The sun has climbed over the hill. The leaves of the willow by the carriage house are gleaming. A shimmering gold. Usually that tree’s branches fill almost the whole of the dining room’s open window. I watch as the sparkling light moves from one leaf to another into another. The upper panes of the window, fogged with all that befalls windows in the country, gleam a dull gold. A starling flies in through a lower window, sees me and the dogs, “sit, stay, coffee,” and perches on the sill of the open fan light window. The whole world in its mystery and joy in a space about eight feet high and two and a half feet wide. The open fan light window revealing a pale blue cloudless sky. Below is the gleaming gold of the clouded panes almost too bright to look at. And then the green of the willows, changing moment to moment. Perhaps it all is there. The wonder of this day.
SHADES OF ELIZABETH DAVID
MY SENSE OF self has always been tied irrevocably to food. Who I am and how I live my life has, since I was 20, been defined by the food I prepare, sometimes for myself, but most often for the people who touch my life. It isn’t just that giving food is giving love. That is too obvious. It is the rest of it. All of the rest of it.
I sit at the dining room table. It seats 10 easily, 14 with a bit of a squeeze that the extra people don’t notice, but I have to. Serving four more. It is heavily decorated with dishes, bowls, a Limoges coffeepot, a white china creamer shaped like a cow, salt and pepper shakers shaped like little chefs, an ironstone bowl in the form of an eggplant, pâté platters, a beautiful toy sheep in full fleece, wine glasses edged in gold, candlesticks holding gold and cream candles. All things in white or ivory. Some touched in Florentine gold. The tablecloth is white. Always. Ironed. Usually. And speckled with tiny dots, reminders of all that flies through the open windows, or falls from the exposed wooden ceiling. The only color on the table is on a small French bowl, wearing a wine, ochre, cream, and green painted design. Sometimes I fill a white soda fountain ceramic jar with green leaves. The room is thought of as the most beautiful in the house. It is two stories in height. The walls are of cedar wainscoting. There is a shepherd’s wing chair that I had built, country grained, maple, in one corner.
A row of sage plants are on a window sill. There are four normal-sized windows. Two quarter rounds and a wall comprised of eight sashes, two of which combine to be the size of a normal window. Therefore, there are the equivalent of eight normal windows as well as the quarter rounds in these sides of this room. There is a chaise longue in dark green placed on an angle from which I can watch the sheep in the pastures. Evenings. I determined that I wanted the only color in this room, besides the green seen from the windows, to be that of the food. And so there is only white with a touch of gold surrounded by the wainscoting. On occasion, if there are flowers to be had, I will put some in a pitcher or a glass jar. But nothing else.
My favorite tree, a willow of great age when I first came here, curves itself over a set of stone steps by the side of the carriage house. The view of it fills the open window. Willow green. For reasons I can never define, this room with all of its imperfections, always draws a gasp of surprise and delight from all those who enter it for the first time. It is a joy to me. The barn swallows’ song fills the air as they fly out of the carriage house and around and around past two of the windows. They are eating their breakfast. They are enchanting. That is the dining room.
I have cooked French country food since I was 20 and first moved to New York. First Avenue, downtown, where I lived was comprised almost entirely of food shops. It has now been transformed into restaurants. Not the same thing. I had come across a French workbook, by François Garvin and soon after French Country Cooking, by Elizabeth David. The recipes were fundamentally inexpensive to prepare and many depended on a tablespoon of this or that that had been bought for the prior day’s dinner. The same ingredients could be used in completely different ways meaning that nothing could give the impression of being a leftover. Beef miroton was a classic example of one day’s pot au feu turned into a hot main course of sliced potatoes, shredded beef layered on top, a very nice sauce of onions with a touch of vinegar and salt capers on top of that, bread crumbs and a dash of the broth. The following day might see a cold salad with the beef and a dark French mustard with the seeds in evidence.
I loved shopping for food on First Avenue, and Saturday morning at the Essex Street Market. I’d make menus, to be discarded when necessary, and walk with my husband to Essex Street. We’d look along the way to see what was available in the vegetable stands, compare prices with those at Essex Street, and carry food back to First Avenue and Fourth Street. We’d then walk north to 11th Street to buy our cheeses, meats, pasta, and coffee. There was a small pasta factory, a mom and pop, that had a wall of drawers with clear plastic faces so one could see in and choose from what seemed to be a hundred or so varieties. Except for salads and bread, I shopped for the week, worked every day, had lots of dinner guests, and managed a household, preparing the food for at least 20 to 30 people a week. I loved it.
When I was little, about two and a quarter, my Aunt Katie and Aunt Mamie lived next door to one another. They were my father’s younger sisters. Aunt Katie was what was termed the lively one, quite social and gregarious, and if I am thinking clearly about it somewhat of a controlling type. Her presence was always felt wherever she was. She laughed a lot. Finding amusement in all things. She held a Sunday brunch every week for her children, my Aunt Mamie’s children, miscellaneous friends, and my father and me. The table was always covered with food and the house packed with people. Any Saturday night dates of my cousins were invited as well. I have a picture of myself standing smiling on the steps of her porch. Needless to say everyone fussed over this little, very verbal two-year-old. My oldest cousin was 25 years older than I. The rest were scattered in between. I loved the liveliness and joy and enthusiasm. A stark contrast to my well-ordered home where my mother was taking care of my newborn brother.
