Jenmenke

Road Warrior

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It Smells Like Worms

It’s raining (again). It’s been raining for day upon endless day in Minnesota. Well, except for last weekend. We had a nice weekend.

Before today I was at 6+ inches for the month. I emptied about 1″ out of my rain gauge this morning and there is no end in sight

So, is it my imagination, or can I really smell the worms? Even when I walk outside, there is this humid wormlike smell to the air. I swear to Heaven above that I am accurate in my olfactory. It is the worms I smell.

To further prove my point, I have driven my car two times today. I try to avoid the thousands of outstretched bodies on the road. I swerve like a maniac trying to avoid their helplessness, all the while thinking of that movie where Brad Pitt is in some Buddhist village trying to build a shrine (or something) and the workers can’t do the work because they can’t kill any worms.

What in Buddha’s name would a Buddhist do on a day like today? Driving in a car? Driving over thousands of worms?

It would truly be a moral dilemma.

After all, it’s a dilemma even for me. And I’m just a gardener.

And then I park my car in my garage and go inside.

Then I go back in my garage to get in my car and I almost keel over. It’s that same smell as outside, only ten times stronger:

Worms!

And I imagine I am smelling all the worm guts in the tire treads and thrown up on the undercarriage and spewn all over the exterior of the car. (I know that’s gross, but it makes sense, doesn’t it?)

It’s worms I smell.

THE AGONY OF DEFEAT

FIFA World Cup, Watertown. Minnesota. June 27, 2010

I have long been known for two things by my nieces and nephews (aside from the obvious abject sarcasm): fancy birthday cakes and themed birthday parties for Charlie in June. Given that they are mostly all grown up now, I assumed — wrongly — that they would meet my new passivity with joy. No more feigned excitement over winning a squirt gun for hula-hooping the longest. No more wading through a glossy coating of spit-strewn fondant to reach the cake.

Win, win. Right?

Wrong, as usual.

My niece Megan called me the day before Charlie’s birthday to ask me what ‘the Theme’ for the party was. “Really,” I asked? “Cuz if you don’t have one, I do,” she said.

WORLD CUP. You know, since just about all of the kids play soccer.

It was a great idea, I admitted. If only a little freakish because The Pioneer Woman, who I both adore and despise, because she seems a lot like me — only about ten times nicer and more sincere — recently posted something about her family playing backyard soccer something akin to the World Cup.

Whatever. I can’t let the blog-o-sphere dictate my life, can I? World Cup it was.

2 v 2. Five minute games. No prisoners.

As the hostesses, Morgan and I agreed to be partners as Team Mexico:

And were quickly eliminated.

Knowing the birthday boy’s propensity to pout when losing, we paired him with his talented Uncle Bennett and called them Team USA.

And they won.

…course, their bracket wasn’t too tough, having played Team Mexico early in Round one…

In the middle, were Team Belgium (dictated by Granny’s festive attire — don’t pay any attention to her complaining. She thought we were being too hard on her.)

Paired with her favorite oldest grandson, who had much trouble with bad reffing calls:

Team Sweden: two blond-haired blue-eyed specimens

That struck terror in their opponents with one talented striker…

…and one defensive goon.

And, the dichotomous Team Amsterdam, named for their flashy and somewhat questionable attire:

And also because, like their namesake, they entertained us all day long:

It was a hot, fun day. Tacos for dinner and home-made Buster Bars in lieu of cake, since Charlie didn’t “feel too good for cake” that day.

Also these little morsels of desire:

The Famous Bootleg:

Blend 1 can lemonade and 1 can limeade with one bunch of mint until mint is very fine. Reserve syrup in a pitcher. To make drink, add clear liquor of choice (vodka, gin or rum) with equal amount of syrup and top off with club soda and lots of ice.

Pam’s Caprese Appetizer:

My friend Pam made these for my birthday celebration, and honestly, I had never seen them served this way. I fell in love and have served this to everyone who has stepped in my door in the last two weeks. Slice mozzarella thin, add one leaf basil, top with a slice of tomato. Sprinkle with kosher salt and fresh ground pepper. Pop one after another into your mouth until you get self conscious.

But ultimately the best part of the day, aside from celebrating Charlie, himself, was watching my mom out on that “soccer field” running around like a crazy woman

Something tells me she’s not gonna like all this attention, but I just had to share these pictures. She looks damn good. She would look damn good for being almost 60, but she’s almost 70!

