Chickens in the Mist

Yesterday morning's snow turned to rain by nightfall, melting the snow and giving us a rare high-desert sight to wake up to - morning fog. I was glad I wasn't out on the roads. They had to close the entire length of our new state highway bypass, both directions, for about 90 minutes this morning - the icy roads and heavy fog caused multiple accidents. Aries said his commute up to the lake wasn't too bad - as soon as he started to climb the pass, he was out of the fog and the road just wet in the rising sun.

Before lunchtime, it had pretty much burned off here too, and proceeded to warm up into a really nice day. I got my little indoor seedlings thinned, writing about it for my turn to post on the Simple Green Frugal Co-op blog. For the past few cold and grey days, I'd moved the hardier seedlings in under the lights with the tender ones. But with the sun coming out, no wind, and today's beautiful warm temperatures, I put them out on the deck in the sun. Tonight, they're back inside, on the kitchen counter. I want to let them get a little bit bigger before setting them out in the garden. More storms are still in our forecast, and I haven't been able to get the planting bed ready anyway.

As usual, I don't know what kind of fruit crop I'll get this year. The plums are all in full bloom, and the Asian pears and the sweet cherry have just started. Despite the snow, the temperatures haven't dropped too far below freezing, and the wet just might have insulated the blossoms a bit. I saw some bees on the Oregon Grape this afternoon. I've been watching for them, and it's nice to know a hive still survives somewhere nearby.

More Snow

This morning, it was the tulips and hyacinths turn to get buried in snow. Here at the house we got about three inches overnight, just up the hill it was more like eight.

When I went out to shovel off the deck, I found Dot, our old Golden Laced Wyandotte hen, dead under the steps, sopping wet and covered with snow. She was at least 10 years old, and had been a bit gimpy for the last year or so. But she managed to hippy-hop around ok, her wings were in fine shape, and she had no problems getting up onto the roost at night. I've been letting the flock out or the pen around sunset, for a little runabout - it's a short enough time that they don't get into too much mischief. We'd gone to a lecture at the State Museum (about Nevada rock art - petroglyphs and pictographs) last night, but were back home just as it started to get dark. I'd have seen her if she was still out in the yard, or having trouble getting back, when I went down to shut up the coop for the night.

So I'm thinking she knew it was her time, and hid like animals sometimes do. Maybe she just preferred freezing to death over dying in the coop. I've heard freezing is not a bad way to go - you just get sleepy and don't wake up.

She had a little quirk that gave me quite a start numerous times over the years. She'd sunbathe. Sprawl over on her side, her legs stretched out one way, her neck the other. I'd think she was dead. More than once, the neighbor kids would call to me across the fence, saying I had a dead chicken lying out there in the dirt. So I'd head over to check, and her head would pop up. So then, I'd think maybe something had happened, she couldn't get up; in later years, that maybe her gimpy leg had given out on her. But then I'd get a bit closer, and she'd give me that beady-eyed chicken look, like "Oh, must you?", jump right up, fluffle out the dust, and wander off. It's always sad to lose one of our chickens. They all have such different personalities, and Dot really was quite a character.

Unmaking the Bed

Please don't tell my mom. As a child, the house rule was "if your bed isn't made before you leave the house in the morning, you're grounded for the rest of the day." During my earliest years, I shared a double bed with my sister - I was really good at making half a bed. A little later, we got bunk beds, and being the oldest, I got the top bunk. I quickly figured out the easiest way to make my bed then was to do so while I was still in it - pulling up and smoothing out sheet, blanket, and bedspread over my head, then sliding down and out the side. A quick straightening over the pillow, and I was good to go.

In my teen years, and later in my first college dorm rooms, I did everything sitting on my bed. Having everything pulled up neat and tidy made for a nice work area or company seating, still leaving me with a clean bed to get into at night. As I moved out into houses or apartments, I finally had a separate bedroom where I could just close the door to hide the mess. But I still made my bed each morning. Old habits die hard.

And then, I got married. And moved into my new husband's house and bed. The house heated with only a wood-burning stove; the bed an old baffled waterbed - unheated. That was fine with me. I much preferred it that way, rather than sleep surrounded by electricity (especially with the possibility of adding water into the mix). I'd read about how close contact with electric currents could be harmful to our health, so no electric blankets either.

