Our meals for the past week were composed primarily of leftovers from the bounty table. Thanksgiving with all its fullness of bread and overflowing of joy has come (in a flurry of preparation and gathering) and gone (to the last crumb of roll, drop of gravy and sliver of pie). With the customs of generations we mixed the freshness of new traditions, like peanut soup, and took our dose of merrymaking and feasting with relish.
While Thanksgiving rounded the bend, so did the last of fall. Even we Minnesotans were surprised at the suddenness of the weather shift. Thursday morning the sun rose and warmed the air to a balmy 60° that spent the rest of the day plummeting to a chilly 31°! The year wasted no time going to his bed. Like a child wearied from a long day of play, he tumbled in and pulled the counterpane up to his ears without bothering to roll over.
Later than usual this year, the pigs are nevertheless off to Odenthal Meats. Some of you may recall that loading the pigs to take them to the butcher has come to be an annual comedic adventure. The occasion has allowed some among us to lay claim to the feat of pig-riding. All of us have a healthy respect for three-hundred pound animals with a center of gravity somewhere around your knees and a perverse inclination to run in the direction which is least desirable to we would-be herders. Pig-herding yarns are legendary among farmers because of the porcine propensity to bust the herd and scatter with high-pitched squeals of protest.
Since our pigs spend their lives in the lap of luxury and get the run of large paddocks all summer, they are generally more frisky and spirited than most hogs. The short drive to the trailer every fall has become a sort of trial and frolic all at the same time. A trial because it takes a great deal of time and effort and sweat to move animals that are determined not to move; and a frolic because they never fail to provide at least a few good laughs with their maniacal antics and escape tactics.
The reader will consequently understand the mixture of relief and disappointment that we experienced when this year's pigs gave very little trouble. The secret, we discovered, was the nearly daily habit we had the last few months of bringing them a small "treat"...a bucket of leftover tomatoes, a bowl of lettuce leavings, a pile of pigweed. They came to expect a daily offering and the last month or so, you couldn't walk by their fence without the whole passel of them galloping over with a chorus of insistent snorts and barks looking for something to nibble. Mr. Berg’s dried corn was the winning “carrot” to the successful roundup.
With the last of the summer stock gone, the only animals remaining on the farm are the dogs (Cappy, Eddy and Pete), the cats (Dip and Chip) and the laying hens. Sorties into the cold to replenish their comforts and food are followed by long hours before the fire or around the table. Here we learn to treasure the hours together with beautiful music, the blessed scent of balsam fir from our Christmas tree, bright conversation, delicious food and good books. The books...ah yes. Their smells, the a foretelling of a wealth between the pages, rich and ripe, smooth and tangy, spicy and sweet, dark and musky.
Scents are remarkably powerful, I believe, because they are invisible associations with the familiar; attaching themselves like identification tags to the aesthetic forms and even thoughts of our lives so often we usually forget to note them. The elements of a moment, the facial expressions, the light, the textures, the sounds, the emotions, can all be bound to the imagination with a single aroma. In that sense, every scent is a small evocative grace granted by God to remind and store up new memories, mostly unconscious, and yet irresistibly cogent. This time of year the smells are especially compelling. Perhaps because they are older than my earliest recollections, shadows of things I can't remember. In any case, they are continually thrusting me over the cliff of nostalgia. I know that sounds violent, but how else can you describe the instant tumble into memory that a fragrance like fresh pine can invoke?
What musings do your senses call upon right now?