I get my looks from her.

The Trouble with Blue Fescue

I Hate To Say “I Told You So,”

So I’ll say “I told him so.”

(Yes, I mean Dave.)

Two summers ago, when we did some new plantings around the house (after 13 years of living here), Dave was set on Blue Fescue in a large area back by the pool. Having dabbled in ornamental grasses for several years, I was dead set against it.

“No Blue Fescue.”

He (and the landscaper) wanted to know what my grudge was against the cute little grass, all spikey and feathery, depending on the time of year.

“Because it isn’t hardy here.”

Au contrair, said they.

“OK, well, even if it says ‘hardy to zone 4,’ I’ve grown it and it doesn’t thrive here. Even if it makes it through winter, it looks like shit.”

“Jennie, don’t swear.”

“Sorry. I just don’t like Blue Fescue, OK? Pick another plant.”

…back and forth and back and forth it went. Dave won. I lost. And we planted about 50 of the suckers.

Then we had a particularly rough winter. The nursery guaranteed the plants and we replaced over half of them. The … (I want you to know that Dave just walked by, looked over my shoulder, read the only sentence that he could see and said, “they don’t look like shit.” and we started the Blue Fescue argument all over again! He’s gone now, so I resume my diatribe.)

The following winter (this past winter) was one of the most gentle that we have ever had, due to the early, insulating layer of snow we had that lasted for the entire season. I had plants alive after the snow melted this year. That has never happened! And yet… this is how the Blue Fescue fared:

It is what I look out at everyday when I’m sitting on the can and it drives me absolutely batty. I’m sure that if it weren’t the view I contemplated for minutes at a time everyday, it would not bug me nearly as much, but there you have it.

It’s a beautiful plant when it thrives. This is it before it flowers

All spikey and blue-grey. Then it sends up its feathery seed heads and it takes on a completely different look of chartreuse green.

Which is of course much different than it’s normal, more subdued state in our yard:

Charming, no?

No.

It’s frustrating because Blue Fescue — this is Elijah Blue blue fescue — is supposed to be hardy to zone 4a. And maybe it is, who knows. I’ve always considered my garden to straddle the line between zones 3 and 4. But everything should have made it through last winter. I’d love to hear from others familiar with this plant. Maybe ‘Elijah Blue’ just hates ‘Jennie With The Pool.’

I’ll be having the Blue Fescue argument for many years to come, I suspect, because there isn’t another low-growing, petite ornamental grass that is hardy here. If it were up to me, I’d put the whole area into a five-foot high wave of miscanthus. (That’s the deeper green grass planted behind the fescue in one of the pictures above.) I love that grass, not just because it is beautiful when in bloom:

But because it is bulletproof.

And I love bulletproof plants. I’ll keep working on Dave. He may have won the round, but not the fight. And I never give up.

Make Way for Little Ducklings

Our Friday Adventure

I finally, finally finished cleaning the pool cover the other day. I had sopped off the dead worms and green algae well over a month ago, but I’d never finished. I like to scrub it all off so that when it rains on the cover I can just run that water into the pool without it being all dirty and gross. Usually that entails lots of towels and brushes. It’s a HORRIBLE job.

And don’t let this photo fool you. The child-labor thing was a once-in-a-lifetime event, taken back in 2008. I have never been able to duplicate it.

However, last year, I bought a fairly cheap little power washer. I’ve never had one of those before. Actually, to be honest, I gave it to Dave for Father’s Day. It’s a little trick of mine. I give gifts to people close to me that I want for myself. Then I try to tell them how much they will love it. When left idle for a week or so, I pounce on it and make it my own. The power washer was a brilliant gift. I went to town last year! And really, before you rise to Dave’s defense, consider that all my projects were like extra gifts to him. Really, it’s true. I was a busy beaver. (though I can’t find the pictures of the teak furniture I tackled with it to show you. oh well)

I haven’t used it much since last spring. I’d already gotten onto the pool cover in about 3 inches of water (which turns into about two feet of water once you step onto it and sink down, pulling all the surrounding water to the deepest point) and used a carwashing brush to scrub the whole thing, when I finally remembered we had a power washer. Duh.

