A Crisp Sunday
Posted 11-25-2012 at 01:38 PM by Urban Sasquatch
There is much fine to be thought of a sunny November day with a brisk wind and temps in the upper 40's. There is much finer still to be thought of time on a tractor during such a day as that described, bush hogging away old growth, then hooking up the tiller and breaking ground in preparation for spring.
One of my favorite things about autumn along with the brisk weather is the way the cold makes the sense of Home all the more delectable. Thomas Kincaid was onto something with his pseudo-kitschy paintings of home and hearth, the welcome of glowing windows and the promise of warmth to hold back the night. Since time beyond memory Man has craved security; and the very root of security is that ability to hold the darkness at bay, to stave off the terrors of the primeval night and to sit unmolested by the warmth of a fire and dine on all that is necessary to fill the belly to contentment.
Topping such a scenario off with the satisfaction of one's own labours -- me, my tractor and my garden spot and the work of a day -- that is a satisfying thing indeed because the preparation itself bears the promise of labour and the labour itself promises... well, fruits of those labours.
The garden itself will, when I'm finished (came in for a spot of lunch), be turned under in order to result in the killing off of any growths and weeds. A portion of it will be tilled more deeply, taken down to fine soil, in preparation for the early planting, such as early cabbage, onion, peas, broccoli, cauliflower. As those come to fruit and are removed I'll move on to beans, eggplant, zucchini and squash, tomatoes galore, carrots, different peas, watermelon, cantaloupe and musk melons and the first potatoes; and finally as much of that wanes, another round of broccoli and cauliflower and cabbage plus the planting of winter onions, shallots and garlic.
These are the thoughts with which my mind is awhirl as I circle the plot out back, counter-clockwise rows ever-diminishing. These are the thoughts that warm me when this November wind blows chilly and I realize that my flannel isn't quite enough, shivering, not wishing to stop since I'm near enough completion for the day.
Later, reattached to the bush hog and clearing a site, I'll be pondering the future items like the chicken house and yard.
Sitting astride the tractor is as rewarding mentally as physically, yes indeed.
Were it possible, today I'd be in bliss to come home to a feasting menu. Given my situation such will never happen; still, it's wonderful to picture:
- an apertif of liqueur de Peche
- Duck breast with lingonberries
- asparagus with a creamy gruyere sauce
- red potatoes and onions fried in duck fat
- baby carrots with brown sugar, white pepper and ginger
- bread and butter and honey
- a medium-bodied red somewhere between vino di tavolo and a dinner wine
- caffe
- a digestivo of Amaro
Scented candles throughout the house, a couple of windows cracked for fresh air AND a roaring fire to keep the living and dining area wonderfully warm without being stifling.
It's a sweet dream indeed.
One of my favorite things about autumn along with the brisk weather is the way the cold makes the sense of Home all the more delectable. Thomas Kincaid was onto something with his pseudo-kitschy paintings of home and hearth, the welcome of glowing windows and the promise of warmth to hold back the night. Since time beyond memory Man has craved security; and the very root of security is that ability to hold the darkness at bay, to stave off the terrors of the primeval night and to sit unmolested by the warmth of a fire and dine on all that is necessary to fill the belly to contentment.
Topping such a scenario off with the satisfaction of one's own labours -- me, my tractor and my garden spot and the work of a day -- that is a satisfying thing indeed because the preparation itself bears the promise of labour and the labour itself promises... well, fruits of those labours.
The garden itself will, when I'm finished (came in for a spot of lunch), be turned under in order to result in the killing off of any growths and weeds. A portion of it will be tilled more deeply, taken down to fine soil, in preparation for the early planting, such as early cabbage, onion, peas, broccoli, cauliflower. As those come to fruit and are removed I'll move on to beans, eggplant, zucchini and squash, tomatoes galore, carrots, different peas, watermelon, cantaloupe and musk melons and the first potatoes; and finally as much of that wanes, another round of broccoli and cauliflower and cabbage plus the planting of winter onions, shallots and garlic.
These are the thoughts with which my mind is awhirl as I circle the plot out back, counter-clockwise rows ever-diminishing. These are the thoughts that warm me when this November wind blows chilly and I realize that my flannel isn't quite enough, shivering, not wishing to stop since I'm near enough completion for the day.
Later, reattached to the bush hog and clearing a site, I'll be pondering the future items like the chicken house and yard.
Sitting astride the tractor is as rewarding mentally as physically, yes indeed.
Were it possible, today I'd be in bliss to come home to a feasting menu. Given my situation such will never happen; still, it's wonderful to picture:
- an apertif of liqueur de Peche
- Duck breast with lingonberries
- asparagus with a creamy gruyere sauce
- red potatoes and onions fried in duck fat
- baby carrots with brown sugar, white pepper and ginger
- bread and butter and honey
- a medium-bodied red somewhere between vino di tavolo and a dinner wine
- caffe
- a digestivo of Amaro
Scented candles throughout the house, a couple of windows cracked for fresh air AND a roaring fire to keep the living and dining area wonderfully warm without being stifling.
It's a sweet dream indeed.
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