High Mountain Musing

I know this photo is completely unrelated to the recipe, but we ate all the brownies before I thought to take a picture... so I thought I'd share this cutie with you instead.

Guest recipe post today!  And really from a guest. That is, a guest visiting up here at the ranch just last week.  Karen brought a plate of these brownies with her and kindly shared them with us.  Sorry, no picture, as we consumed them all quite rapidly.  But I requested the recipe so we (OK, I!) could make more.  Here’s Karen’s recipe. These are good.  I hope you try and enjoy.  I know I will.

Karen’s White Brownies

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/3 Cup butter
3/4 Cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 large egg
3 bars (6 oz) Nestle Toll House Premier White Baking Bars, chopped (Karen used white chocolate morsels, and I’d probably do the same – they were perfect)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Grease 9-inch square baking pan.

Combine flour, baking powder and salt in small bowl.   Beat butter, sugar and vanilla in small bowl until creamy.  Beat in egg.  Gradually beat in flour mixture.  Stir in baking bars.  Press into prepared pan.

Bake for 18-22 minutes or until golden brown.  Cool in pan on wire rack.

A robin arrives too soon (photo by Forrest)

Robins, a pair, pray tell, what do you do here now?
You surprise me with your presence.
I imagine the white world upon which you lit surprises you.

You look around in concern and I too wonder and worry what you will do, why you are here. Wherever you were, you began to think of spring. Perhaps it is somewhere else. I do not leave the mountains to see bare ground and feel the warm winds. I am told they exist, no more to me than a fairy-tale.

Did you come here with an oversight in schedule or direction? Or was it wishful thinking?

Here, you see now, Spring is far away yet, with the river just a crack open and peering into the black night sky, no more than a hint of light and warmth and soil and brown waters. Winter remains surrounding us.

What wild wind brings you to my kitchen window? You who have never visited before the first of April, before the dirt is exposed in places, before the earth and river begin to thaw, before the white sheds her skin to brown.

There is no place for you now. The only dirt I see from here is the flower bed beneath the west eve. Shall I assume you are just passing through, or will you try to remain?
What shall I feed you?
What will you do?
What called you to this world of white so early?

the sky promises another storm

I follow the moose tracks. There are no others so large out across these parks but theirs and those of my snowshoes. Funny how we both follow the same trail, a secure string weaving its way through the tapestry of the mountain, and we both cling and stay close, the wild and weary.

As I head out, blue sky teases, the clouds suggest they mean no harm, will gather no strength, will not amount to much. I leave the down jacket behind.

Yet as I stand out there, stark and exposed, the clouds amass to more, the wind picks up, my hands turn numb, and winter weaves her frozen threads about me once again.

I am both humbled and fortified in her frigid embrace.

stark storm coming

the growing line of exposed black waters of the Rio Grande

The wind blows violently.  It is spring somewhere else. Somewhere else there is exposed, dry ground, fields and fields of brown, yellow grasses waving in a humid breeze, rich dirt stirred up, temperate to the touch if you reach down and dig your fingers in, the rich, sweet smell of the earth, decay freshened by the heat of the sun on temperate soils, warming the air as it rises and blows east.  It reaches the mountains, the Divide, our world which may remain white for months yet to come, and the wind turns angry and cold, biting into the cliffs and  cutting down through the gorges with the force of melting waters .  I can only imagine the wrath with which this same wind descends upon the San Luis Valley below us.   

the earth exposed

Yesterday I saw dirt.  Here, so high, in a world still white and frozen, seemingly endless seas of snow and ice. On a south facing hillside beneath the exposed face of red cliffs. Dry ground with last years grasses sticking through, brown and dried, tired memories enduring.

The redwing blackbird returned on time, I dare say even a few days early. The same tree, the same time, every year.  For how many years have I awaited him with seed on the feeder board when I hear his call?  And I worry what he will do when I am gone. The boys remind me the birds fared well before I cared for them, and I wonder then how old he may be, does he remember a time before me?

redwing blackbird and stellar jay

He brings a new song to the mountain, a mountain with which our knowledge and intimacy is intertwined with breathing and the surge of our blood.  We discern the sounds of our birds, the few that remain with us for the winter. 5 chickadees, 7 magpies, 9 stellar jays, and the two ravens that feed on the leftover table scraps Forrest delivers to the chicken coop each morning, the same two which follow us about the mountain calling out in recognition as I am out alone on a snowshoe in the afternoon.

