Monday at the Farm-in-the-City

Monday, August 24, 2009

I just love Mondays. Call me crazy, but I really do. There is just something about the sense of order that it brings, the reigning in after the comparative slackness of the weekend, that motivates me afresh every week. I like to bring my house back into order, and with it, myself, reorienting around my priorities within the blessed boundaries of routine. Ever since I have been married I have structured my weeks loosely around a basic schedule: laundry and finances on Monday, shopping on Tuesday, baking and ironing on Wednesday, social commitments and projects on Thursday and cleaning on Friday. And after ten years, these basic parameters are so ingrained I don’t even have to think about them. It’s like my mother told me once, you need a routine so that you’ll have something to be flexible from! And while I’ve seen these words proven true over and over again, no matter how crazy a particular season or week or day might be, I always have my little schedule to welcome me back to sanity when things settle down.

This Monday was just a good, normal, at home day. It seems that over the past month or so I’ve either been traveling (good!) or sick (bad!) so a quiet day of washing and folding and sorting and filing has been even more of a joy than it usually is. Today started just as every other one does, Monday or not, with a cup of tea brought to me in bed by my obliging husband, who has learned after ten years that I can sleep right through an alarm and only begin to assume a semi-conscious state after a draught or two of The Stimulant has passed my lips. I have my devotions upstairs with another cuppa, and am inclined to linger until I hear Philip close his closet door downstairs, signaling the next stage of the morning routine: the barn.

This morning was cool and sweet—almost like fall—and the dogs were so happy about it and the impending breakfast that our appearance heralded that they pranced and capered alongside me from the gate to the very door of the feed room. While they were eating, Philip did the mucking and I employed myself with the all-important task of petting the sheep and giving them each little scratches and rubs in the places they like best—behind the ears and on the tops of their heads. Everyone seemed more interested in that than in going out to pasture—as is the case many mornings, we walked out with them into the tall, dew-wet grass, with the accompanying attendants of little black cats and big white dogs. Only, Puck and Pansy, my utterly spoiled Nubian goats, trailed back to the barn with us after we left the sheep in the pasture, and stood at the fence wailing in protest when we left them in the barnyard to go back up to the house for our own breakfast.

Seven cats, another dog, a fish and two hives of honeybees later, it was time to feed my husband and get him out the door to his morning meeting. The only problem with his nourishing breakfast of hot oatmeal and fresh blueberries was that he had to take it in a mug to eat in the car, as he spent his actual breakfast time fiddling with the html in my YLCF post of the day. But I made his lunch in the meantime—a turkey sandwich on fresh homemade bread—and took the chicken out of the freezer for supper, thinking all the while of what one of my newly-married friends had said to me once upon a time: “When I get up in the morning, my first thought is, ‘What are we going to have for breakfast?’ And my second thought is, ‘What am I going to fix my husband for lunch?’ And my third thought is, ‘What am I going to cook for supper?’” I related with a happy little inward laugh this morning.

As soon as Philip was off I fell to my Monday chores. I got the laundry going, watered the plants, cleaned out the fridge, and sat down to plan my meals for the week since I’ll be shopping tomorrow. After that I spent some time at the computer, paying bills, answering emails, checking up on the budget. I rewarded myself for all my diligence (I may love Mondays but I hate paying bills!) with a turkey sandwich of my own (perhaps mildly precipitated by a reminder call from my husband to actually, you know, eat lunch). One chapter in my book over said sandwich, and then one of my indispensable little cat naps, without which I’d not make it through the day, with my faithful calico companion, Josephine, curled up at my feet.

The afternoon was one of those in which the phone literally rings off the hook. I forced myself to actually sit down in a rocking chair on the front porch to enjoy both the surprisingly lovely eighty-degree weather and a couple of conversations with beloved friends, rather than stomping around the house ‘being productive’ as I am usually tempted to do under similar circumstances. I had a wonderful talk with precious Gretchen, who, I am happy to report, confessed herself to be in the hammock in the yard with her feet up like any good pregnant lady should be.

