The Urbane Homestead

Bruce!

Vicki came over this weekend and took some lovely pictures of our little Bruce-ells Sprout. Can you see how much he's grown already? Yikes!

Kitchen detritus

My sister mentioned composting on her blog recently. Compost, like dogs, is something of a running theme in our lives. When we were growing up, we always had a compost pile for carrot peelings and teabags. Right around the time I graduated from college, my parents moved into a beautiful new house on the river. The garden is located to the west of the many-windowed sunroom, and in the evening we would often see Ruffy standing on top of the compost pile in silhouette with the glowing red of the setting sun behind him as he snacked on eggshells and banana peels. Sort of like those Southwestern paintings of a coyote howling at the moon. Sort of.

Over the years I've had compost piles of varying degrees of success and stinkitude. The two are intimately related—compost does not smell when done properly, with layers of green (vegetable trimmings, coffee grounds, the abovementioned eggshells and banana peels) alternating with layers of brown (leaves, grass clippings, shredded paper). Throw in a couple of handful of dirt, just add water, and, as the bumper stickers say, compost happens.

Thanks to the bunnies, our compost pile now is a veritable mountain of organic matter. Week after week of rabbit hay, litter and droppings really add up, and in winter the pile can't generate the heat it needs to break down. The pile is huge, and, of course, hugely attractive to any puppies that happen to be hanging around in the backyard. Mmmmm. A trip to the ReUse Center for enough chicken wire to make an puppy-excluding enclosure is on the agenda for today.

Cooked food, mouldy bread, and lunch leftovers are inappropriate for compost, but I've had good luck throwing that sort of thing in the dog waste composter. Bones should also stay out of the compost, and in my house they are slated for another purpose: the stock pot.

I keep my giant stock pot in the chest freezer in the basement. Parsnip parings, onion ends, parsley stems, chicken bones, that last inch of wine in the glass—all go into the stock pot, and wait, frozen, until a critical mass has accumulated. Then the frosty pot is filled with water, popped on the stove, and the heck is boiled out of it. A bay leaf or some peppercorns may be added, or not. The refrigerator may get a quick cleaning and anything too tired to eat may be thrown into the pot. For some reason this recipe yields invariably delicious stock. I strain it, freeze it in quart containers, and use it in all kinds of things like soups and risottos and so on. Meanwhile the pot goes back into the freezer (after being washed, of course) and the cycle of stock begins anew.

One word of advice: if you have stock simmering on the stove, do not forget about it and leave the house for four or five hours. The result is dangerous, messy, and makes your entire house smell like smoke for months afterwards.

Greetings, Poetry Lovers

Joe has opted vociferously for "Bruce," so Bruce it is. In honor of our Scottish heritage, Slobbert the Bruce. But his nickname is Bullwinkle.

Here he is, admiring the view:

Pix

Pictures have been added to the previous post for the viewing pleasure of our audience.

Personnel changes

Recently we discovered that Henry is allergic to the rabbits. He was never really sold on them anyway; Joe adored them in theory (but not in rabbitat-cleaning practice); I actually really liked them, which was a good thing, since I did most of the work. Joe and I ultimately decided that we loved Henry more than we loved the bunnies, so they had to go.

This:

 

Or this:

Incredibly, it turned out to be really easy—I posted a notice and description on Craig's List, and within an hour we had a call from a woman who was looking for rabbits to love. Her last pet rabbit had died of old age last year and she was ready for more. She came and visited and it was sunshine and flowers all around, and now she has two new bunnies and a ton of accoutrements; she's keeping me posted on their adjustment and, honestly, I think they're having a lot more fun at her house than they did at ours. I couldn't have found a better home for Poppy and Kiska if I'd made one up.

And then the house was so quiet. We were down to just animal—an all-time low. Kismet, confused perhaps by the lack of competition, became the very most attentive cat ever. That was nice, since she's always been slightly psychotic. Now she's sweet and cuddly, most of the time. But we clearly were in dire need of a dog. Hence, Maximus (or Bruce, or Cholmondley, or Snicket), a 12-week-old spaniel/retriever mix, whom I found on Petfinder. He's the most relaxed puppy I've ever met. Joe adores him—so far, in practice as well as theory.