Little & Big

the buckets were overflowing

before school

The parents have been too busy to attend to the maple sap.  "It's been too cold," we've been telling them, "the sap can't be flowing too quickly." 

We were wrong.  Those boys -- both so invested in their sugaring project -- went out before school to check.  And the buckets were "overflowing".  So they got to work -- first trying to carry the buckets (with some spill mishaps and changes of clothes), and then trying to pull them on the garden cart.  Transporting in the giant plastic bucket worked best.  And now our back terrace is littered with containers -- every large container we own -- ready for the boil. 

This weekend?  Probably.  There's no where else to put the sap.  (Except maybe the bathtub.)

why wait for spring

This is what they did all weekend.

Up and down, up and down.  At first it was just about riding down the hill.  And then it was about riding around curves and over bumps --  and creating the best obstacle course.  And then it was about crashing.  And finally it was about crashing into the rock wall, which is where I came out and said, "END OF GAME."

And then there was a lecture from me about making choices, ideally smart choices -- acknowledging the current need to experience "crashing" (as well as the great possibility of bodily harm went biker meets rock).  And in reponse there was a lot of balking, with a bit of attitude throw in. 

They were back at it today, 2 separate rounds. 

The fact is, we've all got spring fever. 

(Come on, mother nature.  Throw us some days above 50 degrees!)

empanadas

Tonight was supposed to be big brother's night to make dinner.  We had discussed a plan in which he would be in charge of one dinner per week.  He would pick the recipe, he would write down the necessary ingredients, (I would do the shopping), and he would be in charge of cooking it, with help of course.

On Friday, as I took them to school, we discussed ideas. "How about chicken turnovers?"  I asked, and I went on to describe one of my favorite childhood dishes (where I come from this sort of thing is called an empanada -- a much more appealing word).  My mother used to make them -- delectable. 

Of course, given my rave review, there was great enthusiasm. A resounding yes in the car.

And of course, since I was working in town near the coop, I looked up the recipe.  And did the shopping.

And of course, on Saturday, I started "prepping" -  simply braising the chicken and vegetables.  But I told him "you're in charge tomorrow.  You're cooking dinner.  And if you don't cook, we'll have toast for dinner."

"Yes!" he said enthusiastically.  He was very excited.

But of course, come today, I decided we were running out of time.  I decided that I didn't want to interrupt their happy outside play.  I decided I had better just throw together the dough.

And of course, by the time they walked in the door, I was putting the little fork marks on the final empanada. All by myself in the kitchen.  Covered in flour.

And I was totally thrilled.

Yes I really should have slowed down and invited him to do every bit of the work.  I didn't follow through (even for a moment) with what we had set out to do. 

And he was a little disappointed.  But only for a second.  Because he was having a blast and I was having a blast, and really, it was all OK.  And the empanadas were GOOD.

Next time, it's all him.  I promise.  (And I'll have photos to prove it.)

(Note on photos: I don't cook to take pictures -- and I don't, even for a second, fancy myself a food blogger.  But when I do cook, things capture my attention -- the lovely shape of the dough, or the colors of the vegetables, or the beautiful patterns made from the cooking mess.  Cooking is such a REAL activity, it's true work done with the hands and the senses (nothing virutal here).  I'm compelled to try to capture it in all of its real-ness.)

focused two

sugaring

                            finding the north side of the tree

                                        drilling the hole*

                                            hammering in the spile

24 hours later

                                            straining the sap

Frozen buckets this morning on the porch.

And now there's a big stainless pot on our woodstove, filled with sap that's slowly boiling down....

(*the rest of the holes were drillled with the electric driver.  Shhhhh.  Not so very Waldorf of us.)

baseball season (get out there)

Little League baseball "try-outs" are this weekend.  By "try-outs" they mean the kids get evaluated for their skill level, so they can divide them into equal teams.  On Monday we had an "open practice" --  kids and coaches met up in a huge indoor gym space to throw and catch and bat and get back into the swing of things, so they'll be ready for the weekend.

