Back Porch Farm

A sure sign of Falls to come: Isla heading to the car for her first day of school - first EVER!

What is it about bread dough that acts as a tractor beam for pinching fingers of all sizes? Sure, it’s stretchy, slightly warm and velvety soft…. but I wasn’t making wheat bread – I was making a gluten-free variety, much more reminiscent of cookie dough without the sugar or chocolate chips. But no matter, Isla’s appetite for dough is insatiable. And I understood where she got it from as a passing Papa reached in for a finger full. When I am consuming bread, I don’t miss the lack of wheat as much as when I am baking it myself; I have been wheat and/or gluten free off and on for several decades, so I am pretty used to it. But sometimes….. it just plain sucks. Like when I want a hearty calamata olive sourdough to dip in olive oil…. or when we want to make little shapes to bake on sheets. The bread glop was rising in pans (hard to call it dough), so Isla and I brushed off our aprons, and the bits of flour dust from our wool sweaters. Wool sweaters? But it’s only September 5th! That may be true but it was also 44 degrees this morning.

Fall is my favorite time of year – always has been. There is something bitter sweet about it, a slight melancholy, mixed with an exciting wiggling of the stomach. The wiggling is due to my intense love for this approaching season and my excitement of it’s arrival! The melancholy is due to the depressing knowledge it will be over and past oh so soon, with frigid white Winter in it’s place. I have such sweet memories of Autumn from the different places I have lived. In the days of living in a little off-grid cabin in the back woods of New Hampshire, I would stoke up the Shenandoah barrel wood stove and settle back on my cozy sofa to listen to the familiar voices of NPR. Steaming, pressed coffee in hand, my 2 Maine Coon cats vying for position (Sylvester usually drooped his 17 lbs of fluff over my shoulders while Cecil curled demurely in my lap), I would stare into the flames, wondering when my 14 grain, boat-anchor pancakes would hit my colon, washed into place by my strong black brew, and together send me tromping in felt-lined Sorrels to the outhouse. Fortunately, it was one of the nicest outhouses I’d ever had the pleasure to experience. There was a nice stack of reading material on the double-seater bench, several candles, a blanket to throw over shoulders when the trip took more time than planned for, and best of all, a big, arched, picture window looking out on the drifting red and gold leaves of Autumn. That outhouse was lovely in the Fall. As far as Winter goes, I had learned by trial and error. I bought a fuzzy topped, rubber bottomed bathroom rug and cut the perfect sized hole in it. After adding a hanging loop, I could grab it from beside the wood stove on my way to do my leaf peeping, drape it over the frigid seat, and voila! Fuzzy and warm (and easy to wash)!

I brought this rug system to the high deserts of the northern New Mexico mountains (a fresh rug I assure you) when I moved onto my newly purchased mesa lot without a house. A few weekends and a handful of friends had me sneezing my way into an un-mudded, 9x13ft, strawbale hovel, without foundation, and of course without electricity or running water (why change?). But with the addition of a sweet little parlor stove, it was plenty warm. In fact, I could burn a few pieces of trash and it would stay warm for hours. Straw bale structures rocks! And after the application of a few coats of mud inside and out (dug from right out in the yard), my sneezing ceased.

Fall in New Mexico is a very different animal than the Fall in New England with the brilliant colors that leave one weeping from the absolute beauty of the sight. Wood smoke on the air is a given everywhere, but other smells and sights vary drastically. Here in Taos, our biggest harbinger of fall is the smell of roasting chilies. It is a smell that is difficult to describe but gives me that exciting wiggling feeling in my stomach. It always surprises me as I drive through town and see the familiar faces, dark and carved from years of hard work in the chili fields, sitting in the shade of their stall canopies, in the same spot, year after year. Already? Really? But it’s only… oh… the end of August. They fire up their propane roasters, dump in a bushel of shiny green Hatch chilies, and crank the handle slowly while the peppers blister and pop, blackening unevenly along their sensuous surfaces. And the smell is quite simply… heaven.

In place of the flaming maples, we have a kinder, gentler color shift in our quaking aspens from a Spring green to a rich, deep gold.  Shooshing down a single track trail on my bike, rooster tail of golden confetti behind me, is one of my greatest pleasures. We always make a point to hike to our favorite aspen grove in Fall, trying to time it perfectly for the optimal balance of leaves on the ground and leaves on the trees. And then we lie prone on our back, dizzy from the swirling of gold against the dark blue mountain sky, breathing deeply of the primal pungency of rotting wood and leaves, burbling mountain streams, and spongy moss.

Our favorite aspen grove

Mostly chantrelles from this trip

Whereas my New England Falls were all about color, there are more activities associated with my Southwestern Falls. We often head out into the damp, loamy mountains in late August for a wild mushroom treasure hunt. We stick with what we know: king or aspen boletes and apricot colored chantrelles. Then we spend the remainder of the day slicing and drying our haul. Pinion nuts is another wild harvest we partake in. The odd thing about pinion trees is that their nut cycle is a 7 yr one. 3 years ago was the last time our area had a good harvest. I was pregnant with Isla, but still enthusiastic to spread large tarps under the trees and give them a vigorous shaking. Dry roasting in a cast iron skillet and salting is the best way to prepare them. And then you sit down to the laborious process of shelling… which usually results in eating…. which means we have yet to be left with any nuts for pesto. But they are damn good for snacking. Cutting firewood is another Fall activity I always look forward to. Last year we were let in on a friend’s secrete stash – a fire burned area where there was a large amount of dead and standing timber. As the trees had been killed by forest fire, the wood had not grown punky as the beetle kill forests had. We always go for pinion and juniper as they burn the longest and smell the best. The sound of a chain saw is a sure sign of Fall, as is the growing pile of split and stacked wood on the west side of our house.

