A Moral Dilemma

My kitchen window looks down on a large shrub. I think it’s a cardinal bush. It was here when we bought this place in 1976 so I’m not sure about that. If that is the right name it certainly is appropriate because many years cardinals choose to build a nest in it.

Inevitably this choice ends in disaster. Seen from the outside one wouldn’t spot the nest.

But from the window I look down into the nest. While washing dishes I have witnessed both squirrels and the neighbor’s cats steal baby birds from it while the parents shriek and flutter about. Not one baby bird has survived there.

Over this past weekend we watched another cardinal couple construct a nest in the cardinal bush. It is beautifully made with a strong foundation of sticks, topped with increasingly smaller ones and a final layer of soft leaves. The mother hasn’t yet deposited eggs in it.

Shortly after the nest was finished, a cowbird discovered it. No doubt the cowbird has plans to destroy the cardinals’ eggs and replace them with her own. Cowbirds are too damn lazy to raise their own kids, so they dupe other birds into doing all the work. The cardinals wouldn’t know the difference and would be excellent foster parents. Of course the cowbird babies would be eaten by squirrels and cats, so all would come to naught.

Here’s my dilemma: should I destroy the nest before eggs are laid, thus saving the cardinals (and myself) the anguish of another disaster, or should I mind my own business and let nature take its course? How I dread watching this familiar drama unfold!

Postscript: Two days later the nest is still empty of eggs. Maybe the cardinals caught on to the cowbird's game. Maybe they made the nest as a second home. No matter the cause, I'm relieved to look down on an empty nest.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

Doing Things The Hard Way

This afternoon Dennis crawled around the patio removing weeds from the cracks between the limestone pavers.

Sure, he could have sprayed weed killer and saved his knees, but we don’t use herbicides except in extreme circumstances, such as poison ivy that is too large to pull or dig. Our yard is populated by dandelions, chickweed and other plants most people deem undesirable. We don’t care.

We don’t use pesticides either, in the garden or in the house. We use biological remedies such as bacillus thuringienesis for green worms on broccoli and other cole crops. We get rid of aphids by spraying them with water. If potato bugs show up, which has happened only once in thirty-five years, I hand pick them and drop them into a jar of oil.

We refuse to poison the soil, our food, ourselves and the water that runs off into Chicken Creek. We are rewarded by peace of mind and by little benefits such as the moss growing between the patio stones.

I wish no one would poison the earth, but we can’t control other folks’ choices. Recent news of the health effects – cancer and more – of using Round-Up may give them pause. I hope so.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

The Lucy Award for Courage

A few weeks ago, during raccoon mating season, juvenile coons formed bloodthirsty gangs and roamed our neighborhood killing chickens. The devils don’t kill the chickens for food. They kill out of frustration because they’d really like to kill the older male raccoons, who deny the juvies access to the females who are in heat. The birds’ throats are torn out. That’s all.

When mating season is over, gang hormonally-activated  subsides. At least that seems to be the case because, although Dennis recently forgot to close up the henhouse one night, no murders occurred.

This has become a familiar occurrence. The gangs got seven of our twelve hens in the early spring last year. This year they killed only a total of four in two raids, but that constituted half the flock.

Something remarkable happened in this year’s second raid: although two were murdered, a third intended victim, Lucy, survived. Apparently Lucy escaped a coon’s clutches, but she was badly wounded. Her comb and head were torn, but the deepest wound was to her throat, which was torn and bloody

Her head hung to the left, resting on her neck. There was blood on her feathers. She sat in a corner of the henhouse facing the wall. She didn’t seem to eat or even drink water. During the day Lucy moved to a far corner of the chicken yard and spent the day there alone. We thought she would die.

But she didn’t die. One morning Dennis came to the kitchen and announced that Lucy had died. He took a garbage bag to the henhouse to collect her body, but when he reached for her she jumped up and ran away.

As days went on, she still hung out in the corners, but began to show a little interest in food. She was afraid of the other hens, though, and they ran her off when she approached the food. I started throwing scratch and greens into the corners of the chicken yard for her.

After the second raccoon raid, which left two hens dead, including Olive, an Auracana, Lucy’s behavior changed. She rejoined the flock, which has been supplemented with eight new hens, and no one picked on her. She eats right along with them and now seems a restored bird. She still holds her head a bit to the right, but that and a misshapen comb seem to be the only aftereffects of her brush with death.

I admire Lucy greatly. Not many chickens can live to tell about being attacked by a raccoon’s sharp teeth and grasping hands. I wonder how she managed to excape the coon’s clutches. Did she manage to fly away? Did she peck his eye?

Lucy is, I think, a brave and courageous bird. That’s why, in her honor, I am establishing The Lucy Award for Courage. The award will be given to living creatures who have endured and persisted in the face of adversity, pain or great difficulty. It will be given whenever I feel moved to do so. (Nobody said this was fair or dispassionate.)

The award will consist of a certificate with a picture of Lucy.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

The Self-Centered Acquaintence

I’m willing to bet that everyone knows at least one person who talks endlessly about herself or himself. When this person phones, she never asks, “How are you,” but starts in on a report on her day’s activities or accident or conflict in every detail. “She said,” and “I said” on and on.