And Big Brother and I went.

Our move to a new town last summer put us in a new town league.  And boy, this one is bigger and tougher and much more athletic than our previous.  Big Brother looked rather Little out there among all the sluggers and fast slingers.  He is nine, and many of them are ten -- but that's not really what made him look little.  It was the obvious athletic ability -- the highly practiced athletic ability -- of the bunch that made him look little.  I don't really know much about baseball, and I've watched a combined total of 40 seconds of pro baseball on TV.  But as far as I could tell, these kids were pro players shrunk down to 9 and 10 year old bodies, and they were slinging and catching balls faster than my eye could follow.  And my son was out there in the midst of them, just trying to throw the ball far enough to reach his partner (and not succeeding every time). 

And the coaches were milling about giving pointers, and the parents were on the sidelines hollering things like: "You're throwing like you're in our LIVING ROOM, Jimmy.  Now THROW IT!"  (That was one of the mothers.)

The coaches paid special attention to my boy, showing him how to extend his arms before a throw, or really follow through on a swing. "What's your name, kid?" one coach hollered in the batting cage, right before he started winging balls at my son, who was just trying to hold up the rather large bat.  They were nice enough.  They were very... coach-ish -- not mean, but definitely strong, loud, athletic and appropriately tough. 

And bless my boy's soul, he was undaunted.  He had a great time.  He said he was nervous at first when we walked in and saw all the new faces, but then once he was out there throwing the ball, he was soooo happy.  Bless his soul.

We got out in the snow today to throw and catch and bat a bit -- "so you can strengthen your baseball muscles" is what I told him.   But really I wanted to see if we could toughen and strenghten him up, so he won't get eaten alive. 

"Let's working on throwing accurately and far," I said, trying to get him to practice the skills that the coaches were trying to teach (I had listened as well as I could so as to absorb every bit of coaching they gave). 

"But I already throw really well," he retorted.  "I could throw farther than most of the kids there."

"There were some kids that could throw really far and fast.  Really really far and fast.  Really really really far and fast..."

But he wasn't listening to me.  And it's probably good.  Because he has all the confidence it seems he's going to need.

40 degrees (and ready for spring)

We had been outside playing baseball in the driveway when Little Brother noticed the puddle.  So out came the trucks and boats from the barn, and the baseball mitts and balls were abandoned in the snow.

Tomorrow it's supposed to be near 50.  We might just break out the bathing suits.

 

(Note: I popped them promptly into a hot bath after the half hour of playing around the ice water.  Not letting anyone catch a chill around here.)

the superheros that come out on Sunday afternoons

Saturday morning walk (early)

                                    breakfast on the stone wall

Little Brother had packed provisions in the backpack:

4 colored pencils, one pad, one pair of scissors and one box of bandaids.

                                            clearing the trail

                                                "rubbing" a leaf

                                    making records of what he saw

the things they say

Tonight:

Big Brother tells me a story about an exercise they did in class today.  When the came into the room, this was written on the board: "Boys--Nouns    Girls--Verbs"   So the boys set to writing down nouns.  What was produced?  "Pigs"  "Dogs"  "Monkeys"  "Super Gummyworms".  What was my son's contribution? 

"Disembodied hand."

(He's been reading Calvin and Hobbes.)

 

Early in the week:

I was in the office space with Little Brother, digging through boxes, looking for some sewing things.  He spied a leather briefcase that I've had since grad school.  "This is REALLY OLD, " he said, matter-of-factly.  "It was Daddy's Grandfathers.  It was from the army, or the civil war."

 

And then in the car last weekend with Big Brother:

He launched into a long and detailed description of how the float functions inside the carburetor of a car.  And he was right -- I'm fairly certain.  He detailed the possible problems with the float -- say if it gets a hole -- and the resulting impact on the car.  "How do you know all this?" I asked. 

"I read it in my book." 

(He has several "How Things Work" books.)

 

I never ceased to be amazed.