Instead, we insulated ourselves from a cold, clammy waterbed mattress the old-fashioned way. A few old blankets beneath a felt mattress pad, and then in the winter, add a featherbed mattress atop that. Slide in between flannel sheets, with a down comforter on top, and we slept nice and cozy through the coldest winter nights, even after the fire in the living room died down.

But I also quickly learned that making the bed first thing each morning wasn't the right thing to do anymore. A featherbed mattress needs to be fluffed up and left open to the air to be most comfortable at night. Smoothing and straightening and covering everything up was counter-productive. I'd flip all the covers off each morning, fluff, and usually even flip that featherbed up most mornings, pillows over on our respective captain's chairs. Then, I'd make our bed in the evening, just before bedtime.

Years later, that old waterbed mattress finally cracked and sprung a leak where it couldn't be patched (yay!). So, we went shopping for a real mattress (do they even make baffled waterbeds anymore?). But I kinda liked unmaking my bed every morning. I liked letting the sheets air during the day, only smoothing and straightening it all up at night, just before bedtime. So please, don't tell my mom, but I don't make my bed in the morning (unless she or my sisters are visiting - then yes, it does get made in the morning as long as they are here. What can I say?).

I'm certainly not going to post a picture of my unmade bed for the whole world to see. The bed in our master bedroom is out of sight of any casual visitors, and so shall stay that way. The guest room, on the other hand, is right off the living room. Everyone can see that bed. It's always perfectly made up. There are appearances to be maintained, after all.

Regarding Helium Balloons

First, let me be very clear that I really don't care for helium-filled balloons as party decorations. I don't mean to be a party pooper, but I think there must be better uses for our resources than use-once-and-throw-away rubber sacks, and the steel tanks used to fill them. I especially don't like to see them used outdoors (such as the current ubiquitous attention-getters flying at all the local car dealers just down the hill from me - invariably, some do escape), and absolutely HATE when they're "set free" to signal celebration.

I finally, just this past year, got my Soroptimist Club to stop doing a pink balloon release as part of our big mammogram fundraising golf tournament. Flying balloons do not just float away and disappear - eventually, they break or just lose their buoyancy, return to earth somewhere, and become either litter or endanger the health of birds or other wildlife. Ok, I'll put away my soapbox for now, and proceed to the random observations part of this post.

Each week, I volunteer for a couple of hours, doing computer stuff, for the local Democratic Party Headquarters. When I went in on Friday, they had bunches of balloons in there that had been used as decorations for a fundraising dinner earlier in the week. At least, instead of just throwing them away, they'd been brought back to be re-used for a Fashion Show the Women's Club is doing next weekend. Since I would be going to the Women's Club meeting on Saturday, the Office Manager asked if I'd mind taking the balloons home on Friday, and then delivering them to the Fashion Show committee on Saturday.

Have you ever driven with helium balloons inside your vehicle? These were clumped together into three bunches, held down by ribbons tied to sand-filled sacks. So I wasn't worried about them getting away. But just getting them all stuffed into the back seat was quite an endeavor. And then, being lighter than air, they don't move like everything else does. You know, when you start a vehicle moving forward, it pushes you back in your seat? Balloons float forward. When you go around a corner, how centrifugal force makes things slide towards the far side of the corner? Helium balloons float towards the inside-corner side of the car. Eerie.

When I got home, not knowing how below-freezing temperatures would affect the balloons if left in my car overnight, I brought the bunches inside, putting them on my dining room table until the next day. They terrified the cat. As soon as we start up the wood stove, he's usually stretched out in front of it the rest of the evening. Late that night, noticing there was no cat to trip over, I went looking for him. I found him crouching in the bathroom. Carrying him into the living room, he about tore my shoulder apart as soon as we got within sight of the balloons floating over on the other side of the room. I ended up moving the balloons into a corner of the guest room. The cat crouched and slunk around the rest of the night, and again the next morning, looking for those balloons but not really wanting to find them. I know all of us were glad to get rid of them the next day.

