Happy Friday, friends! I’m writing you today from my dining room table, where the windows are open, rain is falling, it’s about 68 degrees outside, and I’m comfortably wearing jeans and a long sleeve shirt. In mid/late July. The forecast for the next 8-9 days calls for more temps in the 70’s and low 80’s. While the mountains of western North Carolina are known for their temperate summers, this is proving to be an especially unusual one. But when I’m still sleeping under a down comforter at night, on the second floor of a house with no a.c. in the middle of summer, I have no intentions of complaining. I know parts of the midwest had mornings in the 40’s this week. Craziness. Meanwhile the Pacific northwest is hot and battling wild fires (sending these in the line of the blaze thoughts for safety and calmer winds and rain!). It’s a wacky summer, to be sure.
Since I last posted, I had a birthday. It’s funny, with the amount of entertaining I’ve been doing professionally, for my books, come my own celebratory day, I just want things to be as low key and chill as possible. We headed up to the Pisgah Inn for pancakes and stellar views, where several dear friends met up with us. Then, with our buddy Rich, we drove to Black Balsam for a hike. A mountain bald, that spot is my favorite of the hikes and views I’ve encountered on the Blue Ridge Parkway thus far. The summer I turned 30, I took a friend with me to the U.K.. After several nights in London, and one night in Glasgow, we travelled by train to the western highlands of Scotland. Pure magic, that place, and one of the few places I’ve visited that felt so very much like “home” upon arriving. Black Balsam reminds me of the Scottish Highlands (minus the black pudding and beans for breakfast, mind you). For the past three years, this has been my birthday ritual-pancakes at Pisgah Inn followed by a hike at Black Balsam (or Graveyard Fields). It is peaceful and fulfilling in a way that seems genetically appropriate-which is to say, my ancestors hail from the very part of Scotland I visited, and Scottish settlers called this region of Appalachia home long ago, so, it is well with my soul, to be here, in this place, on the day of my birth.
In other news, here’s a smattering of this and that’s that caught my attention recently:
*The cabbageworms wiped out my brassicas this year, twice over. Next year (or maybe even for my fall garden), it’s all about the row cover.
*Karen Solomon has done it again, this time with a new book on Asian Pickles.
*Love the idea of making these DIY leather earrings for loved ones.
*Baking Tara’s blueberry crisp as soon as I publish this round-up.
*Got mosquitos? Battle them by planting and growing all-natural repellant plants.
*Go immediately and enter this AMAZING giveaway, offering all of these things (including a full set of my Homemade Living books series!):
1) One $200 Gift Certificate to Local Harvest
2) One “Locally Grown” t-shirt, graciously donated by Fed by Threads
3) One Preserving by the Pint book, graciously donated by Marisa McClellan
4) One set of autographed Homemade Living Series books, graciously donated by Ashley English
5) One The Art of Gardening: Building Your Soil eBook, graciously donated by Susan of Learning and Yearning
*Wonderful blog post on the Evocative Power of Hands, by my dear friend Nicole.
*Tim’s Tabbouleh is infinitely adaptable to whatever inspires you at the farmer’s market or in your garden.
*Six ways to preserve summer’s bounty (there’s much more to preserving than just canning!).
*This lovely U.K.-based crafting blog is giving away 5 (!!!) copies of my book Handmade Gatherings!
*Just discovered Dig This Chick and am seriously enjoying getting to know it.
*I need some Sweet Cherry Chutney in my life.
The forecast for rain continues all weekend. Taking Huxley to a toddler ninja class in the morning. He’ll be pumped! Then we’ll likely make a beeline for the North Asheville Tailgate Market, and the Farm & Sparrow tent specifically. I dream about their pastries all week. Glenn’s younger sister, Pam, and her three children Sophie (15), Sam (12), and Zeke (8) are visiting, so the weekend will otherwise include much cousin hang time for Huxley. He loves those kids so much, calling Sam and Zeke his brothers, or, to be phonetically specific, his “brudders” (he’s remarkably gifted at enunciation, but there are a few works he says in the sweetest kid way, this being one of them. “Brek-tist”, for “breakfast”, is another. I almost don’t have the heart to correct him. He’ll say it right eventually, but for now, brudders and brektist it is!).
