a man and his hoe

every day is a good day

Category: Reflections

  • Of Dreams and Shame


    The first step to making tofu is to soak the beans. Though what is happening is much more profound. The destiny of any bean is to grow, to find a spot in the earth, drink in the moistness of the soil and stir its roots, and push up through the warm earth to kiss the sun with baby leaves. That is the dream bound up inside each bean.

    In the evening, I wash and fill a pot with beans. I turn the tap on just a trickle, and let the beans enjoy the soft sensations of running water all night long. The next day, the beans are alive, plump, happy, and pure.


    There is a glow to beans that have spent a night under gently running water, a purity that softens and beckons. The steady stream of water has washed away all impurities, and the beans sparkle. There is one last chance to enjoy their beauty. It’s almost a shame to toss them in the blender and grind them to pulp, to crush their precious dreams of becoming tall bean plants and feeling the summer breeze flow through their sweet flowers, to laugh when the bumble bees tickle their petals.



    The beans are no more, transformed into cooling blocks of pure tofu. What is the tofu dreaming? A dream of soaking in a hot broth? Of getting doused with seasonings? Of hanging out in a fridge? They look like blocks of tofu cooling, but something much more profound is happening.

  • Of Fanged-Things and Fallen Giants


    Something was amiss last night. It was in the warm night air. Stepping out of the cabin where I make tofu, there was no November chill in the air. A warm night breeze wafted over the dark pond.



    At dawn, the ducks went wild with their bath, diving deep, splashing, and flapping their wet wings with pure joy. Perhaps they thought winter was over.




    With today’s bread order cooling, it was off to the cabin to label and pack up the tofu. A fanged thing greeted me on the door. A harvestmen was waiting for something to ambush. To be an insect must be to live in a nightmarish world of monsters. Imagine the tales children would have to tell if they had to sneak by monsters like this on their way to and from school. “Mommy, Bobby didn’t make it home today, the Fanged-Thing got him!” would be an oft heard phrase in such a world.




    On the way to deliver bread and tofu, I see that a giant has fallen. The massive cottonwood in the parking lot of BowEdison Fine Food & Drink has met its demise. A crew of tree fellers has been working on it since yesterday, and now the giant is but a crumpled carcass on the ground.


    All day the warm south winds have gusted. Huge clouds billow above the mountains. I see flocks of swans shooting by at jet speed, riding the howling winds. The day ends as warm as it started. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It’s a far cry from a snowbound Seattle Thanksgiving of some thirty years ago when my husband came in our four-wheel drive Tercel to fetch me from the downtown office building where I worked. That evening, we passed bus after bus which was stuck in the knee-deep snow which blanked the hills of Seattle. This Thanksgiving will be nothing like that. This Thanksgiving will be more like Maui in the Pacific Northwest.

  • Time to Experiment


    With no farmers markets to worry about, I have time to hone my bread baking, and experiment. What if I add more levain, or change the moisture content of the levain, or let the dough rest longer, or rise longer, or, or, or … there are as many variables to play with as I can imagine. This morning’s cumin loaf was pretty good.



    Chuckanut Mountain looked like a volcano steaming ferociously, about to blow it’s top. Fortunately it’s not a volcano, just a mountain that clouds have a thing for.


    At home, late afternoon sun rays turned an apple tree into a burning bush.


    I’d gone out to rake more leaves for the garden beds. Though the leaves on the pond are out of reach.


    It’s impossible to rake leaves without stirring the interest of the chickens. They have all day to inspect the leaves, but something about me raking them, makes them more interesting to the chickens. It may not be the leaves that pique their curiosity. They are probably wondering why I bother gathering them into big piles and cart them off in a wheelbarrow.



  • Mystery is a Tiny Egg


    Morning starts with a heavy frost, turning leaves to leather and wood to fine art.




    Watching coffee roasting is a pleasing activity. Having a nearby friendly coffee roaster you can enjoy a pleasant conversation with while you pick up your coffee beans is precious. So is feeling how soft a bucket of warm chaff from roasted coffee is. Evidently it makes great mulch and bedding for worm bins, earthworms love it.



    So is enjoying the sun setting over the San Juan Islands on the drive home. And so is coming home to find a tiny egg, the first egg from a young hen. Based on its size and color, it is a Turken egg. The mystery to solve is which of the six month old hens has started laying eggs.

  • Where Snow Belongs


    Snow belongs up there, not down here. Saturday’s snow is but a memory. The sun has seen to that. The snow has retreated up into the hills and mountains where it belongs.


    Mt. Baker can have as much snow as it wants.


    And so can Lyman Hill. From now until spring, it’s a fine line where the snow ends, is it up there or down here?