The joy of having people around a well-spread table has never left me. My shearing dinners are eagerly looked forward to. And when life was a little different, this house was filled as well with friends, family, and the ritual of four meals a day. By the time I moved to the country, afternoon tea had become an established ritual for a number of years when my children were small and we lived in the city. It was a practical decision. Children are hungry after school and a fairly substantial tea was in order. Often there were women in the house who worked for me when I was a dress designer, and we’d all end their day and begin mine with my family over the tea table. I never could get dinner on the table before eight and Justina and Joachim would go to bed right after eating. Not without a song and a story, however.
It now amazes me sometimes to think of what I cooked as a matter of course for myself and two small children. Little stuffed cabbages with peas, canned liver pâté and shredded lettuce cooked on a bed of sliced turnips, potatoes and carrots. A savory cabbage left whole but opened after boiling water was poured over it, then stuffed with a mixture of sausage meat, ground beef, sliced green pepper, and black olives; tied with twine and poached for three hours in beef broth. (I conceded to using canned broth.) My children graduated rapidly from baby food to French Country. And I never really changed. Oh, there have been a few forays into Italian cooking, beet tops with tomatoes, and some English (Country English, of course), Fidget Pie and Mereworth biscuits. But fundamentally it has been French. I remember Joachim stamping around the apartment, eight years old, shouting, “French! French! French! Does it always have to be French?” “Okay. You pick something. And cook it.” He had a children’s cookbook. He chose macaroni and cheese! You guessed it. French.
THE TWO DOG CHAIR
THE GREEN CHAIR died. It was a valiant death, not completely unexpected, but sudden nonetheless. Instantaneous. One afternoon. I had bought it at Lettis’s auction when I used to go to auctions. The bidding started at $10. Dropped in a minute to one dollar. I bid the dollar. A young man bid two. I bid three. He sh
ook his head no. It was mine. It was an armchair covered in a green-gold fabric with a goldish kind of color design on it. Very 1930s. I was to discover, when the material began to tear, that in the first incarnation, it had been olive green velour. It suited me perfectly. It was a one dog chair, however, to be placed by the wood box next to the fireplace.
There usually have been two dogs here on the farm. An odd thing in itself as I am not a dog person. But nonetheless, for a number of years, there was only room for one dog to sit in the chair next to me. That dog always was Steele, my beloved Border Collie, whom I had the pleasure of living with for 10 years. Her daughter, Samantha, was the product of alliance with the long-haired collie across the street. She had inherited his size, long hair, and, unfortunately, his brains. Steele was an incredible dog, never far from my eye, exquisitely trained, and a real help on the farm. I didn’t bond with Samantha until the last years of her life. But that is another story. She was far too big a dog to sit in a chair with me and chose instead to sit at my feet in front of the fire.
One day one of the arms broke. Not off. It was still attached to the base; however, it leaned precariously to one side. The right side. I propped it up with a rather interesting looking piece of a tree trunk that had a flat top and three limbs as legs on the bottom. That is how it became a two dog chair, for now, both of my present dogs Glencora MacCluskie and Nelly Zolotoroffski could fit. A bit of a tight fit, but the three of us now could sit together in the warmth of the fire, late summer until early summer. Catskill Mountains. There isn’t room enough for me to knit, or write in a notebook, but I can read or think, particularly think. Sometimes one or another of the dogs will get up and lie at my feet, but most times we will sit there snug and cozy together.
Then, one day, to my dismay, not too long ago, the springs popped through the seat. I had been adding pillows under the cushion to disguise the lumps that had begun to emerge. Sitting in it became a miserable experience. It took awhile before I, most reluctantly, decided to retire the chair and trade it for a more serviceable one from a rarely used upstairs bedroom. That chair, with its slipcovers in a quincey color of velour, was bought new, quite some time ago. I was furnishing an apartment for an elderly relative. Is 82 elderly? I guess it is. While I did a lot of very clever shopping in secondhand stores, some things need to be bought new. The chair that she’d spend much of her time in had to be perfect.
I toured all of New York’s best shops. Oh, not looking for a valuable antique, but for an attractive, comfortable good chair that could serve my aunt well for an expected decade or more. I sat in one chair after another. Were the arms positioned correctly so she could get up out of it easily? Was it comfortable? Did it look good? I found it in Lord &Taylor. It was upholstered in blue and white cotton. It was twice my budgeted price. I called over the manager. There was a tiny hole in one arm, the size of a pea. The price was immediately cut in half. Perfect. When it was sent the hole was gone. Lord & Taylor doesn’t deliver furniture with holes in it.
