The secrets of late spring

Isn't this amazing? Fig trees burst into leaf very quickly here, at least in our yard, bare trees transforming themselves into elegantly clothed, full emerald leaf in a matter of a few days. Very quickly afterward, the tiny fruit begins to appear. Is this, I wonder, a factor in the story of the Garden of Eden? Could the rapidity of the spring emergence of fig leaves be part of the reason they're cited as the flora with which nakedness was covered? It's not such a stretch if you're lucky enough to have a fig tree in your own garden.

As has been noted by other gardeners in the southeast this year (thank you, Ms. Moon) a more abundant spring is hard to recall. The long, cold winter seems to be giving us a spring of uncommon wealth. Our fig trees are evidence of this. We have three of them, the smallest of which has never borne fruit before. This year its small branches are covered with the tiny baby figs. What will we do with this bumper crop? In years gone by, when the crop of fruit was much smaller and our Mac still lived at home, he would simply EAT the figs as they appeared on the tree. In heavier years, we would pull the ripe ones off each day and drop them into a freezer bag. A couple of times I've taken the fruit of the different trees to work, where some of my colleagues simply eat them as quickly as I bring them in, and others have taken them home to make fig reductions to serve over pork chops or grilled chicken breasts. This year, I may finally have to take out the recipe box of Rodney's mother, Helen, in search of her recipe for fig preserves. Stay tuned, Surly Writer. I can think of nothing to which fresh figs can be compared for flavor or texture. For me they were as revelatory as fresh pomegranate seeds; not similar in flavor, texture, or dramatic color, but one of those small joys you find when you taste something completely new, undreamt of in your own mother's kitchen, and full of new possibilities.

The other secret of late spring here is finding out where the house wrens will nest. They return to nesting locations they've used before, but they also find new spots, and very quickly. If you leave a bucket of gardening tools in one place for a day or so, you may come back and find an amazingly well-contructed wren nest, and sometimes here will be a seriously annoyed-looking Mrs. Wren sitting on a nest, peeking out with a severe expression. Rodney has a sanding device in the garage, which has two arm-shaped openings. If you need to sand some kind of car part, you can put it inside the sander and place your hands into these openings to sandblast safely. A couple of years ago, a pair of wrens built a nest in the right hand side of the thing, seemingly overnight, and we watched from a careful distance as the eggs were incubated and the babies were fledged.

About two weeks ago as I got into the car, I noticed wrens nervously flitting around the garage, but it was early in the morning and I didn't think to mention it to Rodney or Dylan. A few days later, Rodney asked me if I'd noticed: there was a nest in the sand blaster. He had seen Mrs. Wren, sitting on her nest, glaring out of the hand opening at anyone who dared to look in at her. I looked for myself. Sure enough, there she sat, eyebrows drawn together like an extended "v", looking deeply offended. I know, I know: anthropomorphism run rampant, but these little songbirds are not to be taken lightly when they're nesting.

So here's the nest, from which Mr. and Mrs. Wren were momentarily absent. There are four tiny eggs, carefully cradled in a typically well-built wren nest floor plan. We'll keep an eye out and try to keep you posted on the magic of late spring here in north Florida. That is, of course, until the weather takes over, and I lose interest in being outside, which time span roughly aligns with hurricane season. Until then, nesting birds and gardenia buds and gradually ripening figs will be on offer. And in the deep summer, there's time to talk about shoes and ships and sealing wax, and whether pigs have wings...

Warm your fingers and toes and wait for the thaw

While friends and colleagues and facebook pals are posting photos of snow, snow and more snow (and some of them have even built whole new families of snow people), here in north Florida we're usually more or less getting ready for spring this time of year. Why, those all-important, eagerly awaited four lovely little words are mere days away: Pitchers and catchers report.

But though we have no snow, we do have cold weather and last night about 8 hours of freezing temperatures. Perhaps a little glimpse of the fireplace will warm your heart; I do hope so. From the window I can see the long, graceful fingers of the queen palms, wrapping around each other as if for warmth, watching for spring, looking hopefully at the azaleas and hoping for the best. Thanks to those of you who visited here recently; thanks for all your breathtaking words and pictures and insights. And comments. Those are more intoxicating than I'd have thought, before I started this blog-journey. Thank you. Stay warm.

But luckily, spring comes early here

So we don't have to wait as long as some people to see this guy, for instance. Last year, and in the other years we've seen him, he shows up in about mid-April. I know it's not time yet, but as we're all so everlastingly sick of the cold weather, and it seems to be loosening its grip a bit, it seemed reasonable to take a look at the ridiculous colors and remind ourselves that before we know it, the wisteria will be twisting its windings fingers around things and then blooming, those big showoffs, the azaleas, will burst into riotous color, and my precious tiny wild violets will raise their shy heads to the sun, gentled as it touches them through the oak branches. In fairness I should also remind myself that around this same time of year, when other locales have left the various plagues of autumn behind them, along with their joys, we will be dealing with the thunderous rain of oak leaves, which in our area don't fall until they absolutely have to, that is, until the new little green leaves actually push them off their perches. But there are worse woes to have, of course. So we shoulder on, waiting for the bright reminder of the painted bunting and his plain-but-lovely wife. The waiting is made slightly sweeter for me by my friend Debra, who reminds me that this is what HER bird feeder looks like, as of yesterday.
This is much better, even if we do have to wait a little.

