Back in the Homeland....

It seems as though every time I return to this place where I grew up, formed so much of my character and outlook on life, I am struck by a gut-wrenching yearning. Down to the marrow of my bones I feel the pull: this is my home. Not the place I live or want to live forever, but the place where I feel a sense of absolute belonging. There's the sight, sound and smell of it that dredges up somewhere deep in my psyche a sense of rightness; dislodges a visceral protectiveness. This is MINE. The smell of irrigation water hitting the sandy soil. The sneeze inducing dust kicked into the air mixed with the odor of dropped fermenting fruit. The smell of dry heat, shrinking my nasal capillaries and dehydrating my hair. The breezes that shift through on the farm and the persistent, incessant, trilling chirping chattering of the mocking birds, complimented here and there by a variable troupe of insects. The distant buzz of traffic on the highway, punctuated by the dull roar of closer, heavier, slower farm machinery.

 Over everything else is the sight. Sweeping orchards blending the landscape in their various greens, melting into golden hills, grass turned crisp in the summer heat, flammable. Last Saturday I drove to Sonora market, leaving the farm at 5am to make the trek into the foothills. The sky had begun to take on predawn light, and as we headed east, the lumpy skyline dotted with my much-loved oaks began to turn that spectacular dusty pink. It reminded me of paintings by one artist I used to see in my Dad's art catalogs. They always depicted mountainous landscapes crafted in purples pinks and blues of perhaps dawn or sunset. And this is what the drive east was, the slow but determined resolution of a dusty grey-black world into brown, green and gold, painted by dusty pink orange sunrise. On the way home I passed a grass fire; two planes and a helicopter circling the mostly contained blaze, watching for fire jumping. This is the Great Central Valley in the summer: a sweltering tinderbox. 

I've been back in the valley maybe two weeks now, staying first with Martha a few days to hobnob, thrift shop, and re-acclimate to the 100+ weather. We had a grand time bouncing around to four thrift stores, a used book store, farmers market and a surprisingly delectable Indian restaurant for lunch buffet. Buffets in general tend to underwhelm me, but this one was great. Give me naan!

Let me tell you. If you were worried that small town America had up and died, you have not been to Winters, Ca. We went to a pancake breakfast at the 'new' fire station to join Martha's neighbor who had yet to meet me, despite the number of times I have showed up on Martha's doorstep demanding attention in the last few years. Neighbors hollered across tables, friendly acquaintances paid amiable regards to one another, and everyone was so... friendly. It was akin to walking into one of those super cheerful towns you see on TV at which you cynically snort and think 'No Way.' Adding to this sense was Martha's running monologue of who lived where, which friend of a coworker she'd run into where, etc. etc. etc.

 Martha who's occupation still eludes me a little, splits her time between two organizations. Can you guess what that costume is supposed to be? Moldy cheese? A burnt pop tart? How about... a bilge pad for your boat...? That's right, its Bilgey of Solano RCD, helping reduce pollution in the local drinking water source...And those skinny legs do belong to Martha.
We went off and made spring rolls, a process that I assure you is incredibly simple. Yet everyone is so thrilled when they see them, like oh my goodness, you spent soooo much time on this! The hardest part is chopping the veggies, promise. So go get some rice wrappers, make some peanut sauce (http://shesimmers.com/2009/03/how-to-make-thai-peanut-sauce-my-moms.html), and eat your veggies!

We took the rest of the unused fixings to the July 4th bash where Martha's delighted friends learned to make spring rolls. Maybe I'm over selling this, but spring rolls are great, especially on hot days when eating seems like an arduous task. 

I headed to the farm early the next morning to surprise the rest of the family. And to pick blackberries and strawberries for ten hours. And you know me... there had to be bugs. When I brought this in, the egg cases were intact, unhatched. I had decided to watch the eggs to see what popped out. Upon returning a few hours later I discovered that the lethargic critters stumbling about on the berry. Ever on a mission to keep the house insect free, the berry was quickly thereafter discarded.

The perks of this toiling life abound in fresh food. Fruit fruit fruit fruit. There are other spoils, supplied by customers and family friends.

The very first round of grapes, grapes for which I have yearned since living in Washington, arrived in market on Saturday. Caprese salad with fresh basil and tomatoes .
 While I was here in the spring, mentioning to people my impending butterfly related employment, several persons inquired whether I had yet read the newest Kingsolver, a book devoted to Monarchs (butterflies). I began reliving this conversation again when I returned and lo, on Saturday an audiobook version of it appeared, supplied by a woman to whom I'd spoken of it on Thursday. Rachel also brought me some honeycomb, just because.

 Berries are dirty business. No matter what you do, if you're near them, you inevitably find a purple smear later. Most days I pick I find stains on my ears of all places, from bracing myself against the vines to see under the trellises. Just sorting berries, picking out mushed ones... simple stuff like that and at the end of a market day, well... Pictures, even blurry ones, tell the truth right?
But if you can maintain a display like this... Well who cares?

 I promise now to make more organized posts later; so far three topics have come to mind that seem to justify their own works of photoblogolism, so when those solidify a little more... well you'll know.
It also may interest you to know that my jousting with wasps has continued. The score now stands Tysons 2: Wasps 2. Not only did I get stung while still in WA, but poor Rachel got a dose as well. I heard her cursing in the hall one night, then came in to have me check her hair for wasps. Luckily it got her on the finger when she investigated her buzzing hair, and we found it later, but still. I played doctor with my renewed sting-response skills. Its more surprising that people don't get stung here more often. The wasps love the eaves of the house, light fixtures... anything they can build on. I knocked down two nests, came back a day later to discover these brats rebuilding in the same exact spot. So its really more like Tysons 1: Wasps 2. And so the ceaseless battle continues.
Here's a nice dragonfly to make us feel better. Too bad they don't eat wasps... A sentiment Rachel apparently shares.

 There are praying mantises all over in the blackberries. Brown, green, tan, even some odd new variant that is almost camo patterned. Since I don't carry the camera everywhere here's and exoskeleton molted on a fig leaf.

 Speaking of fig leaves, have a close up. You can almost see the stomata regulating gas exchange.

 While out picking one morning I swear there was a hummingbird trying to dive bomb me. If I'd had my insect net I might have caught it, it got so close. It's partner hung out in the persimmon tree to watch. Later while retrieving my net from the car to entertain Torch (who is coincidentally a little frightened of The Net) with some dragonfly chasing, I heard the whirring wings and squeaky piping voices of hummingbirds...

 They were lunching on this Mimosa tree (yep, that's its name, also called Silk tree). Can you see the one above? Its a bit blurry.

 This, in case you were confused, is Torch. Good thing I didn't have children as a teenager, if only for the sake of their would-be names. No, I don't know why at 13 I thought 'Torch' was the best name for her. At least I didn't name her something boring like Daisy or something. Though I can't ever recall being accused of being dull.

One of the best possible pass times for the smelly mutt is jumping in the ditch. She doesn't like swimming with people, and is in fact baffled when you want her to get in the water with you. I'm not convinced she actually likes swimming all that much, just the act of retrieving is inherent to her existence, being a mutt comprised of retrieving lineages. Another good pass time is waiting for the glorious Sam to arrive. Despite my coaxing this morning, she was quite set on waiting for Sam, intermittently scratching her chin and perking up at passing noises. She didn't believe me that he absolutely would not be arriving at 6:30 in the morning, escaping the confines of the house to stand vigil for her most beloved of humans, Sam.

Wishing you the best from

Have a Marvelous Monday!