A lovely early fall hike in our New Mexican mountains

And what is Fall without our annual 4-day raft/canoe trip down the San Juan River? My favorite cottonwood tree is at the group campsite in the mouth of Comb Wash. It is GLORIOUS in October! For 3 yrs we participated in the Halloween “Pumpkin trip” with a group of friends from Durango. We all carved our pumpkins at Comb Wash and lined them up along the foot thick horizontal limbs of the old cottonwood, the tree blazing in fall color to match the glowing Jack-O-lanterns it held. We are looking forward to resuming this ritual next Summer when Isla is another year older.

Looking down on the Comb Wash campsite

The Jack-O-Lanterns march along the massive cottonwood limb

But there were the associated activities in New Hampshire too, of course. My favorite apple orchard, Gould Hill in Hancock, was not to be missed. Driving up the narrow, frost heaved, road to the orchard was like passing through the gates of Autumn. They had the best little lunch box MacIntoshes I have ever puckered my lips for! And later in the season, once the leaves were grounded and brown with a dusting of frost, the bike shop I wrenched at, Peddlin’ Fool Bike Shop, would lead a sugaring ride. This involved linking together several maple sugar farms via single track and carriage roads (as little pavement as possible), all which would be evaporating their harvest that day. The last farm of the ride would serve us up pancakes with hot maple syrup fresh off the fire. It doesn’t get much better than that! And the blueberries… OH the BLUEBERRIES! That was in late Summer/early Fall, and I can remember once getting lost off-trail in over the head-high bushes, my stomach aching from fullness, heavy tub of purple velvet berries in my arms. Heck! Where was the friggin trail? Obviously I survived, but it was a bit more excitement than I had planned for! And oh my, those downhill descents on fire roads blanketed with fallen acorns. Ever ridden your bike over a field of ball bearings? Might as well have been on a unicycle as it was ALL about balance. Reminded me of riding the iced-over snow mobile trails with studded tires in mid January. Those were the days! My younger days, I assure you. Besides, in the Rocky Mountains, we have powder – not boiler plate melt and re-freeze snow. There is no winter biking on trails here. That’s when the tele skis come out!!

But today it was wool… lots of wool. I always overdo it the first day. The thermometer read an afore mentioned chilly 44 and Isla and I were on dog walking duty as Randy was sick in bed (Isla’s first-day-of-school cold had finally clobbered him too). I donned my favorite stretch corduroy pants, merino wool long john shirt, merino wool zip neck sweater, cashmere butt skirt and merino wool socks. This was all topped with a merino wool vest. Isla had hand-me-down red fleece pants (which were immediately covered in cat fur), turtleneck shirt, felted wool vest, merino wool socks, and a winter coat. And with Molly’s lead in hand we were ready and willing….. and sweating bullets within a hour. But it was still fun…. to pretend Winter was here. After our walk we visited with the chickens for a bit, chatting with the baby chicks and the teenagers, Isla in a continuous commentary: “Hi yiddle Dot. How you today? Hi Orpy. You have a yot of poop stuck on your butt. Yook Mama! Mona yet me pet her! Hi Roxy! Can I hold a peep Mama?” God she loves her chickens. And then a hello to the garden and the pond fish, and we kicked off farm shoes at the door and started to prepare breakfast.

I dream of having a fiber farm one day…. of having crates of buttery soft, sensuous wool to roll in. Seriously. I am talking merino, cashmere, yak, angora rabbit, and alpaca. No run of the mill sheep for my sensitive skin. And of sitting in front of a fire on a chilly day like today, wrapped in fluffy creations from my own needles and loom, all harvested from my dear animal family, 20 ft away. Often my dreams come to fruition so I have learned not reign them in.

Since starting this post, almost 3 weeks ago, we have had our first snow on Taos Mountain, our first frost on the pumpkins (which are pathetically small and few), and I even had to scrape ice off my windshield before an early morning solo hike. Fortunately, nothing has yet been damaged in the garden, and the forecast shows an indefinite Indian Summer ahead. If I could find the time to drape the tomato trellis with plastic, toss some handfuls of straw over the kale and carrots, perhaps a quick hoop house over the peppers, we could live off those and the upcoming potatoes for quite a while. I wish farming was as simple as I once thought it would be. But life always trips me up and the tomatoes fall from the vine to rot on the dirt. Then again, I don’t want to sell myself short either. We have many bags of kale, beet greens, turnip greens, and tomato sauce in the freezer, a half gallon jar of dried beans 3/4 full, and many frozen bags of pesto. And soon, I’ll add 20ish quarts of new sauerkraut and 1 box of honey to the list.

August harvest: I went out for dill to make sauerkraut and....

Yep! Fall is here. I can feel the wiggling in my stomach. And I am remembering that anxiety is part of the source along with the excitement. It is “putting food by” time of the year at Back Porch Farm and we are behind and overwhelmed once again. But prioritizing isn’t a bad thing if I can get the guilt out of the bottom-of-the-list items – especially the ones that get dropped completely. We will always be learning. All in good time.

So welcome the season, my favorite time of the year!