State of the Cellar

It's so nice to see Spring moving in, even with its starts and stops. It means fresh change for our seasonal eating choices.

The cellar has served us well through the winter, but most of those shelves are now bare. The last few carrots have been brought up to the refrigerator vegetable crisper, as have the last couple heads of cabbage. The kraut crock is down to its last inch, and as the weather continues to warm up, will be repacked into a smaller container and also brought up to the refrigerator.

The onions are gone - I ended up buying a small bag a week ago. I was very disappointed with the keeping ability of last summer's Big Daddy onions. They had grown into beautiful onions by Fall - nice size, small necks, brown skins, and then well-cured. Or so I thought. Many of them were used in the fall's salsas and tomato sauce canning batches. But as I went to use them through the winter, about half had to be tossed and others, even those that looked perfect on the shelf, were rotting from the inside out. I've ordered Copra plants for this year, and am starting seeds of Utah Sweet Spanish for an open-pollinated trial variety.

The only things left in the cellar (besides beer, hard cider, and two potted fig trees) are apples and potatoes. Both Russet and Yukon Gold potatoes have held well for me again. I have plenty left for this year's seed potatoes, and will be getting those up and going soon. The apples have softened and sweetened a bit, but there are still plenty of them in good condition too. So many, in fact, that as the cellar warms, I may be canning a batch of applesauce from some of them, and pressing out another gallon of juice to ferment into hard cider to refill my vinegar jar. Plus, enough to bring up a weekly basketful for snacking and my breakfast oatmeal until probably June. And then, of course, to make Aries' his traditional birthday apple pie earlier this week, too.

April Showers

We woke up this morning to four inches of fresh snow. They say Eskimos are supposed to have lots of different words for snow, but so do I (no, and not those kinds of words, either).

When I lived in Leadville Colorado, the high altitude and below-zero temperatures would produce the famed champagne powder - a light, fluffy snow, so dry it wouldn't even pack into snowballs. But in April in Nevada, we get Sierra cement - sloppy, wet, heavy stuff. Pack this stuff, and you have slushballs.

Luckily, cold temperatures have kept the trees and bushes from leafing out much as of yet. Most of my trees bear the scars from May snowfalls. The only casualties so far this Spring have been the earliest apricot and forsythia blooms. And we do need the water. Our 7 inches annual precipitation almost all comes in the form of snow, so it's now or never for this year.

Flat to Fitted Flannel

(Try saying that post title three times quickly) I love having flannel sheets on my bed when it's cold. They're so nice and snuggley, warm to the touch as soon as you get into bed. So for six months out of the year, my bed is made up with flannel sheets.

But flannel sheets are sold in "sets", and therein lies the problem. The fitted bottom sheet always wears out first. First the flanneling wears off, leaving just a regular-type sheeting material. I can live with that, but then even that wears thin, and eventually shreds or tears. If sheet manufacturers really wanted to package a practical sheet set, it would have two bottom sheets with a coordinating flat top sheet, pillowcases optional or sold separately. They'd have my undying consumer loyalty forever (100% cotton please - I can't stand any amount of polyester in my bedding).

I buy a new flannel sheet set every few years, when the previous bottom sheet becomes too worn. I looked at the flannel sheet sets on sale at Christmas time, but decided the current one would make it through until warmer weather got here. It didn't (a very wet winter meant I haven't been able to completely dry my sheets out on the clothesline as often - having to use the dryer really took its toll). About a month ago, I noticed a really thin spot. The past couple of weeks, the mattress cover underneath started showing through, and I knew it would be only a matter of time before it ripped completely.

But it's still so cold at night. I didn't really want to change over to cotton percale sheets yet. So, a few days ago, I went sheet shopping. But, no luck - local stores are all out of their flannel sheet sets until next winter. I double-checked my linen shelf - maybe there was a forgotten flannel fitted sheet for our bed at the bottom of the stack. Nope, just three orphaned flannel top sheets.

Now, I'm a real Princess and the Pea when it comes to my bed. Forget a lump the size of a pea, the thickness of a creased sheet will bother me. I want the nice flat, smoothness of a fitted bottom sheet. Those flat sheets just won't do for a bottom sheet. Well, duh - I have a sewing machine and thread, and I do know how to sew. I can make fitted corners, no problem.