The sound of the blackbird was anticipated, but still somehow shocking.  A new noise, a new song, stirring the air like a pleasant breeze.  We hear the call before we see the flash of jet black, always where we expect it to be. 

Completion.  Our understanding of the world around us, the world of which we are granted to be a part of here, if only for a while.  Not as distant strangers, observers, but as participants, players in the game.  At times I feel as wild as the coyote, and just as misunderstood.

How incomplete would I feel if I missed the return of the birds?  How foolish am I to feel it matters?

frozen waterfall

first born of the season

There were no roses. No chocolates. Nothing to wilt or melt or fade away.

The bare essentials. Only that which matters most, that which is dearest to my heart. What is that? If you had to choose for me, by now knowing me as you do, would you know what matters most to me?

Bob knows.  He is learning. He got off the hook easy this year. What could be better, he asked me, than a cute fuzzy cuddly (this remains to be seen) newborn calf?

Perfect!

Cyndee and her newborn

And so, our Highland heifer, Cyndee, surprised us with the birth of a little bull calf. A few months earlier than we all expected. Did the neighboring bull jump a few fences… and back? Or was one of those steers NOT a steer?

In any case, she calved well, and blessed us all with this beauty. We’re not used to such long limbs. Highland Cattle are not known for being leggy (what’s the point in being so far from the ground in a cold and windy climate?). Those legs must have come from the Charolais daddy. Poor little calf, he’s gonna get a crook in his neck before he is weaned, bending down to reach under his mama.

And so I am satisfied. I am wanting for nothing. For now. And lucky me, I am loved. Isn’t that a remarkable feeling? Of all our emotions, surely love is what matters most. Of all our sentiments and sensations, what could matter more?

But what, pray tell, is love?

It is not what I thought it would be.

It is deeper. It has substance, like soil in which the rose grows. It is as strong and firm as rock in the river around which the water flows, shaped and sculpted and softened by the rushing waters. It is more fierce than any attachment. It is a commitment. It is worth fighting for, standing up for, standing beside.

Love is rising on your feet in the face of the harshest of winds on the top of a mountain blinded by the wind and reaching out, and finding a hand to hold. Love is waking in the early morning in blackness and taking comfort from hearing gentle heavy breathing as they continue to sleep, safe and sound. Love is the flow of the river that slows and freezes and runs wild and brown, but remains its eternal course.

Love is more than a feeling; it is a promise, an action. It is not stationary, but moves and grows and flows. If we remain sitting comfortably on the bank admiring what we have, it will float down stream and be lost. We must be in there, with it, paddling and floating hand in hand.

I am learning. I am trying. It is not always easy. No one said it would be. Those who have made it work and tried the hardest told me this. It was not always easy for them. But was it worth it? I have no doubt.

I have been inspired. First, by a poem shared by my friend, Shari, which somehow captures the essence of this hazy notion of love. Inspired by our friends Marvin and Bobbie, now sharing and enjoying their 28th year together. By my parents, who will be celebrating their 50th Anniversary this summer. What brings us, them, together? Keeps us, them, together? Allows us, them, to move into the future, and still hold comfortably to a past, but most important I see, is enjoying today, together?

I am still learning to love. It does not come easy for the wildly independent soul.

Being a mother came easier for me. I found no job more worthy. And still I strive to be better, to develop and amend as our lives transform and evolve. The relationship between mother and son grows as does the child. I can not hold on to what I had, but adjust and cultivate and revise myself, my ways of interacting, my method of loving, though not my core of love, like the foundation, strong and solid my son can always count on, fall back on, trust, find comfort in the strong and steady hands. My son knew he had the mother wolf looking out for him, guarding the den. As he grows, he learns to run with this wolf, and now further, faster…

Being a wife was not easy for me, and is still not easy, though I learn and try and fine-tune my ways and means. I strive to be a partner, an equal, a balance. I do not seek to be or have a mirror image or a shadow. I try to find, and be, two separate entities, side by side, ready to move on forward, together. Stronger because of each other. Some how more complete. I did not know this could be so. I am seeing it is. I am learning to love.

Our relationships grow, evolve and move ahead as does the world around us. We can not remain sitting on the bank as the waters rush onward. How do we endure the chilly waters, the rough rocks, and the flooding banks? Together.

A family.
This is what matters most.
We are complete with one another.

