The Yellow House

I’m going to talk about mushrooms first, because I have, like, a lot of mushrooms at my house right now. Long-time readers will remember that Ben and I started growing shiitake mushrooms, kind of as a hipster-homestead-hobby, a few years ago (yeesh, I just went and found the post–it was almost five years ago). I haven’t written any more about it here, but we’ve kept it up, and find ourselves officially between a hobby and being quit-your-day-job shiitake mushroom growers.

You don’t really start working so much with mushrooms unless you’re going a little crazy or falling in love with them or both. Mushrooms are mysterious. When people visit our little mushroom operation, they struggle a bit with vocabulary to ask questions: “So you plant…the mushroom…spores?” Humans are generally conversant with ideas of roots and flowers and seeds, but we are not so everyday-equipped with terms like mycelium or spawn run.

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Snowed in, for the second day in a row. We’re keeping busy digging the birds out of the 16 inches of snow and trying to keep water un-frozen. (They–the chickens in particular–hate the snow, so it’s pretty hilarious to watch them dubiously eyeing the precipitation and then deciding to stay in.) Inside, other folks might be baking cookies or braising short ribs, but I’m roasting cauliflower. For the third time in a week.
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We headed to the mountains for Thanksgiving, holeing up in a cabin for the long weekend. A fire crackled every day, all day long. We ate. We tromped through the woods. Louise and I don’t get to see our dad as much as we’d like, but it’s nice to see how we’re still very much his daughters, despite the distance, despite growing older. The three of us took our cups of coffee—all black—for a morning hike. I don’t know many other people who’d set off to scramble up rocks and ford mountain streams with a porcelain coffee mug in one hand. But we all did, heading out the door without giving it a second thought. I reignited a long-standing love affair with the textures of moss and lichens, gathered up pinecones and acorns (to explain to my 3-year-old step-nephew: “These are oak tree seeds, and these are Christmas tree seeds…”), and read a ’90s essay by Joan Didion.And when I got bored with that, Louise entertained me with her newest tricks. Family, food, mountains, lichens, books, and the coolest little sister: I have a lot for which to be grateful. Hope you had a good holiday, too.

I know, I know: enough with the squash already, woman! My only response is to humbly ask that you remind me, next year, in the event that my gentleman friend and I plant separate gardens again, to not both plant summer squash. On paper, in my garden notebook, it seemed a great idea to proudly only include native, heirloom varieties in my own garden, turning my nose up at the plain ol’ crooknecks Ben was planting. Now it’s summer, and I’ve got a changed heart and an armful of squash.

So! More squash.
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The site that hosts my photos is having some issues, so we’re currently picture-less here. As much as I am panicking concerned about the fate of my data, I’m more distraught thinking about any people who might have wandered over here after receiving Julie’s veggie e-newsletter that featured my bok choy stirfry. What a bad first impression! I’m trying to get to the bottom of this, so please bookmark and come back soon. –S

Update: We’re back! Picture issues were related to the Amazon outages today. Thanks for your patience! –S