Courting Cardinals and Counting Crows

Spring has arrived in Hanover!

How do I know this?  Because the sun is turning the snow into small streams of icy cold water?  Because the thermometer at the back door reads 58F and rising?  Because I feel the dark cloud that has shadowed me for the last few weeks is lifting?  Because the air is so warm I have the back door to my office open to air out the room?

No.  While all of those things are otherwise good clues, they are not dependable indicators that Spring is here.  The one clue I put great store in is birdsong.  I awoke this morning before dawn to the sound of neighborhood crows flying northwest to meet up with the rest of the roost.  Such chattering, croaking and cawing!

While checking emails and the blogs I follow, I was serenaded by a song I think I recognize: "phreet-phreet-phreet, birdie-birdie-birdie."  A male cardinal is staking his claim to the dogwood right outside the back door.  Later, when I take my cup of coffee out to the top step, looking for a sunbeam to sit in, I find him midway up the ironwood beech by the carport.  His song has changed, is softer, the notes almost slurred, in a longer string.  Then I see the female, in her khaki-green-brown feathers, with the bitter orange top knot.  They touch beaks, lower their top-knots and move closer together.  He strokes the top of her head with his chin, she bows, placing her head near his.  Facing each other now, he regurgitates something into her beak.  Again, they rub beaks and cuddle closer.  Some other bird flies overhead (I see only its shadow) and the cardinals snap to attention, sitting back to back, feathers fluffed and top-knots lifted as high as they can make them, like red shark fins atop their tiny heads.  Bird-love at its finest.

Another sure sign winter is leaving is that the crow roost which meets morning and evening in the trees across the street from the post office is more vocal, and wide-ranging.  When I first started watching the crows in my neighborhood, there were three or four separate flocks, widely scattered across the width of town.  These few families hadn't formed roosts, per se, but would occasionally cross into another's territory, for whatever reason crows do such things.  These groups weren't cohesive enough to form a large roost, yet, but maybe that's what the fly-overs were about - checking out the competition (maybe), looking for potential mates (likely), and testing the families' reaction to determine if they might be good crows to invite to roost.  All I know is that we now have a roost in my neighborhood (roughly 10 blocks square) of between 250 and 300 birds.

They were congregated in the trees of St. Matthew's Lutheran church yard at the corner of High and West Chestnut streets (the post office is on High Street) last Friday afternoon when I went to collect the mail for the historical society.  I was thrilled to see we now have at least one roost in the downtown area that meets within a couple of blocks from my house.  They soon will break up their roost as spring becomes more entrenched.  Each family will begin spending most of their time in their own territories, nesting, mating, bringing new crows into the world.  Some of the older 'teenagers' will begin visiting the other families, seeking mates, testing their territorial defense skills, and - in general - getting into trouble with their elders.  You know, typical teenager behavior.

www.massaudubon.org flock of crows

 Robins have been spotted, but I think these are from regions to our north, the ones that fly south from Canada to winter here.  When the backyard is so full of robins (next month or so) I lose count, I'll know our native flocks have returned.

By then, though, Spring will have settled in nicely, and the robins will be playing catch-up with the early birds.  

Just realized that the birdsong brings more than Spring.  They bring Hope.  That's probably why that dark cloud is lifting, allowing the metaphorical sun to shine light into my soul.

Thanks, birds.  I needed that!

The Bad-Breath, Salt-Mine Pizza Disaster

Michael Leddy, at Orange Crate Art, posted about food supplies for waiting out snow storms, this time including anchovies.  His post reminded me of anchovy pizza, which I first had while stationed at Great Lakes Naval Hospital while attending hospital Corps school. The enlisted hang-out was called the Rathskeller.  They served great pizza and passable beer.

I'd never heard of anchovy pizza but I was game to try anything once in those days.  The anchovies looked a little like tiny strips of bacon, were as salty as the salt pork we used to put in a pot of beans back home and stunk to the high heavens.

Michael's post triggered a good food memory and prompted me to try making the anchovy pizza from long ago.  That gave me an excuse to use all the favorite toppings I like, the ones that made my grandson gag when I told him about it.

"You can have it all, Nanny," he said.  (Good!)