Roses will die
Chocolates will be consumed.
What will last?
What will remain fast and strong and true in our lives, our loves, our hearts?

Cozy in the hay

Chocolate Truffles under the bouquet

Uh oh.  Did you forget today was Valentine’s Day?  Forget to get or do something special for your sweetheart? 

Better get baking.

Here are two recipes that can save the day.  Chocolates.  Real quick and simple. 

Say, did anyone notice the bouquet?  No, that’s not a new one from today; it’s an old picture from December (see the post entitled Bouquet for more on that story).  However, as for gifts this Valentine’s Day, stay tuned for the next post…

In the meanwhile, happy Valentine’s Day to you all, and I hope you’ll try and enjoy these recipes.

Dark Chocolate Truffles

In a double boiler, combine:

            2 cups semi sweet or dark chocolate chips

            6 tablespoons butter

            1/3 cup heavy whipping cream

Cook over medium heat, stirring regularly, until all ingredients are melted together and smooth.

Remove from heat and stir in:

            1 teaspoon vanilla

Let cool until it begins to harden up.  This can take a few hours, even in the fridge.  But don’t let it harden completely…

Now you’ll want to form the “dough” into balls, each under an inch in diameter, by rolling in between your palms.  Drop each ball into a pan with about 2/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, roll the balls around until complete coated.

Fudge

Fudge

In a heavy pot over medium heat, combine:

            1 ½ cups sugar

            2/3 cup evaporated milk

            2 tablespoons butter

            ¼ teaspoon salt

Bring this mixture to a boil, stirring constantly, and keep at a full rolling boil for four minutes, continuing to stir constantly.

Then add:

            2 cups marshmallows (full sized marshmallows are difficult to measure so I press them down firmly in the measuring cup to make sure I have a good two cups)

Continue stirring over medium heat, and cook for another two minutes or until the marshmallows are mostly melted into the milk/sugar mixture.

Remove from heat and stir in:

            1 ½ cup chocolate chips

            1 teaspoon vanilla flavoring

Stir until smooth and completely combined, then pour into a small baking pan, 8” x 8” which has been lined with aluminum foil.  Smooth out and allow to cool completely, then cut into 1” squares.

Looking up River and into the high country from Snowmachine Point

Darkness arrives a little later each day.

The minutes of daylight are slowly extended.  The sun is higher in the sky; shadows are shorter; days are longer. We notice the slightest change.

The river begins to open, the Mighty Rio, swallowing mouthfuls of ice in its still quiet trail when no one is looking. A black ribbon flowing, twisting, dancing through the heavy layer of white.  Beneath, the river runs black and deep, quiet and still, a hidden grin on a somber face.

Without fanfare, it breaks free. So subtle and soft and slow this transformation.

Perhaps you did not notice And the tracks of the moose to the open water tell us they know.

We know the torrents that will follow when the melting begins in full force, the big brown waters of the wild spring runs. Subtlety is then lost, and none can overlook.  Now, it is only a hint in the calm, cool waters that have cut through the seemingly forever white landscape of the frozen river. It is but a minimal change, a hint, a suggestion of what will be, what is and lives beneath, beyond our blatant view. 

Nature is not ready to scream “Spring!” quite yet. For now she yawns, blinks her eyes, but does not stir awake. She will remain in winter a little while longer

The Rio Grande begins to open

This morning darkness is absolute. The horizon is black, pure and still.  Endless. There is no moon, only starlight to reflect back so faintly on the crystalline snow, and the delicate pattern of pin-prick lights across the vast black seas of the sky.  Between here and the heavens are the dark looming silhouettes of the mountain, complete, composed and motionless. They are this overwhelming bulk separating the faint glow on the surface of the snow from the twilight overhead.

Between the two I sit in silence, warm and comfortable, inside looking out, a part but so far away.

Looking up at the Little Cabins over the Rio Grande as the sun lowers behind

The ptarmigan (photo by Bob)

I have been watching the tracks, oddly narrow winding trails imprinted in the snow, patterns as random as a coyote’s across an open field; these now scattered about the base of the willows alongside the frozen river.

No matter how I have looked, they have remained obscure. I have continued to search but can not see white on white.  There is little life here in the winter.  We seek out what we can, some natural attraction to know we are not alone. 