Wherever you go this weekend, whatever you do, and whomever you do it with, may it be grand!
*I post a photo of Huxley in my What I’m Digging round-ups because, truly, he’s what his Papa and I dig the most. We finally discovered our amazing community pool this week (after only 7 years of living here, sheesh!). This ice cream treat at The Hop was a post inaugural swim treat (not seen, my and Glenn’s banana splits-each of us-off camera). He begins swimming lessons there on Monday and is beyond excited to swim “like a fishie”!
*When I’m working on a new book, as I am now, I sometimes just don’t get around to posting here as regularly as I’d like. Such is life. You can always keep up with me on Instagram, though. And if you’re not on there, you can still see my captioned images by clicking on the photos on the left column here titled “Instagram.”
I have long been an avid practitioner of delayed gratification. For what feels like, well, always, when considering adding something new to my life, be it a pair of shoes, a new coat, or something really simple, like a new bar of soap, I hem and haw and take an unduly long time to finally commit to the new purchase. It’s not that I haven’t made up my mind. I definitely know I want whatever is in question. It’s just taking the leap to moving it from something I pine for to something I have actually acquired can be a long, drawn out process.
My penchant for delaying the inevitable can also sometimes extend to the cinematic and literary domains. If there’s a film I am absolutely certain I wish to view, or a t.v. show that’s clearly got “Ashley” written all over it, I can take forevvvvvvvvvver to finally head to the theater or settle into the couch and flip on the remote. Who knows why. The answer for that isn’t for me to determine. It’s simply a trait about myself that I know, and have long known, and truly, sincerely appreciate that others can tolerate and even embrace (Glenn, I’m looking at you).
When it’s a book in question that has attracted my attention, I am so very torn. A wordsmith myself, when I encounter text that deeply resonates with me, I want to consume it whole, in one sitting, while simultaneously wanting/allowing/wishing for it to take months to turn over the final page. Jenna Woginrich’s newest book, Cold Antler Farm (also the name of her homesteading blog), tore me into competing camps. A chronicle of a year in her life, closely tethered to the Earth and to the seasons as it is, is luminously and humorously penned. It is captivating and heart-wrenching and candid-my literary holy trinity. As such, I had a hard time finishing it, and said as much in my back-of-the-book-jacket review.
In Cold Antler Farm, Jenna relays her story, as a small scale homesteader in Washington County, New York. It’s also the story, though, of countless generations before her. Of those whose lives were measured in hours of sunlight and stores of food in the root cellar, of calve births and harvest moons. It taps into a time both wholly new to many in the modern world and yet timeless and ancient. It is lovely and stirring and poignant and I kept closing it up, so as to draw out its splendor for yet another day.
Today is Jenna’s birthday. Tomorrow is mine. As such, we are both Cancerians, as well as, with this new book of hers, Roost “sisters.” We’re two of a kind, she and I. If we lived a bit closer, I have no doubt we would swallow cider frequently (we’d make it together in autumn, of course, just like she shares in her book), and carve pumpkins on one another’s porches, and let our dogs chase each other, and cheer on each other’s successes and mourn each other’s challenges and travails. As it is, we do that digitally.
Today, let’s celebrate Jenna. It’s her day, after all. How about a giveaway? Roost has generously offered to give a copy of Cold Antler Farm to one small measure reader. I promise, you’ll equally not want to put it down and find any excuse to do so, to draw out its tale. To enter the giveaway, just leave a comment below about your favorite season, or month of the year. For me, it’s October and all of autumn. The fact that my sweet Huxley was born both in my most beloved month and during my favorite season endures him to me all that more.
