Many New Englanders dread winter and muddle through it with a sort of grudging resignation, mixed with stir-crazy frustration and patches of downright hatred. Others leave. But we love winter in Maine. After years of living in Anchorage, where days are short, sunlight scarce, and glum gray skies the norm, the constantly changing, brilliant winter skies here are a continual–and still unexpected–delight.
Soon after the leaf colors fade, the skies come alive. October and November seem to produce the year’s most brilliant sunrises and sunsets.
They linger with changing colors, highlighting the gorgeous filigree of our leafless oaks and maples.
October’s morning fog settles in the valleys below us, revealing folds in the hills that are otherwise obscured.
These months also bring wind–and weather–from all directions.
Massive fronts move over us, the edges of which are often visible as a line on the horizon.
Hills on the bottom, clouds on top, with a sliver of light in between. This was a particularly ominous looking front that ended just at the edge of the ocean over our hills. The smudge in the middle is rain.
The end of October treated us to a massive wind storm. Fortunately, we had enough warning to prepare and cover our equipment and bring in outdoor furniture.
Alice knew something was going on when the deck furniture disappeared.
There were lots of bluejays seed-gathering before the storm came in.
It was quite a dramatic show on hillside, with whipping winds and sideways rain.
Storm coming in.
The oak leaves were blown horizontal. And then stripped.
Unfortunately, along with much of the state’s population, we lost our electrical power early on. We have a wood stove for heat, propane for cooking, and candles and battery lamps for lighting. Our water is from a well on our property, pumped by electrical power, so we have no water when the power goes out. But the town provides water from a tap at the fire station, so it’s not too much of an inconvenience.
Our real worry was our two freezers, packed to their brims with garden produce, sauces, and meat for the winter. George pulled out the portable generator that we had from our RV days, which managed to keep the two freezers going and to charge our phones and computers. We went four days without power. Not bad compared to others in the state, and nothing compared to Puerto Rico, but enough time, nevertheless, to remind us to appreciate all the little luxuries that power brings.
On the day after the storm–Halloween–the bees were bringing in huge loads of orange pollen.
We had a small birch come down on our woodpiles.
Hydrangeas were ripped off of their stalks …
… where they gathered in an eddy by the porch. Otherwise, we had little damage.
Our street lost power because of a beautiful old maple that fell across the power lines.
It was a magnificent old tree, turning brilliant red in the fall. I always wanted to get a good photo of it for the blog, but couldn’t because the power lines ran right across the tree, ruining any chance of a good shot.
Now most of the tree is gone, taking the lines with it—temporarily—but leaving one beautiful back portion as a reminder of is previous glory.
Soon after the power returned, and we were getting back to normal, I was excited to learn of an antique flax break for sale. I have been looking for one since spring, with no luck at all. This one came up at an auction in Massachusetts, where they were selling pieces from the American Textile History Museum, which sadly closed last year. I wasn’t able to attend the auction, but a fellow spinner and wheel collector from the online group, Ravelry, was there and offered to bid for me and the bring the wheel home with her. I couldn’t believe it when I had the winning bid of less than half of what I was willing to pay for it.
Aside from a few worm holes, the break is in good condition and nice manageable size.
It’s rather depressing to the see the museum collection scattered all over the place at auction, but nice to know that many of the pieces are going to spinners who will use and appreciate them.
George has been making me peg boards for hanging yarn. It’s beginning to look like my own museum.
To make room for my new flax break, I took down the drying rack that had been full up with mustard pods.
The first batch. I ended up with about five times this amount.
I grew two very small rows of mustard this summer, for a mustard-making experiment.
Mustard’s on the left.
The pods had been drying for months and it was easy to crush them with a rolling pin, leaving the seeds.
The difficult part was separating the pod chaff from the seeds. I winnowed them in the wind outside and then handpicked pieces out.
I got most of the chaff out by sifting through colanders.
It wasn’t too tedious because I only had about 2/3 of a cup of seeds when all was said and done.
But the pods are spiny little devils. Next year, I will have to find a more efficient and less prickly way of cleanly separating the seeds from the mess of pod bits.
I tried two different mustard recipes—one with white wine and vinegar and maple syrup, and the other with apple cider, cider vinegar, honey and coriander. The initial tasting was pretty good. They are now “working” in the refrigerator, where the flavor is supposed to develop and mature. If they turn out as well as I think they will, I am going to grow more mustard next year. We don’t use it as a condiment, but do cook with it, and it’s fun to be able to experiment with exotic mustard flavors. I will have horseradish ready to harvest next year. Horseradish mustard—yum.
The dogs enjoyed Thanksgiving, with a fat Turkey and all the trimmings.