I used the cover pump to pump the dirty water off and the power washer to direct it there. A totally new approach that ended up taking just as much time. But you know what I’m realizing?

WHO CARES?

My point is that the entire time I was doing this, I kept hearing this “bird”; first from one direction, then from another. I actually set down my tools on occasion to try to spot this “peeping” bird in the nearby trees. I never found it. Then, with about about a four foot radius left to clean, Charlie (out of school and bored) suddenly showed up and said “need some help?” Both kids are famous for showing up with ten minutes left of a two hour project, willing to help…

Lola, the dog, was all fired up about something in the area where the pool cover rolls up and finally Charlie says, “Mom, there are DUCKS in here!” So the entire time I was looking in the trees for the “bird” it was actually ducklings right under my feet as I stood on the diving board with the power washer. I seriously don’t know how I could have missed them.

Never did I see a mother duck, so I figured they had been abandoned. So, we set about fixing up a nice little home for them in an old rabbit hutch until we could figure something better out. I was thinking how funny it was, since a good friend had recently called to ask how to take care of a duckling. I told him how easy it was and then hung up thinking “Man, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that!” And here I was suddenly with not one or two, but NINE of them!

Charlie and I spent about an hour bringing the hutch down from the barn, outfitting it with a pond and rocks, a little kennel for shelter, food, bedding… And right about the time we were done, sure enough, a frantic Mallard mom starts circling overhead honking her head off. The ducklings went MENTAL trying to get out.

Moral conflict.

Should we let them out? Will she land? If she does, will she accept them? Oh! The angst!

I was thankful it was Charlie with me and not Morgan. Morgan would steal a baby AWAY from it’s mama if it meant she could keep it. Charlie was all torn up because the babies wanted out. So we undid all our hard work and they scurried away into the deep grass.

I watched for a long time, but never saw the mom come down. I was bummed because I wanted to capture it on camera and present a complete and happy ending to our story. But I can offer you this:

No cat has showed up with a baby duck.

That’s a happy ending, isn’t it?

Refinishing My Kitchen Table

One of the Busy Beaver projects

I’m only posting this to brag.

No really. I’m only posting this because I found it extremely frustrating that I could not find information to help me on the internet. I googled “how many coats of polyurethane…” and “should I sand until smooth…” and umpteen different combinations of similar search strings to get my answer. I found many good websites with very detailed instructions on how to get the perfect polyurethane finish. But none to answer my specific question.

Admittedly, I’m not an expert google-er, but I can usually find what I want. Not this time. I was left to fend for myself, which was actually pretty scary, given the time I had already invested in the project.

Here’s the deal. (I didn’t take any ‘before’ pictures of the table):

We have an antique square oak table that I love. I can put five leaves in it and fit twelve people around it. The table came to me beautifully finished and the top surface has lasted 14 years of use and abuse. But starting about a year ago, I realized that I should refinish the top and get a new coat of polyurethane on it because it had chipped in several places.

I chose to do it this past week, because Dave was going to be out of town and I knew that due to the kids’ schedules, we wouldn’t be sitting down to eat during that time. The table wouldn’t be needed.

Perfect, right?

It would have been, if the crazy Minnesota weather hadn’t decided to shoot to new records in temperature and humidity. That set me back a couple days, but I did turn the air on in the house (a rare event) and was able to soldier on.

I used some ancient wood stripper I had. I think I bought it before we moved into this house 14 years ago.

Amazingly, it worked great. I hate refinishing things, but since it was just the flat top surface of the table and nothing else, it really wasn’t all that hard.

After I scraped the stripper off, I used a stripping pad to get down into the grain of the wood.

After it was all off, the wood was quite rough and uneven and I set about sanding.

I also hate sanding.

I didn’t want to use the electric sander because of the dust and mess. I was really worried about sanding too much of the top layer off because I didn’t want the top to be a whole bunch lighter than the rest of the table, which I was going to leave as is. This was the crux of my issue and I couldn’t find an easy answer.

In my head, I assumed the polyurethane would fill the grain and create an even, mirror-like finish.

Not.

After about 5 coats (while the instructions on the container and the internet all conclude that 2-3 coats is sufficient), I realized I was going to have to sand again. I set about researching online to find out if this is advisable, etc., etc. I never found an answer.

