NUT BY NUT

IN BIRDLAND THE LACK OF A REAL WINTER IS BEGINNING TO BE A DISAPPOINTMENT. The warm, clear days are beautiful, sure, but I can't seem to dress for the weather, and I think we only had a fire in the wood stove once. I'm not sure it will be cold enough again to fire it up, and now it seems like a big waste of iron and space. I've been mulling over the difference between “putting things up for winter,” and hoarding. In the fall I collected baskets full of walnuts that fell from the tree in my yard, and bit by bit, have been shelling them. It's a lot of work—husking off the hulls (and dying my fingers a deep brown) and then cracking off the hard wooden shells. The outer husks come in various degrees of freshness, from a bright green (which still dyes my fingers dark) with a sharp, crisp scent—to a damp deep brown smelling of soil and rotting off the inner shell, leaving brown-black, sandy, wet crumbs all over my hands. Sometimes the hulls have dried to a firm, papery texture, and many of these I can slice with my nut-picker and open the halves with my thumbs, but often I have to just put them in the nutcracker, dried husk and all.

It's slow work, but I enjoy it. I generally watch a movie, or, better yet, listen to the radio while I'm picking the nuts—you have to keep a close watch, because even a small shard of shell in a bite of walnut is hard on the teeth. I freeze the nut meats, because they go rancid so quickly. Right now I have a half gallon in a jar in the deep freeze, and a smaller plastic container in the fridge freezer. I'm proud of my work, but over the holidays I got busy with other projects and put the nuts aside for awhile. When I finally returned to them, I brought up a half bushel up from the basement, where I had stored them. These were now dried, grey pods, and I set to work.

Imagine my dismay when the first one, then ten, then all but a few opened to reveal...no nuts. The shells cracked easily, but the meats had dried out to thin mahogany colored bits of paper. The essence of the nut—the oil, the flesh, the flavor—was gone, leaving only a paper cut out to remind us that the nut was there. All my hoarding was wasted.  

 I'd been using the nutshells to mulch my path up to the front door. Walnut trees give off toxins that kill other plants, and I'm not sure whether the toxins are in the shells and husks. I didn't want to add these to my regular compost for the garden, so I decided to use them where I don't want plants to grow. The walnut gravel makes a nice, brown texture on my path, but you can't walk on it barefoot. Nutshells are sharp! I sadly took my bowl of shells out and spilled them on the path, thinking how the nuts I have in the freezer will have to last me until fall, and, oh, how I love to bake with walnuts.

In the yard I still had a small pile of nuts left over after I had filled my two bushel baskets, but they had been outside all winter, such as the winter was this year. I didn't have much hope, but a few days later went out and collected them. These had mostly lost their hulls, and appeared damp. I thought I'd give it a try, and pulled out my heavy-duty nutcracker. Remember my dismay at the ruined nuts? Reverse it! These were fine. Fresh and plump and aromatic and sweet. I have learned that sharing with the squirrels in my yard is better than hoarding, at least when it comes to walnuts.

Store in Beauty; Share in Peace; Blessed Be.

A TALE OF TWO WALNUTS

 MANY YEARS AGO, WHEN WE FIRST MOVED TO THE COUNTRY, THE YARD WAS ALMOST TOO MUCH FOR US TO HANDLE. The house, itself, needed a lot of attention, and we agreed that first year, to tend to the house and let the yard work out its own details. We didn't consult with the yard to see which direction it might want to express itself, and we ended up with the jungle themed landscape, a forest of fifteen foot high ragweed, which cast a mysterious green light over the pathways to the house, to the barn. Chandra was five, and one day, helped his papa trim away some of the weeds. Michael was cutting down the tall stalks with pruning shears while my oldest “helped” by going all machete on the surrounding weeds using a stick as his blade. At that time we had no squirrels in the yard. I attributed the deficiency to the skills of the mighty huntress, Isis, but since then I have witnessed plenty of squirrels who manage to survive the dogs, and I realize now that the real cause was the absence of nut trees in the yard. Yet, somehow, a walnut had fallen into the weeds and sprouted. When Michael came upon the nutling, he carefully trimmed around it and carried on. But instead of a future tree, Chandra saw a worthy adversary of his own stature. Whap! Whist! Shoop! And the victor went on in search of new challenges. The little walnut tree lay on the ground, wilting and forlorn. As Micheal tells it, the tree was pretty well decapitated, and he figured it was gone, but somehow it sprouted anew, or maybe the damage was not as great as Michael feared. At any rate, the little tree grew straight and tall until the time when Chandra left for college, it was a real tree, growing above the housetop and helping to shade and cool us in the summer and break the wind in winter.