Or, the friend who calls to invite you to meet him for lunch, but when you meet he launches into an hour’s account of his recent activities, injuries and plans without ever asking what you’ve been up to.

At a dinner party this person turns every topic of conversation to herself through whatever circuitous means she can devise. Strange silences ensue.

I could give dozens of examples, but you know at least one such person. My question is this: what is one to do with these folks? Maybe most of us tolerate them, but at my age I’m losing patience with this behavior. How much of the remainder of my life am I willing to devote to these monologues?

I have a fantasy of inviting all such people in my circle of acquaintances to a dinner party, serving the food and sitting back to see who prevails.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

Back To Soup

Dennis says he remembers snow on April 20 once when he was a boy. I, personally, don’t recall any April snow until today. The dragon of the north has lashed its tail for what we hope is the last time before its summer hibernation.

The snow doesn't amount to much, but today’s temperature won’t get above the low thirties and tonight will bring a hard freeze. While broccoli and cauliflower plants slumber under a blanket of straw in the garden, I’ve been making soup.

This time I’m using the last frozen broccoli from last year’s garden to make a recipe I tinkered with for years until it reached what I consider to be perfection. (I posted the recipe two years ago, but it has changed since then.)

Broccoli Soup*

2 tablespoons butter or olive oil

½ cup diced onion

3 cups chicken broth or 3 cups water and 3 teaspoons chicken base

2 medium-size Yukon Gold potatoes, scrubbed and diced

1 quart-sized bag home frozen broccoli or 4 cups fresh broccoli

½ cup half and half or milk

¼ to ½ teaspoon nutmeg

Melt butter in a 2-quart saucepan. Stir in chopped onion and cook over low heat until the onion is translucent. Increase heat to medium-high. Add the diced potato and broth. Bring to a simmer, reduce heat, cover, and cook until potato is fork-tender.

Increase heat, add the broccoli, and bring to a simmer. Reduce heat and simmer for 5 to 7 minutes, until broccoli is fork-tender.

Puree the soup in the pan using an immersion blender. Stir in the half and half or milk and nutmeg and heat to desired temperature. Do not allow the soup to boil.

Yesterday I harvested a beautiful head of lettuce from the cold frame.

Along with the soup we’re having a salad made from that lettuce, feta cheese and dried cranberries.

Let the north wind blow. We’re toasty with a fire in the woodstove and a pot of soup on the stove.

• It isn’t necessary to use the exact amounts of ingredients so long as their ratio remains about the same. Today I used the equivalent of two 10-ounce packages of commercial frozen broccoli and increased the other ingredients proportionately.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

This and That

This and that actually is the stuff of life. Little things sometimes add up to a good day in spite of nothing important having happened. Yesterday was such a day in my life.

Checkers, my two-store grocery chain, had beautiful red peppers for 39¢ each. I bought some to roast. Their color alone was enough to make me happy.

Egg gathering, too, produced a smile. The chicken yard is muddy from recent rains. When a hen is ready to lay an egg, she settles into the nest atop any previously-laid eggs. Consequently, it is easy to see which egg was laid last.

After two weeks’ dormancy, my home-saved pimento pepper seeds started germinating. I love the way each seedling emerges from the soil bent in half, then straightens and opens its two leaves. The pimentos are in the pot on the left. In spite of having been stored in the basement for four years they are out-performing the Corno di Toro (bull’s horn) Italian pepper seeds I purchased this spring.

Finally, I made a favorite dish for supper: fried potatoes and onions. Leftover baked potatoes make the best pan-fried potatoes. After the potatoes browned I shoved them to one side and added sliced onions, which cooked very quickly. It was delicious with ketchup on the side.

Wouldn’t it be great if every day’s this and that added up to happiness?

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer

Form Follows Function

The famous architect Louis Sullivan said:

"It is the pervading law of all things organic and inorganic,


Of all things physical and metaphysical,


Of all things human and all things super-human,


Of all true manifestations of the head,


Of the heart, of the soul,


That the life is recognizable in its expression,


That form ever follows function.

This is the law."

The people who built our house certainly had an idea of how this house would function. At the front of the house was the front door and at the back of the house was a sliding door leading to a deck overlooking Chicken Creek valley. It is a house designed for a leisurely life, not a life based on even a modicum of self-sufficiency.

I wish that the builders had instead chosen the old farmhouse model, which had a front door for company and a back porch leading into the kitchen. That back porch was a work area. That’s where the garden produce came into the house. The back porch gave easy access to the barn, the chicken house and all the working parts of the farm.

Living as we do, our front door and entry-way have to fulfill both functions. Everything comes in the front door. The entry is filled with egg baskets and garden produce baskets. The floor is always muddy in the spring and littered with firewood detritus in the winter.

Over time we have worn a path from the front door through the yard to the chicken house. The path was bare of grass and muddy in rainy weather. Finally this spring, accepting reality, we mulched the path with wood chips.

It may not be a landscape architect’s dream, but it works. Form ever follows function.

Copyright 2013 by Shirley Domer