Achievement

For the past nine months, Corin and Seth have been taking a biweekly dose of Taekwondo. These boys have learned some blocks, kicks, and punches, commands in Korean, and a healthy bit of self-discipline. During each practice, following warmups, the teacher gathers the students in a circle. They stretch, share a moment of silence and repeat their five tenents. I love hearing them recite these important life-lessons: "Modesty, perseverance, self control, indomitable spirit, etiquette, sir." Traits we could all use help with, no doubt.

The boys tested for their yellow belts two weeks ago, and after an interminable ten days of suspense found out they passed. We have some rather pleased, newly minted, Yellow Belts in the house. Now if only I could get them to practice the self control part and not the kicking part in line at the grocery store.

Test day

Today, because Corin's school was out and Seth's was in, I had a rare solo day with my elder boy. These days Corin is interested in adventures, and though the gang of boys in the adventure stories to which he likes to listen happen to find buried treasure or rescue kidnapped children every second day, adventures like that in our quiet valley are a bit hard to come by. Undaunted, we set off for the Rattlesnake, equipped with his adventure necklace (lanyard, compass, two golden pens, one tiny swiss army multi-tool) some sandwiches and our current chapter book. Corin wanted to go back to the spot we'd visited as a family, whiling away this past Saturday afternoon. On the riverbank we'd stacked rock cairns in a rash of spontaneous construction. The rock piles were beautiful and oddly graceful. And we both wanted to see them again, so we didn't mind that our adventure carried us down a path we had recently trod. This time, however, Corin paused every twenty feet to lay stick arrows in the trail, just in case any other adventurers wanted to follow our lead. Arriving at our spot, we were pleased to find the rock sculptures had weathered the intervening days, and I was particularly happy to see a few spiders had been busy launching lines among them, their thin filaments catching and keeping the light.

As Kenneth Grahame characterized the river in his delightful opening to A Wind in The Willows, so it was today along the creek. All was a-shake and a-shiver - glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. Corin and I sat beside this tossing scene, read a bit, ate our fare, explored the bank, and watched, every now and again, singular leaves twist from their branches and somersault toward the water.

After a bit of this sort of dreamy, sitting adventure, we walked on. We decided between us that anyone determined to find us would have to rely on their own wood-lore, and from there on gave up marking our trail with arrows. This was a boon to our pace. Corin led us on a trail, new to the both of us. It wound lazily uphill, dappley and fragrant. Though we didn't come across buried treasure, we were rewarded with some other great finds, amassing a hankie full of quartz and several blanched bones. One of the particularly nice things about this adventure was that it demanded quiet walking: careful muffled steps and no talking. I realized I could go in for endless adventures like this... listening to the wind soughing the p.pines, and ravens calling in the distance. All in all, a lovely way to pass a day with my boy.

Egg Share

Recently Tim and I joined an egg share. Structured like other CSA programs, members pay in advance and week by week receive their share. Joining the egg share has added a nice piece of routine to our Sundays. After church we drive to the farm and chat with our chicken farmer (who also happens to be Botanie's very own office manager), Heather. The boys, in their Sunday best, get in with the "girls," as Heather calls her hens. They scatter wheat or sunflower seeds, they check the egg mobile for the day's offerings, they laugh at hens taking dirt baths. Sometimes folks throw stale baguettes, yellowing kale stems or peach peels over the fence. It's fun to watch the scrum that follows. The hens are hilarious, running hither and yon in a flurry of dust and feathers, snatching bits of the precious garbage from each other. Sometimes we are all bent double laughing at the sight. They look like ladies who have hitched up their bustles and are running full tilt about the yard. If you've ever seen Lady Cluck taking on the Rhino guards in Disney's 1973 version of Robin Hood, you have some idea what these grand gals look like when there is baguette to be had.

There are plenty of folks around this town who are far more (and admirably) connected to their food source than we are, but it has been wonderful to make this small step, to know our farmer - as the bumper sticker enjoins -and to get to know the quirky birds who lay our breakfast. And speaking of breakfast, I should add the other benefit that comes from being part of the egg share: eating real eggs. Turns out those things called eggs at the grocery store aren't. There's a world of difference in color and taste between what Heather's Heritage Hens lay and every other cartoned dozen I've bought, even those labeled "naturally nested" or "grain fed."