And so it was exchanged for the green chair, which I can’t bring myself to send to the dump. However, it is only a one dog chair. Maybe it can be a dog-and-a-half chair. Glencora MacClusky has climbed up, squeezing me to the side of it. Curled up like a cat she is, pushing me just a bit farther off the seat by the minute. I can’t bring myself to move her. Were I to get up, she’d get up too. I can’t do that to her. She is just right. Nelly is downstairs, giving no indication of wanting to join us. For the moment it is the best thing. She will agree to sit at my feet if Glencora has taken all of the room; however, not until she has climbed onto my lap and put each foreleg on my shoulders and tried to lick my face. We then become a two dog cluster in a one dog chair.
ONE STEP AT A TIME
THE EFFORT TO achieve manageability has been the driving force here, of late. For the past three and a half months. Gradually it has become, in increments, achieved. Oh, I’m not there yet. And it may be too late. However, it is the force guiding my labor. I have a tendency, when driven by any immediate necessity, to make choices that, of themselves, create disorder. Feed the chickens. Upstairs in the carriage house. Now. Oh, and water the goats. Downstairs. Now. Which means that the eggs I’ve gathered from the coop are, for the moment, hidden in a grain bin so the kid goats who are visiting upstairs in the hay loft don’t knock over the chest where I sometimes put them, later to be found, a surprise, and need to be carried in a corner of my sweater back to the house. Meaning the other things I needed to be carried to the house couldn’t be. Not enough hands. At that moment. Maybe never. Oh, I’m not there yet. And it may be too late. However, manageability and the attempt to achieve it is one of the guiding forces of life these days.
The carriage house chickens shall be moved tomorrow to the outdoor coop. I saw a rat today in the indoor coop. It ran immediately upon seeing me. There must be more. A friend will trap or shoot them or something soon. It wasn’t a big one. Medium sized. But my grain is there and it possibly may explain why two days of eggs were short in number. I don’t know if rats are in agreement with possums and skunks in their joint appreciation of fresh-laid eggs. But on two consecutive days there were only 18 eggs rather than the 22 to 24 that I am accustomed to be given. Great chickens, by the way. Just bought 25 more. Baby chicks. Same breed. Golden Comets. Perhaps. This hatchery says they have variable names. Twenty-one of the chicks have made it. I’ll need replacements, and I do need to expand the flock somewhat. Egg sales are good. Very good. Last fall I bought some of the same breed from a local woman who said they were still laying. Great, I thought. They’d be still laying when mine begin to molt. They weren’t still laying. For me, that is. But they ate. All winter. City. Country.
We sheared on Saturday. It was the best shearing yet. Part of its success can be attributed to the fact that I had paid help to prep the room where we sheared and to do all manner of clean-up to best assess the lambing room. Part of its success was because a dear friend and her daughter helped me to get the dining room in readiness for shearing dinner. Part of it was due to my son and his expert and experienced help. He devised, at last, the perfect system of moving sheep in and out, barn chute to lambing room to pasture, with dispatch and no stress on the sheep, shearers, or helpers.
I served 12 different things for dinner. This would have been the 13th thing. Forgot the pickled cherries. The bread failed again to rise. That would have made 14 things. I do think something is off with the yeast. No one missed the cherries. However, since they are something I have never served before at shearing dinner, no one knew I’d forgotten them.
The sheep looked good this year as well. We sheared lambs and by accident a couple of ram lambs. The ewe lambs had begun to get too warm in their fleeces. Those shall go to be spun into yarn at the mill in Edmeston. There were a few fleeces that were good enough to be sent as well. Stephanie Carter is going to have yarn made for her new adventure. She’s bought Stewart’s Department Store in Delhi, to be reopening it shortly. One of the yarns there shall be from my sheep. I’m so glad she is reopening the store. My Fisher cloth coveralls are showing their wear and tear after all of these years, and I’m ready for a new pair. They fit like a miracle and have served me well. Time for a new one. Stewart’s is the only place around here to carry them.
The table was surrounded by friends, new ones and familiar ones. Nancy Meiers, of course, has been shearing my flock for a very long time. Paula Decker has recently come on board and they do a magnificent job together. I couldn’t have been happier with the event, the company, the day.
We are at the summer solstice. It frightens me. While I am trying to live in the present and not project into the future, the day itself now grows shorter and darker. Hay is always an issue, and contributes to the feeling of apprehension. I have paid for close to seven hundred bales of hay on time payments. I owe for approximately five to six hundred more from last winter, this spring. I may have to feed some out in July. The pastures don’t look good to me. It may rain today. That
may help. Farmers have had a blessed window to make hay this week and I’m certain I’ll have enough for winter. There seems to be 17 ewe lambs this year to add to the flock. I still need more sheep. I am already turning customers away. There is one very fine ram that may go to a friend’s flock. Two triplet ram lambs may as well become breeders, leaving only three ram lambs to sell for meat. That’s it. Money. Money. Money. The lack of it dismays me. The forever relentless lack of it. This year, once more, at the high point of the year, shearing, I know I shall once again lose money on the farm. Even so, it is not that that would make me leave. It would be the loneliness that would eventually break me.
The Improbable Shepherd Page 16