Yard lights and burning leaves

The fires of sunset

Asparagus berries

Now the leaves are gone, stripped from bony tree branches by wind and rain, and at evening, a neighbor’s yard light shimmers and glitters like a solitaire in the thickening darkness at the top of the ridge on the far side of the valley.  It marks the end of summer more certainly than anything else in our world here because all summer, it has been invisible behind the thick foliage of the trees. The fallen leaves spread across the forest floor, pile into the back corner between the house and garage, and crunch beneath our feet as we make the last trips between the garden and the kitchen.   Wind has a new voice and moans and rattles in the chimney, flings leaden rain against the windows, and sends battleship clouds scudding across the high dome of sky.  We pull quilts and wool blankets, scented with lavender and mothballs, from the totes where they have summered, and during the thin light of day, hang them on the clothesline where they flap and dance before they find their way indoors, bringing the clean smell of fall to the beds they cover. 

We have dug jackets from the back of the closet for in the morning, the chill air is like a slap and the car windows and grass are furred with silver frost.  The dirt road is frozen hard and rutted as we walk the dogs whose noses are busy sniffing the air and bushes, and moose tracks scrap across the hard-packed gravel.  With the drop in temperatures, the partridges rustle and cluck in the thickets beside the road and moose are on the move.  Colder weather marks the beginning of rut for the moose, and three bulls have been roaming our fields and the ones across the road, looking for love.  One morning, there were two: one young and full of ambition, the other older, bigger and wiser, jockeying for the attention of a pair of cows who occasionally raised their heads from the red stick thickets they were nibbling to watch the jousting of the bulls. 

Kasey noted that there is something about this clear fall air, sharp with the promise of snow flurries – and we had a few this week -  that makes the heart race, and it is an apt description.  We are busier than ever, moving to the urgent beat of the coming winter, carrying in bags of carrots and leeks, bushels of chard and kale, and rearranging the freezer shelves to hold the last bounty from the garden.  The corn stocks have been pulled and tied in tepees for fall decorations and toted to the burn pile farther up into the field, fast kindling for a winter bonfire.  A new compost bin has been built from bales of mulch hay that we get from our friend Warren Grass who farms in Mars Hill, and the big round bales that the Carlsons put up for us when they cut our fields are lined up along the garden and are being forked onto the garden as a winter blanket.  Pumpkins adorn the doorsteps of houses across the countryside.  The sun is hazy gold, paler than a month ago, and a blue haze, reminiscent of leaf smoke, hangs in the air.

Bedding for the garden

When I was a child, the burning of leaves was part of the fall routine. Before anyone thought of air pollution, leaves were raked to the side of the streets and roads throughout New England and burned.  For a week, the leaves were gathered into moldering piles along the curb, ready for the night when everyone emerged from the houses in jackets and hats and the leaves were burned.  It was an evening chore that usually occurred in the last week of October, just before Halloween, when daylight savings time ended in October and street lights came on while we were eating supper.  With the table cleared and dishes soaking in a pan of soapy water, we would head outside for the fun.

The still night air was acrid with pungent smoke, and up and down the street, piles of smoldering leaves were ruby embers in the gathering dark. Fathers called back and forth to each other, leaning against their iron rakes, carefully guarding against stray sparks that could land on roofs and cause an inferno, and children ran like goblins through the darkness, their shrieks and laughter floating up to the stars.  Smoke drifted through the pooled light from the old tin-shaded  street lamps, and mothers, kerchiefs tied firmly on their heads, shared gossip and complaints, and occasionally reached out to cuff a fractious child or lift a little one back to his or her feet. 

My mother always brought out potatoes, scrubbed clean in the pantry sink, and sheets of foil for wrapping the spuds.  As the leaves burned down and the hot embers flickered and pulsed, my father would wrap the potatoes and tuck them into the bottom of the burning pile with the iron rake.  Although I always watched him as he slid the foiled potatoes under the leaves, I was soon back to tag or kick the can with the neighbor kids, galloping like wild things in the smoky darkness.  When my mother called, we would all run, and though I never saw her bring out extra potatoes, somehow there was always enough for a half potato for almost every child, and it always reminded me of the story of loaves and fishes.  We would stand in a cluster as my father raked the charred packets out and then opened the blackened foil and cut the hot potatoes in half with his pocket knife.   There were burned tongues and sighs of pleasure as we all dug in, and when they were gone, we were shepherded in to baths and warm beds while the men alone kept vigil over the fading fires.