 About five years ago, the little tree produced nuts for the first time—just a handful—but it was enough to bring the squirrels to our yard, and Isis spent the last few years of her life tolerating them, while Ursa chased them madly around. They would frustrate my puppy endlessly by scampering up the trees, leaving her barkety-bark-bark below. Each year brought more nuts and more squirrels. Now the tree is perhaps entering its prime. I have collected bushels and bushels of walnuts from that one young tree. In the evenings I crack them carefully, with my heavy-duty cracker, which I sent for online. I've cracked so many that the bolt holding the spring mechanism split in two, and I had to replace it. A 60 cent bolt to repair a $70 nutcracker—the best money I've ever spent.

I think of Chandra's tree as I pack a box to send him for his birthday. It's hard to figure out what to send him, since he got so big and tall and can buy whatever he wants. Also, he recently told me about his ambition to pare down his the material stuff in his life, so I decided to go back to basics. I remembered what my friend, Emily, said when I gave her a basket of fancy chocolates for her birthday long ago: “I love consumable presents!” I went to the international food store and wandered around with a shopping basket, picking up items that I hoped would delight him: a little pot of lime blossom infused honey, a can of pulpitos (the little octopi we used to eat in Barcelona), a package of bagel-shaped sesame biscuits the size of a half-dollar, and packed in a tight cylinder of cellophane, and some fancy chocolates. At home I added some granola bars I made, plus the recipe, and a bag of walnuts from his tree. I added a note asking him to watch for shells. I try to be careful, but even with care I sometimes find some tiny shards of shell. Walnut is a hardwood; might as well be made of rock.

And now I wait with glee to hear that his box has arrived. It's scheduled for the day before his birthday. I think of him opening these modest little gifts, and contemplate how I want the gifts I give to delight, not burden my loved ones.

Give in Beauty; Share in Peace; Blessed Be.

RAIDING THE NEIGHBORS' TOMATO PATCH

Birdland is full of Fall.

BIRDLAND IS DAMP AND CHILLY AND FULL OF FALL. Leaves fall, walnuts fall, rain falls, temperatures fall. Night falls early and the day comes late. Last Monday I lay in bed and convinced myself that it was so dark when my alarm went off that surely it was time to set the clocks back again. It was nearing 7, and the sky was just lightening. But when I got up to check, instead of finding I had another hour to get ready for work, I discovered we still had a few weeks left of daylight savings time, and this morning I had to pay with my hopeful thinking by rushing to get ready for the day.

I don't know if I've mentioned it, but this year I just didn't have it in me to garden. Instead, I've been keeping my eye on the tomatoes at Barb and Dave's house. They have the best tomato patch with assorted varieties. Big, chunky salad tomatoes, summery grape tomatoes, sugary cherry tomatoes. I've invited myself over to help keep them picked, and they are very generous with their bounty. The vines always seem to be full of fruit in all stages of ripeness. We've been keeping an eye on the weather, too, hoping to strip the vines just before the first frost. This afternoon I received a frantic text from Barb, asking me to come by and pick. We're supposed to get our first frost tonight. I had told her about my method of ensuring a winter's crop: just before the frost, cut the vines and hang them upside-down in the basement. The vines die, but the green tomatoes slowly ripen, and we have red tomatoes into January. They tend to get a little wrinkled on the outer skin, but they taste at least as good, or better than, grocery store tomatoes. Barb told me she wasn't going to have time to harvest, so I should go and cut all I want. I picked up Ellis and his friends and drove to Barb and Dave's. Their oldest son was home with a cozy fire, and I popped my head in to tell him I was raiding the garden. “That's what it's there for,” he said. I raided the kitchen, too, for a salad bowl and some plastic bags, and first set about picking the red tomatoes, and there were plenty. I left a big bowl of all varieties on their counter, and we filled several bags to take home. Tomorrow we'll have fresh tomato soup.