I’ll run the giveaway for one week, concluding July 17th, midnight EST. Please leave a means of contacting you in your reply, should you be the winner (email addresses are visible only to me). Even if you don’t win, do check out Jenna’s book. It’s one for the ages, truly. Happy birthday, soul sister!
Image from here.
You can get a pretty good sense about a person by finding out where they fall on the camping spectrum. There are those that keep a tent and sleeping bag in their car trunks, ever ready to pitch camp for the night, and those that abhor even the thought of making a temporary fort in the backyard with a sheet tied to tree limbs. A childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood peppered with camping experiences has left me pretty much dead center when it comes to the school of sleeping outside. Tales of ecstasy and agony alike informed my opinion, and when summer falls, I recall those experiences with both dismay and delight.
My childhood was a humble one. Summers weren’t spent at riding camp or on tennis courts, but in the woods, at the beach, or otherwise outdoors at whatever public, free locale we happened to be living near. Camping, therefore, was an inexpensive, accessible activity that my mother’s modest budget could accommodate. When I was around age 6-7, she, my brother, myself, and a church group headed to Crabtree Falls, Virginia to take in the falls, set up camp, and enjoy the scenery. Or that was the plan, at least. Instead, I got the stomach flu (as did a good number of our fellow sporting life parishioners) and my brother got a fishing lure caught in his hand. Good times.
Years later, over summer break in hot, hot eastern North Carolina, mom decided camping was just what we needed to find our collective solace. Our tent pitched at Cliffs of the Neuse State Park in Seven Springs, NC, my brother and I tried to unwind. Instead, mom thought it would be a good idea for us to dig a small swimming hole. With a shovel, he and I took turns digging a hole then lined it with a plastic shower curtain liner we’d brought along for rain cover, and schlepped bucket after bucket of water up from the Neuse River itself. Our bodies weary, we retreated to our tents that evening seeking a rejuvenating sleep but were instead kept up all night by marauding raccoons.
What turned the tide for me, though, and brought camping into the like (and not loathe) arena, was an epic road trip with my friend Bonner in 2003. She was leaving Asheville, headed to graduate school in the San Francisco Bay area. In exchange for driving cross-country with her, she’d offered to purchase my return flight home (she didn’t tell me we’d be in a stick shift older model Honda, with no AC, in August, until I’d already agreed). Driving thru scorching sun in the middle of a nationwide heat wave offered its fare share of challenges, greatest among them being the car’s transmission dying just as we were about to traverse Idaho’s southern desert-like climate.
Our saving grace, however, were the camping grounds we patronized. We’d drive all day, as far as we desired. Calling it a day, we’d see where we were, open up the hefty copy of “Woodall’s Camping Grounds Guide to North America” we’d brought along, find a spot, and pitch our tent. From Sioux City, Iowa to the beaches of Northern California, we covered the country’s campgrounds. Along the way, we took in the Badlands, Mt. Rushmore, Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons, the Columbia River Gorge, northern California’s coastal Hwy. 101, and the Golden Gate Bridge itself. It was epic, to be sure.
Our adventure was packed with crisis and confusion and laughter and sweat and tears of abundant happiness. My father is convinced there’s an epic, award-winning novel and film in there. I’m convinced the reason I continue to take pleasure in putting down the stakes, raising the roof, rolling out the sleeping bag, and delighting in the pleasures of sleeping under the stars is embedded in that trip. Camping season is in full swing. Whether you decide tents to be friend or foe is up to both circumstance and perspective. Either way, you’re destined to have memories to consider and tales to tell for years to come.
*This piece was originally penned for my July column in Verve. Sadly, I learned over the weekend that Verve ended publication with last month’s issue. I truly loved writing essays and memoir style pieces during my 2 1/2 year tenure with the magazine, and am hoping to keep that spirit alive here with similar posts.