We have somehow lost such magic in our concern for safety.  We never worried about strangers then – we knew everyone – and there was no concern about food poisoning or many of the other phobias we seem to have developed today as we ate those potatoes.  None of us got sick. It may be that the world really is not as safe as it once was, that chemicals and easy solutions have poisoned what we once had, or it may be that we are just more fearful. Whatever it is that stopped us from burning leaves with our neighbors and baking potatoes in the glowing ashes on an autumn eve has stripped some of the wonder from our lives, and I am often sorry for the children who will never know it.

Garden bedded for winter

At sunset, the western ridge – two miles away – glows like those old fires as the sun sets, and although we linger to watch it disappear and the stars blossom across the inky sky, the dropping temperature drives us indoors to fires and light, the smell of the scalloped potatoes from dinner, and the security of home.

Fallen leaves and baking beans

 

Will o' wisps rising over the meadow

Toward the end of October, a hush falls across the land. The wind has stilled and the leaves left on the popples along the land road hang limpid against a thin gray sky. The songbirds have long left and the small animals have begun to hibernate, seeking a warm, snug place to sleep out the long cold winter. Even the raucous jays are silent as they zip, a fleeting flash of deep blue, from the beeches and firs to the compost bin.  A few juncos have arrived, but they are silent birds, slatey blue against the fading green of the lawn, their heads bobbing as they peck at seeds and the bugs that remain.  Toward evening, chevrons of geese wing overhead, clamorous as they soar above the house and disappear south beyond the thinning tree line.  The ravens, a half dozen juveniles busy with feeding and courtship, appear only at dawn and dusk, croaking and clacking at each other as they head off to some mysterious business that occupies them all day.  Even the rumble of trucks climbing the hill on High Meadow Road is stilled as the harvest winds down, the fields stripped bare and plowed in ragged furrows.  It is as if the whole world is holding its breath, waiting for the first onslaught of bitter cold and icy snow, and we quicken our pace, preparing for our own hibernation.

We spend the daytime hours stacking firewood in the bin.  The fragrance of beech and birch and maple is a lovely perfume as we bend and stack, bend and stack, and we think ahead to the first evening fires that will warm us as the weather turns.  Our first fall fires are usually built of popples as the softwood burns hot and fast, quickly taking the chill off the house, tempting the dogs to sprawl beside the fireplace, basking in the heat.  We have talked often about putting in a wood stove – more efficient, steadier heat – but there is something about an open fire that draws us.

Building a good fire takes time and attention.  It is not enough to crumple a few pieces of paper, throw on a handful of kindling and light the blaze.  While it might catch right away, it has no staying power.  Building a good fire, especially in a fireplace, takes skill and practice.  We build our fires, even the early autumn ones, carefully: two medium sized logs laid parallel on the grate, a few crumpled sheets of paid bills or discards from my writing, and then a crisscross of kindling atop it all.  Such a fire catches easily and burns well creating the bed of coals necessary to sustain it as the original logs burn down and we add more.  Nothing is quite as pleasant as warming one’s fingers and toes before the dancing flames.

Now the freezers are full. Bags of beans and peas, corn and carrots, chard and beet greens, leeks and peppers are stacked carefully on the shelves.  The pantry is stocked with pickles and relish, jams and jellies, canned tomatoes and sauce, and soon will come the lamb and pork, turkey and chicken from neighboring farmers, all ready for six months of winter meals.  We find ourselves longing for heartier fare: soups and chowders, meatloaf and pot roast, lasagna and spaghetti rather than the grilled vegetables we enjoyed during the long days of summer.  Just this week, I contemplated corn chowder after sharing the old family recipe with a friend, but one of our greatest joys is the first pot of homemade baked beans.