They are at home here in the snow as are we. More a part of the landscape than we will ever be. We share the solitude. We become fleeting glances of passing wings, then allow the landscape to return undisturbed leaving only impermanent paths in the snow that will fade away as the next storm blows over.

Yesterday we came close to one another, I in their space or they in mine?  We allow for the passing of the other and continue on our way.  But not without their obvious unease, and my admiration of their natural beauty.

Ptarmigan in flight

Like a sudden gust of wind, they scattered before me in so many numbers as I unknowingly approached too close, a burst of white wing, feather and snow alike, a flash of snow in flight.  They settled again, then walked, scurried along the snow like a tiny boat in water, and buried themselves into the snow for an effective camouflage.  Only the black of their eyes and beak could be seen.  They belong here, a barely apparent part of the land, part of the snow, part of the air when they take flight, a scattering of white feathers in a sky which seems too blue.

Soft and white, perfect as the downy snowy hillside on which they seek temporary refuge.  They disperse but do not go far.  I wish to take chase, a bird dog’s passionate pursuit, if only to steal another glimpse, an inner desire to seek out the elusive. I allow them their retreat, turn my focus, and continue to walk the fair trail through the willows alone.

A ptarmigan deep in the snow

Looking into the light

Where does the mountain end and the sky begin
When we find ourselves so close to heaven
Melting wings of wax to hold us

I lose myself in another storm
Silken sky falling
Following me
Or perchance ahead
Awaiting my entrance to its icy lair
Tempting teasing taunting
I can not resist and fall in

At times it seems we barely touch down
Floating in this sea of white
Moving with the ease of a dolphin
Parting waves
Parting ways
We fall through
Gasp for air
Grasp for solid ground

I remember red

The mountain sleeps
Naked and white
Do you remember the color red?
Raw and unrefined
Exposed like a deep wound
Bleeding
Pouring forth
The woman that I am
On the side of the mountain
Cut open by the river
Flesh
Healing
Soothing
Carry me away in a wash of white

How easy it is to forget.

Waves of white and shades of grey

Our experiments with baking Biscotti

Over the holidays, a friend sent a bag of home baked biscotti up this way.  For those who have never had, biscotti are a dry, twice baked Italian cookie best served with a cup of hot black coffee.

They did not last long. 

I remember baking these, many varieties, year ago, and distributing them for Christmas presents.  It’s been a while since I’d made any myself, but after the three of us enjoyed the little gift bag we received so much, I figured it was time I tried again. 

Here are a couple recipes that we tried this past week.  The cookie jar is empty once again; time to try some new ones, so I suppose that means these went over pretty well.  Best part about these, besides the wonderful dry crunch, is that they are very easy to make.  Experiment with what you can put in them, depending on what you have on hand – keep it simple with just toasted almonds, or get more fancy with orange zest, dried cranberries and pecans.

I hope you try and enjoy.

Biscotti with macadamia nuts and white chocolate chips

In a medium bowl, mix together until smooth and creamy:

            1 stick butter, softened

            1 cup white sugar

Stir in:

            3 eggs

            1 teaspoon vanilla flavoring

            1 teaspoon almond extract

Then combine and stir in the following:

            3 ¼ cups flour

            1 tablespoon baking powder

            ½ teaspoon salt

            1/8 teaspoon nutmeg

Finally, stir in the “mix ins,” in this case, I used:

            1 ¼ cups toasted macadamia nuts (to toast the nuts, put them in the hot oven single layer on a baking sheet for about 5 minutes or so)

            1 ¼ cups white chocolate chips

I used my hands to finishing the mixing to evenly distribute the “mix ins.”

Then divide the dough in two, and with each half, on a cookie baking sheet, with your hands, form a log about the length of the cookie sheet and almost half the width, and about ½ inch thick.  Bake these in an oven preheated to 375 degrees for about 20 minutes.  Take them out right before golden brown on top.  I found if I waited until browning, they would crumble and be too delicate at the next stage (though they still turned out tasting mighty fine).

On the cookie sheet with a sharp knife or the edge of a metal spatula, cut each baked log into the “cookies,” resulting in long wedge shapes each about 1 inch wide.  Spread them out on the cookie sheet and put them back in the oven, and bake for another 6-8 minutes, now until they are golden brown.  Remove from heat and cool on a wire rack.