When I got off the phone with her, I realized that my husband should be making his appearance soon, as yet another quick call confirmed. So I made a dash to fold up the remaining laundry waiting in the big French market basket I use, and to make up the bed with sheets fresh from the dryer, warm and soft. That done, I started dinner—I am unabashedly old-fashioned, but I really do love it when the aromas of whatever’s cooking waft out to greet Philip as he comes up the front walk of an evening (ideally not the smell of burned things spilling over onto the element! ). Tonight I stuffed a chicken with onions, tucking some fragrant garlic cloves under the skin and topping it off with a lovely bouquet garni of fresh herbs from the garden: rosemary, savory, purple sage and thyme. Philip’s favorite mashed potatoes, made with little red new potatoes still in their skins and sliced fine, later blended with a little butter and milk and plain yogurt with a dash of rosemary for good measure, and a simmering pot of butter beans completed the meal.

It did smell quite temptingly when he got home, but as it was a little later than usual we decided to go ahead and put all the barn babies to bed before eating ourselves. The reverse of the morning, tucking everyone into their stalls at night, all safely gathered in and secure, is truly one of my favorite parts of the day. Tonight Puck and Pansy saw me coming from far across the terraced pasture, and with a whimper and a neigh they came running, bringing their sheep siblings with them. When I entered the barnyard there was a regular small stampede—goats, sheep and dogs all vying for my attention and literally knocking me over in the effort. Philip found me seated on the ground with a loving host all around me: licking my face, tugging at my hair with strong little teeth, poking long Nubian noses inquisitively into mine. I managed to disentangle myself and we performed the evening routine: shooing the last chickens back into their run and shutting the door for the night, searching for renegade eggs in the barn, laying out fresh straw for the babies and mixing grain. Puck and Pansy always stand expectantly on the step of the feed room, licking their lips and nibbling imaginary savories at the very idea of the coming grain, while the sheep hold back politely, knowing their turn will come next.

Once the animals were fed and mineral trays restocked and water buckets changed out—and stall doors bolted against the occasional breakout which can become a real free-for-all—we fed the dogs and played with them for a while. I think it’s their favorite time of the day, as well. Diana always looks so sad when we finally leave her at the gate for the night, but Juno has usually already assumed her post of regal watch, enormous white paws folded, noble head erect, ears pricked to the slightest sound. We chased our Aussie Caspian back across the yard up to the house in the bat light, and came in to a kitchen cozy with the welcoming scents of our dinner.

We always enjoy a good recap of the other’s day over supper, and Philip invariably gets a play-by-play of who I’ve talked to and what I’ve done and what I’ve been thinking as I’ve gone about my home duties. (He already knew I’d talked to Gretchen for he’d heard her voice on the answering machine!) I love these dinner talks, this acquainting of one another with the hours we’ve spent apart, and the long, rambling trails of ideas that usually stem from them. And afterwards the last cleaning of the day—the very smell of the rose countertop spray that I use makes me think somnolent thoughts—and the last polishing of the kitchen to greet me with a cheerful aspect in the morning. I really am a nut about leaving a clean kitchen behind me when I go to bed. I think it probably stems from the days when we were remodeling and I switched on the light in the mornings for eight months to bare sub-flooring and makeshift plywood countertops! I almost want to blow a kiss at my kitchen now, I love it so much, and it’s been nine years since the great overhaul!

Just a simple, homely day, nothing spectacular or particularly interesting, beyond the kitten my friend Ashley found in a potted plant in her backyard or the excitement of wrapping up a few last details of our upcoming trip to England or a package from L.L. Bean in the mail! But that was the beauty of it—just an ordinary day. As I was wiping the counters after supper and putting the last things away, I reflected that this was just the very kind of day that I used to imagine as a girl when I dreamed about my future. The life of wife and homemaker is very dear to me, and I consider it an honor and a joy to create a home that Philip wants to come back to at night. Not all Mondays are as simple and straightforward as this; candidly, most aren’t. But the ones that are serve to remind me with a quiet joy why I love what I have chosen to do with my life, and why I’d not change my place with that of a queen.

photography copyright Griffin Gibson 2009

The rest of the week…

• Tuesday in the Writing Life by Elisabeth
• Wednesday in North Idaho by Chantel
• Thursday at the Little Pink House by Gretchen (with series introduction)
• Friday in Sunny Southern California by Ashleigh
• Saturday at Castleberry Farms by Jeannie
• A Peek into Your Day by YLCF Readers