We have a pillowtop mattress, so we don't flip it, but I do spin it top to bottom every six months to equalize the wear. To remind myself, I rotate the mattress around the equinoxes. On this week's sheet-laundry day, I had already planned to turn the mattress. So, since I had the mattress up out of the bed frame, I laid the nicest, thickest flat flannel top sheet out over it, upside down to make the pinning easier, and fitted each corner. I didn't want to cut the fabric and finish the edges inside the corners, so after sewing up the corner, I then folded the excess triangle over to the head and foot sides and sewed that part down (like wrapping a package and taping down the corners). Last little bit was making a small corner to fit underneath the mattress, folding and stitching that part down as well. It's not really pretty, but who's going to see it? It works. And once again, our bed is warm and snuggley, with a nice stretched smooth fit. And the old fitted sheet? The center is worn thin, but around the outside edges, the fabric is still quite good. I think there's enough there to make myself a pair of flannel pajama pants.

Casting Call

I love hearing from my readers - both in the comments and via emails sent to my address in the sidebar. Most are questions about things I've written about - those I try to help, or tell them where they might find the information they seek. Others are requests for links or free advertising. Those, I'll consider regarding the applicability to the things I write about and the tenor of this blog. And every once in a while, I'll get something really different.

Survivor is the only reality-type television show I watch regularly. But I know those types of shows are very popular with the general public right now. For me, I don't like seeing myself in videos, or hearing recordings of me speaking. Reality just doesn't jibe with my own self-image, and I prefer to maintain my self-delusions. Plus, I tailor and re-fashion my own clothes, to fit my own ideas about style. But for those that don't suffer from those restrictions, I'll relay the contents of an email I recently received.

The people that produce Project Runway are putting together a new show, featuring a couple of top designers, and are looking for everyday people with a special event coming up. Here's what they sent me, should you wish to "audition"

"Do you have an event that justifies a new designer outfit, but have nothing to wear?! (Wedding/Birthday/Reunion/Shower/etc) We are currently casting for a new cable network television program featuring two top designers. They will be traveling the country, designing one-of-a-kind outfits for women who need something extraordinary to wear to an important event in their lives.

"If you live in a SMALL TOWN in Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana, West Virginia, Virginia, Tennessee, Kentucky, North Carolina, California or Nevada and you're interested in this once-in-a-lifetime experience, more information here.
(The Event in California or Nevada must take place in July or August of 2010 - and fall on a SATURDAY. We will be meeting ladies in the next 3 weeks to put them on tape.)"

There you have it. Anyone that dreams of being on television, wearing a custom-made designer creation to an upcoming special event, can take it from here (no fooling).

Goodbye, March

And so, March goes out like a lion this year - a drippy, wet, white lion. Roaring winds the last couple of days brought us snow last night, with a few last flakes still swirling about this morning.

And the start of April, cruel April, isn't supposed to be much better. More snow is expected later on this week. I am happy to see the moisture. I didn't have to water my trees at all this winter - the storms came through pretty regularly. Now, I'm hoping the regular precipitation will strengthen the fruit trees stressed by the droughts of the last few years, and maybe they'll be better able to fight off the borers that plagued them so last summer. I'm still waiting to see before doing any pruning on the peaches, plums, and cherry.

So, with the morning weather still so dreary, I spent my time bottling up a batch of Kombucha, and am now waiting for the new batch to cool. I'm still playing with that whole process, and the results, and will write more about it here eventually.

Earth Hour 2010

It's chilly but the sun is shining, so I want to get outside. But I thought I'd post a quick something now: one - because even though I've been plugging away at all the little Springtime chores, I've been very lax about getting things written here; two - because I'm going to try getting this household to go dark for an hour this evening.

It's Earth Hour time again this evening. Beginning at 8:30 p.m. your time, can your household go dark for an hour? Turn everything off - the computers, televisions, even the lights? As usual, this event pretty much passes northern Nevada by - just a tiny little paragraph in today's newspaper, buried on page 8. But I hear the Las Vegas Strip will again go dark for the hour, so maybe this state will get pulled into the 21st century one of these days.