Beany ingredients

Baked beans for Saturday night supper is an old New England tradition that was a part of both my and Bruce’s childhoods. It is a carryover from colonial days when beans were easy to grow and provided a stick-to-the-bones meal and plenty of leftovers, and why people have abandoned it, I am not sure.   My earliest childhood memories are of my mother and great grandmother bustling round the kitchen turning out a week’s worth of breads, pies, cookies, and cakes from a mammoth gas stove that sat in its own nook in the large, linoleumed kitchen.  This was no small feat as there were growing children to feed and uncles routinely stopped in for a midday feed on their breaks from the shoe shops and machine shops and service stations throughout the week.  With so much baking, there was little time to put together a proper supper, but a pot of beans could bake all day in the already heated oven.  There were always hot dogs, and sometimes Nana, as we called my great grandmother, would put together brown bread, redolent with molasses, a pinch of cloves and sweet raisins, and steam it in molds in a covered tin made especially for that purpose. Even the thought of that toothsome delight makes my mouth water, and no store-bought cans of so-called Boston brown bread can come close.

When we were first married, baked beans didn’t feature prominently in our meal plans. Changing palates and more availability of produce – tomatoes from Florida and grapes from Chile – during winter meant that our children lost the traditions we knew. When we did have beans and hot dogs for Saturday night supper, it was often B& M in a can, hastily picked up at the market, and heated in a saucepan on the stove top.  But every so often on a rainy November or snowy January Saturday, I would put together a pot and revel in the aroma as it filled the house, the fragrance a pleasant counterpoint to the bread or pie baking alongside it in the oven. When we moved here, we felt a longing for baked beans. Not every week, but at least once a month, and not the kind that came in a can. 

After a few years of buying dried kidney or pea beans in the market, we decided to grow our own, and discovered Saturday Night Specials, a seed stock reportedly developed for B& M more than a century ago, and somehow saved from extinction and available for sale. With the first harvest, baked beans became an integral part of our winter menus.  While everyone has their own secret recipe for homemade baked beans, the core ingredients are essentially the same: beans (kidney, pea or navy), an onion, salt pork, dry mustard, molasses and water.  My beans are based on my Nana’s recipe, as are many of my old-time staple dishes, but over the years I have modified them to our own tastes.

The ingredients are:

2 cups dried Saturday Night Specials, picked over         1 medium onion, quartered

¼ pound lean salt pork                                                            1 Tbsp. dry mustard

2 cups tomato sauce or puree                                      ¼ - ½ cup dark molasses

A pinch of baking soda                                                            ¼ cup maple syrup

Directions:

The night before baking, pick the beans over, removing any that are brown or shriveled, and discard.  Place the beans in a two-quart bowl and cover with water to soak overnight. Make sure to check to see the beans are covered in water before you head to bed!  In the morning, drain the beans and place them in a large saucepan and again cover with water. Preheat oven to 325-350 degrees.  Over medium heat, bring beans to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook until skins begin to burst. Drain, reserving cooking liquid, and place the beans in a two-quart casserole or bean pot.  We bought our bean pot almost forty years ago on our honeymoon in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Toss in the onion and salt pork, add a pinch of baking soda (it cuts the gassiness of beans), the dry mustard, and pour the tomato sauce and then the molasses over all. Now add the reserved liquid until it covers all the beans by about a half inch add extra hot water if needed), and gently stir all together.  Cover and place in the oven.  Go about your business.

Saturday night specials baking

You will need to check to make sure the water doesn’t boil away and the beans don’t get too mushy, and I occasionally adjust the flavor by adding a dibble of molasses if the sauce is too tomatoey or a bit of mustard if it is too sweet.  The beans should be done just about five p.m. and is terrific with a good all beef hot dog – boiled or steamed – fried ham, salt cod or clam cakes, or just about anything else you choose.  I also usually make a bowl of coleslaw and either corn bread or yeast rolls to go with it.  Someday, I promise myself, I will learn to make brown bread. 

There are those who question why we choose to live here so far from the conveniences of civilization. But those who come to visit, to share this beautiful country, the bounty of our labors, the night sky so black and silent that one can almost hear the stars sing, go back home to lights and restaurants, theater and traffic, and often find themselves longing for the simple pleasures we enjoy every day.   Across the back fields, the shadows lengthen, the temperature dips, and the wind howls in the chimney.  The dogs snore in their chairs, and the sweet aromas of molasses and bread linger in the house.  The fire snaps and spits, and all is well with our world. 

Harvest moon setting