The sun was setting and the air was crisp. The fruit was cold, too, and the chill was beginning to seep into our hands. The boys thought we had plenty of tomatoes, but the hard work was ahead of us. Barb and Dave's tomato patch has lovely wooden cages, pointed at the top, like tall pyramids, and painted green. The bushes grow tall into these cages, sometimes two plants together, so that big beefy tomatoes are intertwined with the cherry or grape tomatoes. Pulling out whole plants was impossible, so we began cutting off branches and piling them into the back of my car. The boys were glad when the car was finally full to the top, but the work was still not finished.

At home I drilled hooks under the basement stairs and bundled the branches together with string to hang from the hooks. I used to hang whole plants, roots and all, from ancient nails in the joists. It worked well, but the roots brought in a lot of dust, and the plants were so big that picking the ripe ones was sometimes difficult. I hope that hanging bundles of branches will make picking easier.

Yellow Pear Tomatoes

When I finally finished it was dark, but I still wanted to gather the walnuts I've been stumbling over on the front walk. I did it mostly by feel and gathered about a bushel. I thought about how much I love the Autumn when we can reap what we sowed in the spring. And if we didn't have time to do our spring sowing? Our world is pretty fertile. We need only look around to see what is provided for us by the trees and by the generosity of neighbors.

Collect Beauty; Garner Peace; Blessed Be.

FALL HARVEST

TWICE THIS WEEK I'VE AWAKENED TO A COMFORTING FOG. The grey blanket muffles the landscape, and we can't see past the clothesline. It feels like the world has disappeared, leaving only domestic concerns. The shroud lends an intimacy to the yard, and tiny droplets of water hang in the air and hit me with their coolness as I walk out to the aviary to carry food to the chickens. I know this fog will burn off in a few hours, but I enjoy how it softens the landscape and brings everything closer, shrinking my world. I feel protected.

The illusion won't last and by the time I drive to town for work the fog has lifted, but caught in the roadside weeds I see thousands of spiderwebs, floating discs hanging from sprays of goldenrod and seed heads of grasses. The spiral patterns are made visible by the dew beading each thread. They sway gently in the wind, and I remind myself to keep my eyes on the road, but I am mesmerized and continue to steal glances at the bejeweled garden as it slides by.

 I get to town a little later than usual, and have to drive further from campus to find parking. That's okay. I discover a new route through a neighborhood thick with hostas under the shade of elderly trees. I find a yard that is all garden, bordered by roses with beds of vegetables in the center: tomatoes and chard and cucumber frames and raspberry canes. It has a cheery sign that says: EAT YOUR YARD! I decide that this gardener is my hero. I pass another yard that is really an orchard; pears and apples litter the sidewalk, and I hope the owner won't mind that I picked up two apples, one yellow and one red, for my lunch today. Plenty remain on the trees, and even on the sidewalk. They were both bruised from their fall, but delicious. Tart, and full of sunshine. Maybe one morning I'll knock on the door and ask permission to collect the windfalls for apple butter.

And then I remember that the recent passing of the Equinox means more than sweaters and early sunsets. It begins the fall harvest, and walnuts drop from the trees and roll around in the yards in various stages: some round and bright yellow, like rough tennis balls; some ripening to a deep brown and black, the hulls flaking away; some already peeled down to the wrinkled wood, and suddenly I know what I'll do when I get home. The young walnut in my yard is dropping its own harvest. I'll gather those nuts and sit out at the picnic table peeling the hulls and dying my fingers a deep, oily brown. Last fall I bought a nutcracker sturdy enough for walnuts, and gathering nuts is a satisfying job for a crisp fall day. The strain of the lever; the sharp crack of the nut, like a shot; a dishtowel to catch flying shards; the careful picking of the nutmeats; the growing hoard in a cobalt blue bowl.

The nutcracker looks like a medieval torture device, with a long lever, springs, and gears. The rhythm and squeak of the machine will mingle with the call of birds and frogs, the satisfying murmur of chickens scratching, the rustle of leaves. The shells of walnuts will join the mulch under my picnic table. I think about making pesto and chopping nuts for scones and cookies, maybe enough for a nut pie! I walk a little faster under the Autumn sky.