I really shouldn't be one to talk, though. Once again, I'm a bit conflicted about the concept. I've managed to get Aries to turn off the lights and the glowing screens in the past, only by enticing him out to the hot tub, the biggest energy-sucker in our house. And justifying it because our nighttime temperatures are still below freezing. Shutting that thing down for a night is a difficult decision. Do I chance destroying the it, plus incurring my husband's lack of cooperation, or do I just reconcile the thoughts of my own hypocrisy in the spirit of compromise? Our house will probably be dark this evening, but the meter still running, if somewhat slower than usual (and I do want to point out that it will be during the regular filtering cycle time - it will run then whether we're in it or not). At least, it does mean some quality time with my sweetheart, and his full attention for an hour, under the stars. And that's not all bad.

Litterbugs!

Pardon me while I rant for a moment: Generally, I really like people - I like working as a waitress, a bartender, a tour guide, because of the personal contact. I like talking to, observing, interacting with, and serving people. But, after spending a couple of hours this morning, doing our quarterly Adopt-A-Mile clean-up on the southern gateway to our city, I'm really upset with some people.

I was raised by an eco-conscious mom, back before the green, take-care-of-our-earth movement became fashionable. Anyone seen the television series Mad Men, set in the early 1960's? I know there's been some talk about how astonished folks have been when the pregnant Betty Draper sat down with a drink, cigarette in hand. You just don't see that these days - we know better. My astonishment moment though, was when the Drapers went out for a roadside picnic, and when it came time to leave just shook out their blanket, left the trash lying there, and got back in the car.

That never happened in my family. Mom says she knows none of her children are litterbugs. When she rides in any one of our cars, every one of us has a bag, box, or just the area behind the driver's seat where the debris of everyday living ends up. It's not on the roadside, that's for sure!

This logo is a free download available here.

Nowadays, we know better. So, why is it, every three months, when I'm out there on that same stretch of highway, I'm still picking up bottles and fast food bags and candy wrappers? And cigarette butts - we can't even get all the cigarette butts that are out there - we'd be out there for days (and this in an area prone to droughts and wildfires)! Please, people, don't we know better? What would your mother say?

Our Beautiful Woodbox

Knowing a wet winter storm was expected by nightfall, I filled up the woodbox before I left this morning. I love our woodbox. Despite having a woodstove as our only source of heat, I didn't want my living room to look like a backwoods hunting cabin. I wanted a woodbox that looked like a piece of furniture. So I drew what I wanted, showed Aries where it had to sit, and then he figured out how to build it. It's beautiful! In the summer, when the lid is closed, most people think it's a blanket chest. And then, in the winter, we can take off the lid and pack it with enough wood to keep a fire going for three days.

It's my turn to post on the Simple Green Frugal Co-op blog. I've written about heating with wood. To see what my woodbox looks like in winter-mode, check out that post here.

Protector of the Protege

Ok, maybe I'm starting to feel a touch of cabin fever. There's a frigid wind blowing today, and every once in a while snowflakes swirling about in it. After writing about the Guardian of our hearth yesterday, when I got into the car to run a couple of errands this morning, Lizardo asked if he might get a turn in the spotlight too.

So, bear with me: this is Lizardo, Protector of the Protege. Lizardo came from the depths of Lake Tahoe, introducing himself when I was out for an afternoon swim while camping in a west shore campground last summer. He really has a nice smile under that grey helmet he wears. He quickly made himself at home in my car, and has lived there ever since. I think it's still too early for the garden gnomes to be out, so this should be the end of such silliness here (although I wouldn't bet on it).

Guardian of the Hearth

A grey brick chimney forms the center of our home. A wood stove backed up to the fireplace opening provides our heat. The hearth, quite literally in our case, is the heart of our home.

Above the wood stove is a clock. Aries made it from a slice of redwood burl his dad gave him - sanding and buffing the prettiest side, hollowing out a space in back to hold the clockworks, gluing numbers on the face.

The wood of the clock completes the balance of our hearth - the earth chimney, metal stove, fire within, water in the teapot and steamer. There's one more element there too - the guardian of our hearth.

