An unpleasant surprise the other day was that the potatoes I was storing in the very cool mud room in a box of sand had sprouted and pushed open the box lid. I dug underneath and even the second layer had sprouted, but the potatoes hadn’t gone soft yet, so I pulled out a few to make soup.
Using some of the frozen stock from the Thanksgiving turkey, I made a BBC food cauliflower and cheese soup that tasted in the moment like the best soup I’d ever had. So simple, so delicious!
I enjoyed it for a couple of meals with the last of the rolls, and was glad it was on hand when a friend came home ill after holiday travel so I could provide nourishment.
The eerie, balmy winter days continued this week. Yesterday I stepped outside with Wren and as I stood stretching on the patio I noticed a redtail hawk flying with a raven. I stood riveted as they circled and spiraled upward on a thermal, occasionally flapping, coming close together then drifting apart, coming close again, tilting, dipping, almost touching wings then parting again. I remembered a poem I wrote thirty years ago, when my heart was light as the hawks’ and I marveled that I’d made a life where I was able to stand and watch them soar for as long as I could see them. For a moment I recaptured that sense of wonder. Grateful that I had the time, chose to take the time, to simply stand still, arms wide, reaching toward the clear blue sky, celebrating flight. Five minutes maybe? However long, I watched until they became small in their spiral climb, then dropped out of it and soared still together down and down, southward, then parted ways level with the low sun, raven to the right of it out of sight behind the roof, redtail to the left, my raised hand protecting my eyes as I watched until the hawk disappeared far, far south of here.
That reminded me that I’d seen two foxes the other morning. As I set Topaz food in the window sill first thing, an odd flash of movement caught my eye in the west woods just beyond the driveway. It was erratic, not the smooth glide of a deer or anything else, but a flipping flashing motion a couple of times, like two animals in conflict or in play. It took a minute to find the binoculars and by the time I did the woods were still—for a moment—and then I saw another flash, trained the glasses on it, and saw a fulsome fluffy red fox leaping. A second later, another. I’d missed the heat of play but caught their convivial afterglow as they danced on past the window frame.
Taking the garbage up this afternoon before dusk I met a neighbor who’d just spotted big cat tracks south of my house in the next door woods. “I think it’s a big bobcat,” he said, “Keep an eye on your little buddy.” Wren and I had gotten out of the car to chat with him, and she was far afield sniffing unfamiliar terrain. Each time I lost sight I whistled and she came running back. She is SO good!
The final wild surprise of the past few days came after dark. As I got up from the puzzle a shadow flickered through the light, and flickered again. There are sometimes small moths inside, but this was a big shadow. I was astonished to see this cabbage white butterfly flittering around the tiny geranium. Where did it come from? How, in the depth of winter, had it ended up in my kitchen?
I enjoyed watching it for awhile as I pondered the kindest course of action. Let it be? Or catch it and put it outside. I checked the forecast. It looked mild enough for the next few days, and the butterfly seemed disoriented, almost frantic. So I held out my hand and waited. It didn’t come to me. But it did land on the puzzle pieces, so I gently cupped it and carried it out the back door, where I let it crawl onto the still-warm adobe wall, then Wren and I slipped back inside to our quiet little life.
The first butterfly I see in spring is the mourning cloak, Nymphalis antiopa. The species ranges throughout the northern hemisphere, and is called mourning cloak in many other languages, though in Britain it’s called Camberwell beauty, white petticoat, or grand surprise. It gets a jump on other species because it doesn’t migrate long distances, instead overwintering in suitable habitat tucked into tree cavities or under loose bark, emerging in early spring to begin its reproductive cycle. After mating, females lay their eggs around twigs of host trees upon which their caterpillars feed, including various species of willow, cottonwood and birch, and in American elm, hackberries, wild rose, and poplars among others.
