Tuesday, December 13:
In the Roman calender this day is the feast of Sta. Lucia, an early Christian martyr. The young Franciscan priest who said mass at seven fifteen was vested in red, and we broke meditation to whisper anticipation of our morning cinnamon rolls, which turned into afternoon ones because the morning was so full. Normal things, mostly: laundry and dishes and the daily chore of lighting a fire under the big copper kettle outside and cooking ten gallons of swill for the pigs and chickens. A trip to the recycle bins, a stop at the library, another to post Christmas cards, and it was almost eleven, and just time enough to roll out the dough, spread it with soft butter, cover that with a thick layer of brown sugar and cinnamon, roll it, slice it, and set it to rise, before the wolves were howling for their lunches.
In Europe there is a traditional sweet roll called, we believe, a luciakattern — ? – prepared for the breakfast of this day. Twenty-some years ago we found a recipe for it, along with a description of the ceremony for its distribution, which includes girls with wreaths of lighted candles on their heads. Having no girls at the time, we did not have to make up our minds whether to risk burning their hair off, and by the time we had daughters we had already come up with our own traditions. We are not by nature adventurous about foreign foods, so it was easy to substitute cinnamon rolls for the luciakattern, and we keep the candles on the table, where we can enjoy them without risk to the girls’ coiffures. Our traditions, festive though we find them, have to fit into the rhythm of seasonal work and the comfort zone of a mother who sees her children taking enough risks to life and limb in the course of our daily farm work without absolutely tempting fate.
Demands of the university are beginning to wind down and the men were outside for several hours today making room in the big garage for two of the three deep freezers presently lodged in the basement. Lumber and scrap metal were shifted down the hill, and equipment shoved around. Electrical bills have been outrageous, and, always slow to respond to stimulous, we are, after hosting furnace/freezer duels in the basement every winter for twenty years, taking advantage of the low temperatures to help ice down the masses of beef and pork we are putting up. The second of three steers is hanging in Barry’s barn, almost ready to cut and wrap, and if Nature can help freeze it, more power to Her.
The buck S-4 brought down a week ago is now marinating in a witches’ brew of every spice and sauce in the kitchen, and will go into the dehydrator in small batches over the next few days. We sorted the winter squash and pumpkins, sadly few because of last summer’s plague of squash bugs, and brought up one that was compromised to cook for dinner. A single pumpkin, deceptively round and bright orange, was found to be in an advanced stage of decomposition, and the boys launched it off the back of the hill as a sort of wet pinata for the chickens’ pleasure. Large-scale, long-term food storage requires regular quality checks to prevent spoilage from spreading.
The spring tank on the back of the barn is running at a good rate, and the floating thermometer reads just at forty degrees. S-3 and 4 plumbed the new pig nipple through the back barn wall, only to find that the instructions for theuse of the three-foot length of pipe heater we bought to keep it from freezing warn against flexing the element or wrapping it around the pipe. As the extension for the nipple is only eight inches long, this leaves us with almost two and a half feet of element we have to find something to do with. We have had no experience with electric pipe heaters, but are pretty sure that if we don’t use one on the galvanized metal extender it will freeze. We are also thinking of floating a stock tank de-icer in the spring tank if it looks like freezing in January or February. The use of these gadgets will be worth the compromise with technology if they help keep running water in the pig pen for the bulk of the winter.
The moon is past full, standing out brightly against a slate-blue early morning sky and setting two hours after sunrise when no one is looking any more. At five o’clock this morning it poured over our frosted fields in a silver wash like snow. Isabel steps painfully over the barnyard where the pocked mud is frozen hard as iron, and we could use a few inches of snow to cushion her footing. The sliding manger, really just a roofed hay-rack on skis, is pushed around the pasture to ensure even distribution of waste hay and manure; it too will be much easier to move once we have a base layer of snow on the ground. The hens don’t like snow, and put themselves to bed early in this cold weather; eggs are getting scarcer. It’s about time to eliminate the remaining three-year-olds, and put up some canned chicken and broth for hot soup on cold days.
Some chores are full of satisfaction. The Rube Goldberg chicken house door closer — sixty foot of string through a series of staples and eyebolts, with a wooden handle at the end on the woodshed — gives a most satisfying thump when you yank it. This, we consider, is an appropriate application of technology.
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