From his perch to the left of the clock face, many don't even realize he's there. Most of the year, and especially cold winter mornings, he blends right in with the grey brick behind. During the winter, though, when the stove is going, the rising warmth makes him turn a bright green color. Though still somewhat in the shadows, he's there to protect the wall from falling (nice thought, in an seismically active area) and guard our hearth from evil (also nice to have).

He found me on one of my walks with the dog, accompanied us home, and has found a home above our hearth ever since. Though some may call him a gargoyle, more properly says he, he's a grotesque - since he lives inside the dwelling and has never functioned as a drainspout. Also, completely proper, he has wings, and so can patrol the rest of the house for us during the dark of night. We can rest easy, knowing he's there to protect our home.

March Comes In Like A . . .

Well, it's not really a lion this year. The snow has momentarily given way to rain: drippy days, freezing nights, icy mornings. But I'm sure the snow isn't done with us yet either. After all, this is northern Nevada: just wait a few minutes, and things will change.

Yesterday, outside one kitchen window, a quail stands watch on the deck railing as his covey sneaks through the fence, heading for the spilled seeds under the bird feeder.

Out in the garden, I hope the doubled-up wire fencing will be enough to protect newly emerging seedlings of my fall-seeded spinach and arugula from hungry little beaks. One plan this year is to reconfigure my garden layout this Spring to make the garden beds easier to cover. The city is sprawling our direction. As developers bulldoze the sagebrush, the birds and animals are on the move - looking for new homes and food. Our lot must look like a green oasis, flashing signs saying, "Good Eats Here". I try to make sure they get only their share.

A bright spot in the gloomy weather are the yellow crocus outside my living room window. Closed up tight when it rains or snows on them, as soon as a ray of sun breaks through the clouds they open right up. This wire cover is chicken-proofing. Three of the hens got into this garden and had a field day. Once the girls find something of interest, they get downright obsessive about it. Merely running out there every half hour, flapping my apron or waving a broom isn't gonna keep them away. Time to go find more wire. So, now, they're lined up outside the little picket fence, cocking their heads from side to side, beady little eyes checking out all the wire. This garden is safe for the moment.

March is certainly no lamb this year either. Rain here is snow just a few hundred feet higher up the hill, and snow is still in our forecast this week. This morning, looking out the other kitchen window, a couple of white moving patches caught my eye (hard to see, center of above photo). I recognise what it is immediately, but it surprises me.

It's the rump patches of five mule deer. I'd seen fresh tracks walking with the dog up the canyon, but we rarely see deer down this low. Two things cross my mind: one, I hope they're not hungry enough to jump our fence - maybe the dog will deter them; two, if you see deer, there may be cougars. You probably won't see them, but they are around. For my walks up the canyon, I think I'll be using my sharp-tipped hiking poles for a while now. March came in like alert? alarm? Just no lions, ok?

Making Milk Kefir

My latest kitchen experiment is making milk kefir. Kind of like a liquid yogurt, it's easy to make in a jar on the kitchen counter - no messing with maintaining a constant warmth like with yogurt.

All you need to get started are some kefir grains. I got mine by posting a request on my local Freecycle network, but they're also available via the Internet. Tomorrow, Oz-time, is my day to post on the SGF Co-op blog, so I've written about the kefir-making process. You can read about it here.

Magnificent Mountains, Blue Water

I work on-call in the tourism industry. Right now, with the economy the way it is, corporate tourism is way down so I haven't been working very much.

But when I do get called, it's always interesting, and sometimes downright fun. Yesterday evening, I got to shepherd a group for a Sunset Dinner/Dance Cruise on Lake Tahoe's MS Dixie II. The Dixie is one of three paddlewheelers on the Lake. We left from the dock on the east shore, the Nevada side of the Lake, crossed the south end of the Lake to the west shore, into and around Emerald Bay on the southwest corner, and back.

