was turn to face his direction.

Then, we saw it. This broad winged hawk was trying to enjoy lunch a la waterfront. There, in its grasp, was the remnants of a larger bird (probably pigeon or mourning dove). Mr. Hawk was not going to give up his seat at the Hidden Harbor Cafe, so we grabbed the binoculars and just observed. Yes, I spied on a bird trying to eat his lunch.

After about 20 minutes (and some pictures), we went inside to watch football. Two hours later, we get a call from our neighbor across the harbor who asked if the bird might be injured. The hawk was still at his table. We went to investigate and found him in the final stages of defeathering and feasting. Ugh. It would be another hour and a half before Mr. Hawk finally vacated his table at Hidden Harbor Cafe.

It was a fascinating experience. I never thought I'd be the person who would, for the better half of an afternoon, marvel at Mother Nature, her creatures and her lessons. I am honored to have been given this time to view nature up close and hope it is the first of many such opportunities here in coastal Carolina. However, I do feel a tinge of guilt over the fact that it all started at our feeder. Does that make me an accomplice to murder or survival?

Let's Talk Turkey

With less than two weeks til Thanksgiving, I know a handful of cooks/hostesses who are giving much thought to what will be the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving meal. Well, thanks to that wonderful book I've been reading, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (by Barbara Kingsolver), let me enlighten you about your bird. Why is a non-meat eater fascinated with turkey? Read on, kind blog reader . . . read on.

Ninety-nine percent of the 400 million turkeys consumed in the US each year are the Broad-Breasted White. Yes, that is the name of the breed and it was specifically bred for our American fascination with all things 'chesty' and 'well endowed' (turkey boobs, included). I'd be OK with this if it wasn't for one thing. These turkeys would not survive in the wild. Should a bird escape the 'block,' it would collapse. Literally. When full grown, their legs collapse, unable to carry their feathered buxom burden. Can they fly? No. Can they forage for food? Nope. They have to be fed from a trough; necks don't reach the ground. Can they knock feathered boots in the hopes of producing the next generation of buxom birds? NO! These poor birds are wing to wing in floor-to-ceiling stacked cages where there is no hope for fresh air or natural sunlight or sex (had they the capability to indulge in the act)! It takes a special (I'll say) turkey sperm-wrangler to harvest sperm so the females can be artificially inseminated for next year's turkeys.

Now, how natural is that? Do you think that is what the Native Americans had to do to produce birds for the first Thanksgiving? Can't ladle the cold hard truth with any amount of gravy. Your bird on the table in not natural. Go organic, go free-range, go heirloom bred (try Slow Food USA or Local Harvest for information). Me? I'm sticking with something from the sea for Thanksgiving.

Author's note: Don't even ask about the weather or my mood. It is not that I have a ton of things to do outside, I'm just irritable that I don't have outdoor activity as an option should I choose to exercise it. Oh! And up top? Not my picture. Got it from the web to show y'all broad-breasted whites.

Hope

It rained most of the day today. Hard rain. Driving rain. Icky, freaking, I-swear-I-just-saw-the-animals-going-by-two-by-two-to-the-ark type of rain.

Ugh. Nothing to do on a day like today but curl up with a mug of hope (for better weather tomorrow), a cat and a book ('cause things are a little slow on the freelancing front). Can't even bake bread on a day like today. Bread doesn't appreciate the humidity (just like your hair). The book I'm reading, Three Cups of Tea, is OK. The writing leaves a lot to be desired, but the (true) story of a man who is building schools in very rural, forgotten areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan pre- and post- 9/11 is eye-opening. Can you win a war through education? Books not bombs? Just a thought to ponder.



Another thing getting me through days like today is the though of kayaking. These photos were taken almost three weeks ago (10/26) on a day filled with sunshine and blue sky. Sigh . . . I know we won't get blue sky tomorrow . . . Maybe Saturday . . . . . .

I Got Crabs for my Birthday!

One of the many ongoing jokes in this household has been how poor I thought we'd be after the move. I even joked (repeatedly) that I'd have to take up fishing and crabbing off our dock to put a protein source on the table. My husband thought this kind of funny and kept saying, "You just wait. I'm gonna get you a crab pot for your birthday."

Well, we all know that I didn't have to rely on my fishing skills to put food on our table this summer and fall. I've got WalMart to thank for their never-ending halogen haloed bounty. But, turns out that my husband was serious . . . .

I did get a crab pot for my birthday! Truth be told, I was tickled pink about it! I can't wait til crabbing season next year. I'm gonna take my crab pot, bait it (that's what the black cylinder in the middle is for) with chicken necks, throw it out in the river where our secret creek meets the Trent River and cook me up a whole mess o' crabs!