So between having the boys gather eggs in their Sunday finery to frying up something with a center the color of a mango, there's nothing not to love about being connected with Heather and her scrappy, sqwaky, group of feathered gals. But word to the wise, don't stand in the way if a nearly inedible treasure has just sailed over the fence, these hens mean business.

Heather, some of her girls, and the egg mobile

Hunting for eggs

Birthdays

It is birthday season here in the IudiJoss household. Tim's birthday came on a cold but lovely Sunday a few weeks ago. We celebrated Corin's this past Thursday, and mine, following Corin's like ducks in a row, was on Friday. Poor Seth, my January baby. "Birthdays are not fair," he tells me, pouting. I tried to assure him that birthdays are in fact the fairest thing the world ever doles: one per person, no exceptions. But I take his point, it's a bit hard to be the outlier when you are four. Last year when Corin was reciting the cycle of our birthdays, he said, "First is Seth, then dad, then me, and then you, Mom. You have the rotten egg of birthdays." I don't think he's yet learned the phrase last but not least. As it happens, I've always been quite fond of my birthday: it comes in the best month of the year and falls on a prime number to boot. Corin's, quite fittingly since he gravitates toward order, falls on two perfect squares: 9/16.

For Tim's birthday we spent the day in Arlee. We visited our old neighbors; went for a run along our old route, the boys biking along; and finished with a picnic on my parents' land. The first snow was falling on the Missions and from time to time the clouds would part, allowing us fleeting glimpses of the fresh dusting they had just dealt Gray Wolf Peak. Running our old route was like meeting up with a favorite friend - the view of the mountains here, the flame willows over there, the goldenrod and rose hips clumped together roadside, the hay bales, like small cottages, in Doney's field. I couldn't stop smiling, and still I find it pleases me all these days later. We have a wistfulness about the Jocko Valley, I hope will never leave us. Those were such treasured, deeply-felt years: the first of our marriage, the first of our Montana, the first of our parenting.

In Arlee

Tim's birthday picnic

Corin turned seven, wearing a birthday crown all day. Among other excellent presents (a Star Wars book, some story cds, a butterfly house to name a few) he received a pocket knife for the adventure necklace he's been making. A knife seemed like a good addition since there is conceivably only a small range of adventure a person could get into with just a yellow lanyard, a pen, and a compass. A swiss army tool broadens the possibilities. And though it is the teensiest blade that swiss army manufactures, Seth, borrowing it from his brother, managed to cut himself in thirty seconds flat. We hadn't even known the knife had seen first blood, when Seth was dancing before us, waving a finger with a Yoda band-aid, and saying, "But it's ok." Needless to say, we seized the tailor-made opportunity to discuss (and make up on the spot) The Rules regarding the use of the new adventure necklace addition.

Dressed for TaeKwanDo and taking a birthday call in his office

My birthday, a blustery day, included a quiet morning of work on a short story, birthday messages from friends far and near, and a lunch out with my husband. We watched walkers pull their coats close against the unseasonal bite in the wind as we drank miso and dipped sushi in soy and wasabi. Not a bad way to pass a birthday, even the rotten egg of birthdays, I guess.

It has been a gift giving season around here, and so I pass on a gift that came to me: evening light in the neighbor's Russian elm, a slate sky above the ridge.

Canning Peaches

There seems to be two unwritten rules of canning in my kitchen - start projects too late in the evening, never have all the right ingredients. Oh, make that three unwritten rules - the pot must boil over. Tonight peaches. So here's where I've gone wrong so far. In the past, I've done peaches the traditional way, which is to say labor intensively. Wash 'em, boil 'em, pop 'em in cold water, skin 'em, chop 'em, jam 'em, process 'em. But this year, since I upgraded my kitchen with the it's-not-a-blender-it's-a-Vitamix, I thought I'd cut out the middle steps and just wash and blend before jamming and processing. This is a fine idea if you want a smooth, even consistency, but I'm more of a chunky jam sort of person. So, the it's-not-a-blender-it's-a-Vitamix worked its two-horse power magic, and Santa is just going to have to deliver peach butter this year.