The Lake is 12 miles wide - it takes 3 hours to make this particular cruise. On the south shore, the lakeside casinos are on the Nevada side of the state line bisecting the lake. Heavenly Valley ski resort rises from a small base area just a few blocks away, on the California side, to an immense basin above, with a ridge straddling the state line between California and Nevada. Skiers can choose between the California runs overlooking the lake and the Nevada runs overlooking the sagebrush valley to the east. Freel Peak, at 10,891 ft, is the highest peak in the Tahoe Basin. Beyond Heavenly's base, it catches the last rays of the setting sun.

It was a beautiful evening - cold, of course, but no wind. The Lake was like glass. Lake level averages 6,225 feet above sea level, but can change daily depending on the weather. Tahoe ski resorts measure snowfall in feet, not inches. Mount Tallac dominates the view to the south, the only major peak to rise up right from the water's edge. (Clicking on any photo will bring up a bigger view)

The Lake is 22 miles long. It's hard to judge distance looking across water, especially in the thin, high mountain air, but those snow-covered mountains on the north shore are more than 20 miles away. The deepest part of the lake is off the north shore. At 1,645 ft deep, Tahoe is the second deepest lake in the U.S; the tenth deepest in the world. It never freezes, but never really warms up either.

The last photo I snapped, before completely losing the light, zooms in on Cave Rock, on the east shore. This large tan rock formation (also visible in the photo above this one), the core of an ancient volcano, is easily spotted from just about anywhere on the lake. The Washoe Indians, indigenous to the area, consider Cave Rock a sacred site - their ancestors used the original cave for religious ceremonies. Much to their dismay, a highway tunnel was blasted through the cave in the 1930's; a second bore added in the 1950's. They have succeeded however, in getting the Forest Service to declare the rock off-limits to climbers.

Dark comes early in the wintertime. Time to go inside for dinner. Afterwards, as we head back across the lake towards the dock, the stars are out, magnificent as well.

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

It's been more than 30 years since I got to see Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Many of my earlier adventures were cabin-fever relievers - excuses to get out of snow country, especially necessary by the time February rolls around. So I've seen Carnival celebrations a few other places as well, including the time I ended up dancing on a float in a parade in the Dominican Republic!

But money's tight these days. I haven't been able to go trotting about the globe for a few years now. Guess I'll just have to content myself with cranking up a Clifton Chenier CD and making Shrimp Creole for dinner instead.

I can't really complain though. The snow, at least here at the house, has melted and today was a beautiful day. I think I might even have gotten a bit of sunburn on my pasty white winter skin. We took the dog out for a few hours, across the valley, and hiked up and then along the ridge of Prison Hill. Sunshine, fresh air, a good workout with my sweetie - let the good times roll!

Kitchen Alchemy

We've had some cold, drippy weather lately. The overnight snow melts, the ground is sloppy, and then freezes solid the next night. Every three days, repeat. Since I can't get outside much yet, I've been spending my days playing in the kitchen.

The gallon of apple cider I had fermenting on the kitchen counter never did settle out much. Weeks later, it was still bubbling away through the fermentation lock, and more than an inch of dead yeast cells had sunk to the bottom. So I siphoned the murky cider off, leaving most of the dead yeasts. After cleaning the gallon jug, I then put the siphoned cider back in and the plug back in the top. After another week, the cider had settled out nicely, and fermentation had finally slowed to a stop.

Up in the top cupboard, my vinegar jar was in fine shape: it smelled vinegary, had a nice healthy layer of mother on top, and a few dead layers had sunk to the bottom. I washed my hands well, then reached in for Jolene, the layer of mother floating on top of the liquid - a somewhat rubbery substance that collapsed into a thick slime when I dropped it into a clean bowl. I pulled a couple of dead layers out of the bottom and tossed them. I strained my fresh vinegar through a coffee filter lining a plastic colander while I sterilized a couple of glass bottles in a big pot of boiling water.

One bottle I've stashed up in the dark cupboard to let it mellow. The vinegar is quite sharp, so I want to see what letting it set does to the taste. The other bottle I started using right away, and I'm very pleased with it. I didn't pasteurize the vinegar before bottling. Mother may still form inside the bottles, but since there isn't much airspace I'm thinking it will take quite a while, if at all. I don't know if using vinegar with the live cultures is beneficial or not, but I kinda like having a backup mother source around in case something happens to this next batch.