But given that I didn’t like how it looked in reflected light, I figured ‘what the hell’. Worst case, I’ve got to start over.

(Admittedly, that was a pretty bad worst case, though.)

I used 220 grit sandpaper and went to town. I’m here to tell you that it worked great. Obviously, the five previous coats provided enough build-up/thickness to bring it all to an even level without completely sanding away the finish on the flat parts. I was so happy! I figured two more coats would be all I needed.

On what was to be the last day, the humidity had finally broken and I had opened the house up. Aaahhhh. I love that.

I went up to bed and decided at the last minute to put the final coat on so that it would be dry in the morning. It was to be a fateful decision.

It’s hard to see the brush strokes at night because there isn’t light coming in through the window to reflect the surface. In my final check using the overhead light I was perplexed to see weird bumps and imperfections. I got on my knees to get a better look as saw…

BUGS.

The entire surface was peppered with minuscule  bugs that had come in when I opened the doors to the screen porch.

That was two nights ago. I’m still working on it. At least I now know you can aggresively sand polyurethane!

I hate sanding.

What a Difference a Day Makes

In Minnesota, anything is possible. Anything with the weather, that is. On Saturday, I laid in bed, reading, working on my computer, happy. The weather map showed a great big sunshine with a high of 83. Not sure why that was, because out my window it was windy, cold, and 48 degrees. And then, in true Minnesota fashion, by Sunday it was humid and 90.

While much of the time I tend to be unmotivated and lazy, I go through periods of high activity. I call it my Busy Beaver mode. I do all kinds of things that have been nagging away at me. Like my ironing.

Kidding. I never do my ironing.

I’m talking about stuff like re-caulking, stripping my kitchen table, grinding the edge of a paver that heaved over the winter. Fixing my stove. Stuff like that.

So I’ve been in Busy Beaver mode for almost a week now. And let me tell you: these things are really better left undone. Laziness has it virtues. Consider this:

  1. The caulk I spent 2 hours applying and perfecting, apparently is bad or expired. Apparently this happens (google “silicone won’t dry” and see for yourself). You have to take it all off and re-do it with new caulk. Shoot me now, because that sounds more pleasant than re-caulking.
  2. I began stripping the kitchen table on a cold and windy Saturday. I applied the first coat of polyurethane on Sunday — when it was 88 degrees and about 75% humidity. Needless to say, it is still wet.
  3. The three hours I spent taking apart my gas cooktop, in order to *finally* figure out why the back burner wasn’t working resulted first in triumph: “I think I finally know what’s wrong with it!!” And was quickly followed by despair: “The part you are looking for has been discontinued by the manufacturer and cannot be replaced.” Calls to obsolete parts stores and online searching resulted in a big fat nuthin’.

Shouldn’t we feel rewarded for our efforts? It seems as though I’m being punished.

Getting to the point of my post: because of these tasks, I neglected to go out to the garden for one day. One stinkin’ day. I last picked the asparagus on Saturday afternoon, mind you. It had been left on its own for 36 hours. This is what I was presented with this morning:

Eee gads. At this point I think, “Oh the Hell with it, I’m just gonna let go to seed. I’m sick of it anyway.” But then the other side of my very active brain says, “But Sharon and the rest of the family will be counting on boatloads of asparagus over Memorial Day weekend…”

And so I set about crushing beetles and picking the good spears. Much of it I left to go to seed. It’ll happen over the weekend while we are gone anyway, I would guess.

In other gardening news, I feel like a farmer when I say this, but: I got my beans and corn in!

I still have to get the cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, squash, melons and zucchini planted. That seems like a long list… It IS a long list, though I do tend to wait until after Memorial day to plant the tomatoes, peppers and eggplant plants (Remember: anything can happen in Minnesota with regard to the weather). I know what you are thinking, and yes, the seeds should have been in the ground a week or two ago I can’t help it. I’ve been busy. It’ll be fine.

Then, I just have to remember to update my garden notebook with where everything is planted so I remember for next year. It’s funny how if I don’t do it right away when I’m first planting the garden, it just never gets done.

I always mean to note planting dates, first harvest dates, notes about growing conditions, pests, etc. I’ve been keeping the notebook since 1998. It’s been 12 years. I’m still working on it. In fact, I’m gonna go get it right now and update it. Hopefully, I won’t get distracted by something on my way…