I started by putting some garlic cloves to roast in the oven.   Garlic is another thing Donovan can't stand.  (Excellent!)

While they were roasting, I sliced the veggies, grated the cheese and chopped the rest of the toppings.  Toppings  included parsley, broccoli rabe, mushrooms, red bell pepper and julienne strips of oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes.  Capers, chopped artichoke hearts, anchovies and sliced olives rounded out the tangy flavors.  Finely grated Asiago cheese and a home-style pizza sauce finished the list of ingredients.

Mixed up a crust made of white whole wheat flour, organic pasty flour, yeast, salt and a so-called Tuscan herb blend, to which was added olive oil and warm water.  Stirred and kneaded well then gathered the dough into a smooth ball.  Poured a little olive oil into the bottom of the bowl, rolled the dough-ball in it before setting the bowl in a warm spot to let the dough double in size - took about an hour.

Punced the dough down, gathered into a ball again.  Spread out on a prepared baking sheet or pizza pan.  Slathered on the sauce.

I sprinkle a little Parmesan cheese on the crust before adding the sauce.  Layered on the toppings, reserving the anchovies and the rest of the cheese until last.  One half of the pizza was anchovy, the other half was artichoke and sun-dried tomatoes.

Put the pizza into a hot oven and set the timer for twenty minutes.  Answered a phone call from my sister in Louisiana, from whom I hadn't heard for several weeks.  Aroma from the kitchen told me the pizza was done.

Overdone, as it turned out.  Also had forgotten to slice the roasted garlic to add to the toppings, but tossed them on the artichoke end anyway.  The anchovies broke apart, sort of dissolved onto the crust.  The pizza was not at all like I remembered, had way too many toppings and the crust was dry.  The flavors were pretty good, but over all, I was disappointed with the results.

Nevertheless, I ate most of it.  Next morning, my face was puffed up like a dead toad because of all the salt.  Some things are better left as good memories and this pizza was one of them.

Straight from the Heart



 

 

 

 “I get all excited like a child when I think

about being with you again — if people could see

into my heart I should almost feel ashamed.”

W. A. M.

 

 

I’m borrowing the words of Mozart,

Words that describe what lives in my heart,

To tell thee - but I won't, ever, have no fear -

Of emotions I have no right to hold in here.

My body begins to shudder - heart, to race -

With cascading desire at the sight of thy face;

Thy shadow – sun-cast against the wall –

Weakens my resolve and I tumble, I fall

 

Like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Thee owns me, Beloved – body and soul.

 

(c) Martha McLemore, 13 February 2015

 

 

Dream Time

Image found here.



Had he known early in his career that his life would have gone the way it did, do you suppose Martin Luther King would have continued down that fearsome road? 

I believe he had no choice.  I believe his destiny was so inextricably bound - predetermined, even - by the yearnings in his heart for equality, freedom and justice that the road he traveled was the only one he saw, the only one his feet could take.  All our lives were made better because he stayed the distance, walked his road in stormy weather, through the darkest woods of America's soul, despite his anger, his fear, his inevitable moments of doubt.  Martin Luther King was a remarkable human being, a beautiful man.  I can't help but wonder where we would be today had he lived.

Shortly after Rev. Dr. King was assassinated, I was introduced to the poetry of Langston Hughes, through this poem.

 

 

A Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes homepage What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up 

like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run? 

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
  Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
  Or does it explode?

Something Else to Think About.

In the aftermath of the attack in Paris, I've been wondering about my reaction to the news after reading Gary Myers' blog post  It was a gut reaction, but unlike reactions to other stories of senseless murders.  The questions have been nagging me relentlessly, this need to understand my response.

To add to the internal deliberations, along comes this from The New Yorker.  Something else to consider.  Thanks to mykwerks.

Two bloggers, Lucy and Gary, alerted followers to this massacre.

I am Charlie.

New Dawn, New Day, New Year

I have been trying for the last 24 or more hours to upload an image (tried different ones) to illustrate this post with no success.


I will give you the URL for the image I like best.  Maybe that will work.


Anyway, what I had to say can just as easily be said another day.  I wish you all a healthier year than the one just past, all the love you can handle, good friends and joy abounding, and sufficient wealth to do at least some of the more important things on your lists!


Happy New Year.


Martha