If we're being literal, I didn't get crabs for my birthday (y'all were just waiting to spread all sorts of nasty rumors weren't you?!?), but the 'potential' for crabs. Good enough for me.

Want to know what makes me feel even better about my gift? By buying this crab pot, we are supporting the Autism Society of North Carolina. These crab pots, and other flotsam and jetsam (hee, hee) in the shop, are all made by individuals with autism. The Autism Society found that crab pot making, with its multiple steps and skill levels, could employ the whole spectrum of autistic folks. What a wonderful way to show these autistic folks (and others) their talents, independence and self-sufficiency. I'm not the only one who feels this way. Many of the local 'professional' crabbers buy their pots from this store.

I would like to thank the autistic folks who, with this crab pot, are bringing me one step closer to crabs on the dinner table!



What do you think of Ginger checking out her 'catch'?

Because we pay too much taxes to buy bread

I'm having to revert to making it myself. Well, this is the way I prefer my bread. I have to say, I can make some pretty darn good bread. So, to lift my spirits after a very disappointing Election Day 2008, I decided to try a new recipe from The Bread Bible (a book I checked out at our local library).

This is my first time making a bread that requires a sponge. Now, for all y'all non-bread baking folks, a sponge is just a fancy American term for fermenting flour, yeast, some form of sugar and water. This combination is allowed to sit and, yes, ferment into a bubbly, frothy science experiment. In all honesty, this concoction does begin to look like a beige sponge. A biga and poolish are the same thing. Just the Italian and French way, respectively, of saying 'sponge.' Makes it sound more high class, doesn't it?

After an allotted amount of fermenting time, the remaining flour and yeast are added right over top of the sponge. What is neat, even to the non-baking enthusiast (like my husband), is the chemical reaction that occurs in the layer where sponge meets fresh yeast. You can see it bubble, gurgle and pop. Even DJ was impressed.

After more fermentation time (overnight in the confines of the refrigerator), it was time to get down to kneading business. Lots of kneading business. Then waiting. (Note to readers: bread baking is not for those who want instant gratification. This is one of those exercises that enforces the fact that life is a zero-sum equation.)



After all is said and done, what you end up with are two very nice loaves of bread that has a fermenty, yeasty quality with great crust and crumb texture. More complex tasting than some of my more 'immediate gratification' (i.e. same day) breads.

Want to know how I mastered the pretty little slashes on top? Here's your tip: Use a clean straight razor. Works like a hot knife through butter (which is what topped my third piece of bread at lunch).

Post-election update

This just in: It is with heavy heart that DJ and I announce that, due to an unavoidable future of higher taxes (so lazy, unemployed 'Americans' -and I use the term loosely- can buy more 40 oz malt liquor), Christmas will be cancelled. Yup. No presents, no college fund contributions, nuttin'.

Hell. I'll be lucky if I can still afford to buy flour to make bread.

I know what you're expecting . . .

Probably some political tirade. How America is gonna get screwed if the guy who's Aunt has been living in the US illegally (as in illegal immigrant) for the past four years gets elected tomorrow. Right? Well, not so. Not what I'm feeling today. My frustration today is geared towards another way we humans are just destroying our country.

I am reading this book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. Amazing nonfiction book. Yes! I said nonfiction!

This book details the life/lessons/hardships of this talented author and her family as they set about on an experiment to eat local for a year. Barbara and her family, who live in the Appalachia region of Virginia, either grew themselves or bought from local farmers. Thus, no 'fresh fruit' in January/February, no 'tomatoes' in December (unless they were ones they canned or dried during the growing season), no Pop-Tarts, no frozen turkey that was bred to produce a bird who's legs will not support its grown adult body, no . . . . Well, you get the picture.

Now, I'll admit, I'm not ready to give up diet soda, chocolate or Boca Burgers, but I am beginning to see the world-saving benefit of trying to think/eat like a 'locavore.'

Fact: We put almost as much fossil fuel into our refrigerators as we do our cars. How? Well, 17% of our annual oil use is in agriculture. This runs a close second behind (yup, you guessed it) oil for vehicular use. You might be thinking the bulk of this 17% is used in tractors, irrigation, sprayers, etc. All those things that get seed to harvest. NOT SO!!! 80% of the oil used in agriculture is 'spent' getting the product from farm to consumer.

Look at dinner tonight and chew on this: On average, what is on your plate traveled 1,500 miles. MILES!!!! My God! This makes my food more worldly and well traveled than myself.

Our food has more need for a passport than myself. Now that folks, is disgusting.