I was thinking about my mother today, probably because I gave you the Eat Here Meatloaf Recipe last night, which was one of her signature dishes. After World War II, there was a concerted effort to bring women back to homemaking in order to reduce competition for the jobs they had taken during the war, and which men now needed to reclaim. Magazines for ladies were a major part of the marketing/propaganda campaign that facilitated this, and ladies of my mother's age continued to read them and learn how to cook using ingredients like, well, probably ketchup.

This might have been one of those recipes, too, but I suspect it really used the previous summer's canned tomatoes. It's simple and wonderful, and was always called "Tomato Gravy" in my mother's kitchen. Start with bacon. (I wish I had a dollar for every Southern recipe that begins with those words.) You could dress it up with ham, or add an interesting subtle flavor shift with pancetta, but the old school version is plain old bacon, fried crisp and crumbled into small bits. Set the bacon aside and add a really nice big onion, chopped in small-to-medium dice and cook until the onion is transparent. Salt and pepper the onion as it cooks but remember to salt accordingly; bacon may need less salt than ham, or whatever you've used. Note to my vegetarian pals - this is easily done with olive oil in place of the bacon fat. Add a big can of whole tomatoes, juice first, and stir well as this is effectively deglazing the pan. The tomatoes should be squished up in your fingers as you add them and you can remove the tomato cores as you go. This yummy mixture should simmer until it's well reduced and served over pasta. Rigatoni was preferred in my mother's kitchen although I didn't know what it was called until I was a teenager. I'm not sure my mother even knew what it was called. It's good with just about any logical variation, like spinach. Go crazy.

Oh, speaking of that: thank you to friends who are reading this, especially to my friend Lorie, who has raised my mother's macaroni and cheese to an entirely new place in the stratosphere with her addition of mushrooms and spinach. It hardly bears thinking about. Thank you, Lorie, and all of you who now and then Eat Here.

The birds of winter

As I left the office today, I watched a very large bird swirl overhead, lifting higher and higher on the thermal air, in sharp contrast to the brilliant winter-blue sky. His head and tail were white, his body a solid dark color, and his wings hardly flapped at all as he let the air currents carry him ever higher. A bald eagle, at least 5 years old by his coloring. Florida and Alaska have the largest breeding populations, but they're still not a common sight.

Sitting on my back porch fountain, here, is a female summer tanager, having a drink alongside the beautiful pink-flowering trumpet trees I started from Katie's cuttings. Tanagers don't visit the feeders much, as they dwell high in the oak and hickory trees, and we mostly know they're present by the trilling song Mr. Tanager begins in early spring and continues through the summer. That, and we sometimes see the flash of scarlet, high above the range preferred by the cardinals.

And all this is by way of telling you that my yard was filled with hundreds and hundreds of migrating robins yesterday afternoon. This tells me, as surely as anything, that the days will surely grow longer, that the sunsets will be warmer soon, that all the frostbitten flowers will raise their heads again, and that none of this will be long in coming. When my single camellia with its varigated York and Tudor colors has finished blooming, the bank of azaleas will ready itself for a showy statement about the definitive arrival of spring.

Tonight the wind chill is predicted to be about 14 degrees, though it seldom falls to the projected lowest levels here along the banks of our beloved creek, so close to the Tolomato River. But 14 or 24, this is still damned cold by my lights. The reminder of the robins bearing testament to the inexorable approach of spring warms my heart.

Turn on the oven to warm up the rest of you. If you need an excuse, you can make Cream Biscuits. I've adopted this recipe from the Fannie Farmer Baking Book, and it's a recipe she credits to James Beard, one that doubles excellently well as shortcakes if you have fresh fruit for dessert but is also perfect with any soup or stew you might serve in this weather. Who am I kidding? Just make them. Even if you're serving frozen pizza for supper, no one will mind.

Put 2 cups of all-purpose flour, a teaspoon of salt, a tablespoon of baking powder, and about a teaspoon of sugar into a bowl and stir with a fork to lighten. Add about 1 to 1-1/2 cups fresh cream and stir until the dough forms a ball. Turn out onto a floured surface, knead for about a minute and then cut into shapes as you desire; I always cut into diamond shapes. Dip each biscuit into melted better (you'll need about a half cup). Bake at 425 for about 15 minutes.

Let me know what you think.