If you know me at all, you know I've never been much of a linear person and the kitchen seems to aid and abet my most erratic side. I can almost hear ingredients asking me, "give me a try, come on, what could go wrong?" Ginger particularly seems to have a siren song of its own and my peaches remained un-gingered only because I used the last of it this afternoon in a kale apple cucumber smoothie (try it, it's power packed and yummy). While I'm mentioning my a-linearity, I will just break here for a disclaimer in case you're getting nervous. I am very law-abiding when it comes to the actual process of canning, even remembering to adjust for Missoula's altitude. While I'll risk cooking up an odd concoction, I'm not a big one for taking chances with botulism.

So tonight's kitchen improv went as follows. I used a sea vegetable, Agar Agar, in place of the ubiquitous Kraft foods Sure-Jell. Nothing against the old stand-by, which has served me through dozens of jammings, I just felt tempted to dust-it up a bit. And then since I have not a lick of sugar in the house, and because it is physically impossible for me to dump six cups of the white stuff into gloriously sweet peaches anyway, and because, as I said, I just wanted to dust-it up a bit, I found some Agave and tipped it in a few times and then once more for good measure.

Though unsure how the whole soupy mess will turn out, I've got 12 mason jars of peach agar agar agave-sweetened butter processing away in a boiling water bath. Now I just have to scrape off the 1/4 inch of peach shmear caramelized in the burners since they'll be pressed into service again tomorrow. No doubt too late in the evening. I've got another box of peaches ready to roll and hopefully I'll make it to the store for some ginger. And maybe some lemon peel. And what do you think about a splash of balsamic?

And now September

And so it has begun again. Though the mornings now find me harriedly rifling the fridge for suitable lunch pail inclusions, bellowing up the stairs for my sleeping beauties to rise and shine, and making a dash at Corin's bedhead before we suit up for the 8:06 bus, I am welcoming back the school year. The kids are now settled into their second week of school. The downside of first grade according to the two-week veteran is definitely the nightly homework. "Who invented this?" Corin asks every night, scratching at his paper with a pencil, his chin in his hand. On the other hand, the upside of first grade is clearly classroom pets. Currently Mrs. Carter's first grade has a tarantula named Cupcake Twinkle. The other day, Corin informed me that female tarantulas sometimes eat their male counterparts. I could see he was having trouble fitting this information from the wild world of arachnids into his gender norms. Girls like pink. Girls play princesses. Girl tarantulas eat boy tarantulas. Something does not compute, my schemas are breaking apart. I am told Cupcake Twinkle is soon to be joined, presumably in another cage, by a bearded dragon, name yet unknown. I guess a poisonous saucer-sized spider and a nearly-mythical creature go a long way to easing the blow of nightly homework. Corin found another nice thing about first grade - you can borrow the same books from the school library as you did last year - like meeting up with an old friend, right? Tim and I were so glad to be reuninted with our favorite bedtime reading after a summer of respite. What did we do without "Anakin's Race to Freedom" for all those months?

Seth started back to preschool, though he'd be the first to tell you that he is no longer in an Early Childhood class, but is in Pre-K. School is his Cheers, though it is Seth that knows everyone's name. When Tim and I took him over the first day, he walked down the long hall to his classroom, waving left, waving right, greeting everyone we passed by name. One would think he hadn't been gone from these folks for months. When he had hung his coat, stowed his lunch pail and put on his slippers, he dived right into some serious purple playdough. Tim and I couldn't get him to look up from chatting with his pals to hear our goodbyes. When I arrived to pick him up at the end of that first day, he had given my friend, who had signed him out for me, the slip. While she was engaged in getting her daughter's shoes on, Seth made for the door with a friend. It had just been raining and I soon found him under a downspout "taking a shower." He was soaked through and ran off laughing when I tried to curb him toward the car. There's just nothing like getting back into routine.

So September, welcome back. And welcome back, crisp mornings at the bus stop, dinnertime descriptions of recess escapades, half eaten sandwiches and untouched vegetables at the bottom of the lunch bag. Welcome back, children proud of something they just mastered, children who have stretched themselves, children who fall into bed, spent but happy. Welcome back, school.