Basecamp Dispatch: My Quarter-Acre Piece of Dirt

As much as my mind is already sitting in September, it’s still stubbornly August here. Summer continues to hang out like a sticky house guest who’s overstayed his welcome, leaving sweat stains on all the good furniture.

Here’s what’s been going on around here this week.

I’m standing in my kitchen, barefoot, the windows fogged with steam, which is saying something considering how hot and humid the August evening air is just outside. I’ve pulled my hair back in a ponytail, trying to let the air get to my neck.

I’m sweating anyway. I can feel it slick on my nape. Tiny beads cling to my upper lip, gather around my hairline, run in a stream between my shoulder blades.

I pull the jars one after another from the pressure canner, setting them on a threadbare kitchen towel on the counter.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping. Ping.

A metallic song in syncopated rhythms. A small shout to the universe that the jars have sealed. That the sweat and the work weren’t for nothing.

I rub the back of my wrist across my forehead, smearing the drops of sweat into my hair.

Satisfied.

I recently learned from a gracious commenter, who was guarding an imaginary gate like a border collie amped on cocaine, that there are apparently acreage requirements for calling yourself a homesteader.

Thank you for your service, Karen.

For the record, I’ve never actually called myself a “homesteader.” I have referred to my place as a homestead, though.

Full disclosure: I live in a house built in 1908 inside a small-town historic district on a tiny quarter-acre lot. Do I wish I had 40 partially wooded acres? Absolutely. But until I can swing that, I guess my chickens, raised beds, herb garden, and pantry full of pickles and preserves are going to have to turn in their credentials.

Last week I had a big batch of bear broth simmering in the slow cooker. This week it went into jars. I was careful not to bother the pantry spider, but space is at a premium right now. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll have to evict her.

Thursday’s menu looked like this:

• Breakfast - bear hash with garden peppers

• Lunch - leftover whitetail stir-fry with garden zucchini

• Dinner - pulled wild turkey over mashed potatoes with fried garden okra

Really just a standard Thursday.

I like my food to come without barcodes.

This week, I’ll be pulling out the last of the zucchini plants, the few that survived the squash bug onslaught. It’s time to make room for the fall garden. Emotionally, I’m done with the summer veggies and dreaming of heartier dishes full of cabbage and turnips and collards. That comes with work.

If the bare garden sections at Tractor Supply and Rural King are any indication, fall planting doesn’t generate nearly the enthusiasm of spring around here. Fair-weather gardeners, I guess. Personally, I’m a huge fan of fall fare, so I’m obsessing in equal measure to my spring planting psychosis.

I’ll see you all back here next Tuesday. Until then, stay cool, work hard, and go ahead and step away from whatever gate you’ve been guarding.