Biscotti dough spread out in pan before the first baking

 Biscotti with toasted pecans and dark chocolate chips

In a medium bowl, mix together until smooth and creamy:

            1/3 cup vegetable oil

            ¾ cup white sugar

Stir in:

            2 eggs

            1 teaspoon vanilla flavoring

            1 teaspoon almond extract

Then combine and stir in the following:

            2 ¼ cups flour

            1 teaspoons baking powder

            ¼ teaspoon salt

            1/8 teaspoon nutmeg

Finally, stir in the “mix ins,” in this case, I used:

            1 cups toasted pecans nuts (to toast the nuts, put them in the hot oven single layer on a baking sheet for about 5 minutes or so)

            1 cup dark chocolate chips

I used my hands to finishing the mixing to evenly distribute the “mix ins.”

Then divide the dough in two, and with each half, on a cookie baking sheet, with your hands, form a log about the length of the cookie sheet and almost half the width, and about ½ inch thick.  Bake these in an oven preheated to 375 degrees for about 20 minutes.  Take them out right before golden brown on top.  I found if I waited until browning, they would crumble and be too delicate at the next stage (though they still turned out tasting mighty fine).

On the cookie sheet with a sharp knife or the edge of a metal spatula, cut each baked log into the “cookies,” resulting in long wedge shapes each about 1 inch wide.  Spread them out on the cookie sheet and put them back in the oven, and bake for another 6-8 minutes, now until they are golden brown.  Remove from heat and cool on a wire rack.

And a warm thank you to J. Ruth Kelly for sharing a bit of sunshine today!

A place on the mountain called "Marv's Park"

Molly

Written and kindly shared by Marvin

My little handful of yellow fuzz became a part of my life in 1998. Pick of the litter, silly girl with a brown freckle on her left hip and should have had braces, she had crooked teeth on the bottom. My wife and kids picked her out and they must have known cause she was meant for me.

Molly and I worked hard as a coach and student, not sure who was who. We both learned from each other. We learned the dog commands and body language. Where not to leave the plastic bag from one of those oven bags that turkey is cooked in. Boy can’t believe that passed through. Going to work with out your best pal isn’t easy, so guess what, we went to work together. Again learning this important part of trust and teamwork.

Trips to the mountains and camping took on a whole new meaning, never a dull moment. Look out squirrels and birds Molly is going to find you. Poop that’s always fun to roll in and then get sick in the car or in the back of the pick up from eating something that’s dead or just not good to eat. We ran a 9 K foot race together once neither one of us trained for that day but Molly came out shining, I could hardly walk.

Hunting ducks and geese was the plan of the day come fall of the year. At six months old that girl retrieved her first duck and it didn’t change. We sneaked, crawled, ran, jumped and climbed fences. Molly had no fear of what she was asked to do, never a question of trust. That one old goose jumped up and wanted to fight and lost. Hunting geese on the river one day Molly couldn’t stop herself and ran out on the ice to an open hole in the thin ice, she went in the river currant and knew she was in trouble, turning she grabbed the ice with her paws. I prayed, put down my gun, slid on my belly and made it out to her and was able to save her from going under the ice never to be seen again.

Never will forget how she learned that when we came home from a big game hunt that there was going to be a nice fresh hunk of meat, or a look of what you forgot? Forgot how to hunt? Lost track of all the ducks we shared and all the time we came home with none. Molly was not counting and neither was I, we had each other. I think she forgot the time she tried to retrieve a porcupine, dropped it, grabbed it again, O boy that was a bad day, she was a mess, had to have her put under to get all the quills out of her mouth. Labs tend to not be very defensive but tell you what if you drove a UPS truck or the Co-op propane truck you better walk lightly. Molly had pups, three litters. She never was a mom, she was always ready to get rid of them after they were weaned.

Years pass and I guess we both got a little older together, she still-hunted and did her best every time out. At 8 years old I saw her slow and only took her out on nice days and easy hunts. As it would happen duck hunting isn’t as fun with out our partner along so I didn’t go as much cause she’d know what I was up to and hated being left at home.

Well my girl fell ill the other day, guess she was too proud to show how sick she was cause I really never saw it coming. She passed way just the next day after we thought she was getting better.

Farewell my friend and I am here to say there will be others but never one like you.

The Joy you brought to our lives in those ten or so years will never be forgotten.                                 

Rest in peace

A most sincere thank you to Marvin for sharing this with me and allowing me to share it with you.  Written from the heart, how many of us can understand?

Looking down from Marv's Park toward the Rio Grande Reservoir