By afternoon, the fog is just a memory and I have shed my sweater. I open the window in my office to welcome the cool breeze that filters through the hackberry tree outside. I have work to do: papers to grade, classes to teach, students to guide, but my mind wanders to the jars of walnut meats I will put up for my winter baking.

Gather Beauty; Harvest Peace; Blessed Be.

A Hard Nut to Crack

What’s going on with the weather? Not that I’m complaining, but shouldn’t we be turning up our collars and digging mittens out of the closet? I wore a sweater over my turtleneck yesterday, and was over warm all day. The sky has been stunningly blue, and the leaves in the yard are toasting to a crispy brown. The trees are more than half bare, but I’m waiting for the last leaves to fall before I climb the ladder to clear them from the gutters. In town the leaves make new patterns of color and texture above and below, but I’m on the lookout for walnuts.

For years I’ve been thinking about buying a walnut cracker. We have plenty of Black Walnuts in the woods, and the lone Walnut tree in the yard had finally, after twenty years started dropping nuts, which mostly fall in the driveway and get run over. Juglans nigra, or Black Walnuts may be the hardest nuts to crack. They begin like green leathery peaches, with a fresh, pungent smell. If you try to remove the husk, your fingers will be stained like an auto mechanic’s for weeks. Wait, and the husk will decay, the green turning to a deep, dark brown—almost black. It is much easier to remove then, but you still have stained fingers to contend with, and you still have to shell them. You can heat them up and hit them with a hammer on a flat rock, but it’s difficult to control the crack, and the shells fly, while the nutmeats get smashed—that is, if the nut opens. Every fall I would look for nutcrackers on the internet, but any that claim to handle Black Walnuts are pretty pricey. A few years ago I bought a used one online for about $15, but it was disappointing. It could handle J. nigra’s cousin, Carya ovata, the smaller, slightly less dense nut of the Shagbark Hickory, but just barely, and after standing at the table cracking nuts one evening for about an hour, I had a backache for a week. The gallon jar of the Hickory nuts I gathered stayed on my kitchen shelf for three years, and the nutcracker stayed in its box in my pantry.

Again this year I searched for walnut crackers, and finally did the math to realize that even if I have to shell out (oops) $75 dollars for a nutcracker, it will pay for itself pretty quickly since I buy Walnuts for $10+ a pound. I mean, I always knew cracking my own walnuts would be a good deal, but even so, making that kind of purchase is hard. Well, this year I found a new nutcracker I hadn’t seen before for more like $50. I impulsively ordered it, and it arrived a few days later. It is cleanly mounted on piece of finished wood, and has fittings to accommodate Walnuts and smaller nuts, like Hickories or Filberts. With gears and springs it looks like a torture device from a tool and die shop. It has a lever, and you can adjust the pressure by turning screws or selecting specific gears. Luckily, before I used it I read an online review which suggested covering the nut with a towel. Even though the lever gives you great control, the nut often explodes under the pressure. I quickly used up all the Walnuts I could find in my front yard, and then switched to the three year old Hickories. The Walnuts mostly came out in halves, but even when I had to pick them from the shells, they came out in large pieces, and I filled a bowl quickly with fresh and free nutmeats. Hickory nuts are another story. I was happy to find them tasting very fresh—the shells do a good job of protecting them—but they are just that much smaller than Walnuts. They seem like half the size, but it took maybe four times longer to fill my little bowl with the sweet Hickory nutmeats. Hickories have a more Maple-y flavor than Walnuts, kind of like Pecans. I like them even better than Walnuts, and they are almost worth the extra trouble. I keep my eyes open for both kinds of trees. I spot a Walnut tree on my walk to work, and on the way back to the car, I bring a bag to fill. The squirrels and I haggle over portion, and we all leave with our share of the gift from the trees.

Shell out Beauty; Share in Peace; Blessed Be.

Mary Lucille Hays lives in Birdland near White Heath. She is interested in the gifts all around and in her own back yard. Her favorite kitten is named Mink, but she would part with her if someone promised to give her a good home. Ditto for her brothers and sisters: Pumpkin Sam, Ruby Pearl, Quiver, Tortiebelle, and Toby.