After cleaning out the vinegar jar, I poured in the hard cider I'd also strained, then dropped in Jolene. The mother sank to the bottom, but should contain the live cultures needed to start turning this batch of hard cider to vinegar. Covered with cheesecloth to allow for the necessary access to oxygen, I put the fresh jar back up into the cupboard to begin its next transformation. It may not be gold, but it's pretty darn good.

Foster's Bighorn

Rio Vista is a little town in the Sacramento River Delta. Midway between Sacramento and San Francisco, halfway between I-80 and I-5, it's a place you'd come across only if you were exploring the secondary roads in this inland delta area. Rarely, the town makes the news when a wayward humpback whale happens to stray miles from the sea, upriver. Rescuers gather there to guide the whale back to safety. There's a monument to Humphrey down by the river's edge.

Rio Vista has another strange little attraction however - one not as readily noticed. On Main Street downtown is a little storefront saloon - its facade of glass bricks only about 20' across. Inside, the bar stretches the length of the long narrow room with high ceiling - room only for a row of bar stools and space to walk behind them. At the back, the room widens out a bit into a small dining room. But it's not the dark, claustrophobic room that has us standing, transfixed, open-mouthed, when we enter. It's the decor.

Bill Frates started out as a bootlegger in San Francisco. In 1931, after Prohibition ended, he moved to Rio Vista, changed his last name to Foster, bought a bar and cafe, and went into the legitimate liquor business. Running the bar provided enough money for him to pursue an expensive hobby. Bill Foster was a trophy hunter.

We take a seat at the bar, and order a round of drinks - a fair enough "price of admission" allowing us plenty of time to gawk at his collection on display. Up high behind us is a row of taxidermied heads of the world's ungulates - deer, elk, sheep, antelope. Underneath those are closely arranged framed black and white photographs encircling the windows - the hunter posing with various carcasses, a slip of white paper with typewritten caption accompanying each picture.

My sister and I check out the dining room in the back. The sights there are even more amazing, or maybe appalling would be a better word in today's sensibilities. We trade off photographing each other. At 5'6", I'm dwarfed standing under the head of an African elephant, mounted with ears and trunk fully extended. Even more fascinating, to me, is a wall plaque bearing the head of a giraffe on the other side. Still open-mouthed, below, my sister stands with her back to the bar area.

Back on my seat at the bar, I strike up a conversation with a local gentleman sitting next to me. He tells me his favorite thing in the place is the photo hung where the bar curves to meet the wall in the front of the room. I get up to check it out, leaning in to read the caption and studying the photo. I can't help thinking about The Thornbirds.

In the novel by Colleen McCullough, there is a gripping scene that always stuck with me. After a wildfire burns through the family ranch and the father, caught out in it, doesn't return, his sons set out to find him. One son, after finding his father's body, startles a wild boar in the brush. He gets off a shot as the animal charges, killing it, but in its momentum it falls on the son, killing him as well. In the photo before me (left, center, here. Check out the video link too, but first read to the end of my post), on the left side are the remains of a hunter - only a skeleton, leather boots, and his gun are left. At his head, on the right side, are the bones and rack of a bull moose. A hunter's nightmare, only this time, it wasn't fiction.

As I finish my drink, I gaze at the animals mounted in realistic poses behind the bar. A rather strange one, above the cash register, catches my eye. A small, burrowing-type owl peers out from what looks like a hollow of a tree. But I've never seen tree bark that looks like that - it looks like the gray, wrinkled skin of an elephant. Oh, no - he didn't! Did he? I've seen the carnage left after a skunk killed some of our ducks, then feasted on the tenderest parts. Could this really be a true-to-life depiction of an opportunistic little scavenging carnivore? The gentleman next to me confirms my suspicions, earnestly telling me it's something the management doesn't really advertise.

Ok, I've been a bartender. I've heard my regular customers telling tall tales to gullible tourists. It's a very common barroom occurrence. But I believe him. If you're ever in the area, check the place out (or click on through to the video on the Foster's Bighorn website, linked to above. Stop the video at 1:21 to see what I'm talking about, there, just left of center frame). Tell me what you think. Tree, gray mud, or is it elephant?