I’m planning to learn some new and some faster ways to quilt, and machine piecing is fairly new for me, too. Besides, how hard can it be to make just two blocks a month?

Here’s my “badge”, and (if I can remember to do it) I’ll post pictures of my blocks as they roll off the sewing machine.

January (blocks 1 and 2)

I’ve been watching the dogwood outside the sewing room window all winter. For most of that time it was sticks and nubs, and a few white fluffs of duck feathers caught by the tree in one of our high winds. Somehow, those fluffs managed to hang on for the rest of the winter.

I can’t see them now, though, because the tree is on the edge of full bloom. This photo was taken yesterday, when the blooms still had that lovely light green tinge on them. Today they are snow white, and any duck feathers still tucked into a safe haven of twigs are well camouflaged.

All winter that tree looked dead; it was hard to believe that life would ever return to its dry, gray branches. Of course all it took was a wee shift in sunlight and a few drenching rains, and voila! Dogwood blooms bursting everywhere along newly greened branches.

I just need to remember this promise of supple life when my own leg-trunks and arm-sticks are stiff with winter, when my thinning hair grays by the day, when the cold air bites deeply into my bones.

Oh, of course I’ll never be 20 again (thank goodness!), but there is always life in one stage or another, everywhere I look.

It’s recognizing it that’s the big challenge.

Let us bud forth. Let us spread out our branches bright and graceful. Let us be honey for each other. Let who we are and what we learn and what we be serve each other. Amen.

Let us be honey for each other.

As we said those words I had a brief vision of us greeting each other with “I love you, honey”, something like we used to do years ago when we curtsied to each other as we passed in the hall. The Christ in me greets the Christ in you.

Honey, of course, is the amazing food and gift of bees, who work tirelessly to gather flower nectars then work their bee magic to make the amazingly sweet and healthy golden treat we all enjoy on our biscuits and in our tea.

Honey needs nothing added to it (though I can’t imagine what one might want to put in there), and it lasts for a very long time. Stored with the right water content and in the right temperatures, it can last for years. Should something go agley with the storage plan honey can ferment, making it unfit for humans—yet bees will happily consume it themselves.

The flavor of honey, though always recognizable as honey—not cane sugar or maple syrup, for example—varies widely depending on which plants are in bloom when nectar is being gathered by the bees.

So … wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all became honey for each other. There would be an essential sweetness to everyone, yet our rich and necessary diversity would be maintained. We would feed each other, and ourselves. We would all be deliciously good and, when treated properly, our friendships would last a very long time.

It’s worth a try. Say “I love you, honey” to your sweetie, your children, your neighbor, your boss. OK, if you’re fairly sure “I love you, honey” would earn you a slap or get you fired, you should probably just say it in your head. Maybe we’ll feel just a little better about our own lives when we recognize and name the goodness in others, whether or not anyone actually hears the words.

Can’t hurt, anyway. I love you, honey, I’m going to smile at the mailman, our distant neighbors, the person behind me in the check-out line at the store. Maybe I’ll even give it a go with the sister I find so difficult or the government clerk who seemed so irritated at everyone who came to her window.

I love you, honey. The farmer’s namaste.

You shouldn’t be too alarmed about that “closest to Earth” phrase; on Saturday the moon will pass by about 17,433 miles closer to us than its average distance of 239,000 miles. That’s a wee bit over 7% closer, and isn’t all that rare. But maybe it will look a little larger than usual this time, and that’s worth hanging around to see.

It has also been said that this super supermoon was influential (even causal) of the devastating earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan on March 11. That is patently not true. On the 11th the moon was actually at a right angle to Earth, and therefore was exerting its least influence on our planet.

What a full moon at or near perigee does do, however, is cause very high tides. Should a significant storm move through a coastal area during a supermoon event, flooding is possible and that’s worth paying attention to, too.

I love the moon, and even though I may not really be able to see that 7% difference, I’m looking foward to seeing a lovely near-full moon tomorrow night, when our skies might be clear. By Saturday we’ll be clouded over again, so I’ll take my view when I can.

Whether I can see a difference or not, I like the idea of knowing that I’ll be looking at a super supermoon—which won’t happen again until November 14, 2016.

Last year was a fabulous pepper year, and we had hot Limons coming in daily from August to November. These small (about 2″ long) bright yellow peppers are one of the most delicious of the extremely hot Andean peppers. Its flavor is unsurpassed, and though it’s not direct sunshine, it is yellow and hot—and that’s close enough for me right now.

I have frozen them and dried them, and generally prefer drying since you can do so much with them. This winter I smoked, flaked, powdered and today transformed some of those dried beauties into a batch of Limon Hot Sauce.

I make this every year, and every year the recipe varies depending on what’s available here on the farm. Because all our own apples were gone by the time I got around to making the sauce this year, we bought a few at our local organic store and splurged on a mango, too. (One year I used vine peaches, and the result was fabulous.)

Though the sauce doesn’t look like much in a photo, once in the mouth it’s an entirely different story. I’m sure this is great for one’s health (all that toasty capsaicin, of course) and can bring eggs, beans, meat—just about anything, actually—to a new taste high. The sugar in the recipe tones the heat just a bit and brings out that unique, wonderful Limon flavor.

For the adventurers out there, here’s this year’s recipe, which made about 10 cups. I start by estimating the number of ½ or 1 pint canning jars I’ll need, and place them in a 225-250º oven to sterilize them.; this only takes about 20 minutes, but longer doesn’t hurt so I leave them in the oven until I’m ready for them.

By the way, if you need to handle the peppers do wear protective gloves; and resist dropping your nose to the pan for a good sniff—between the peppers and the cooking vinegar it will feel like you scalded your nose and throat.

• ¾ qt. dried Limon peppers (halved and seeded before drying); frozen works well, and of course fresh is excellent, too
• 4 apples and 1 mango, peeled, cored, chopped
• 2 C sugar (I used evaporated cane juice; honey would probably work, too)
• 2 T brown sugar (we make our own with evap. cane and molasses)
• ⅓ C maple syrup
• 1 heaping T ground ginger
• 3 T salt (2 T if using sea salt)
• 3 T Dijon mustard (homemade hot mustard is terrific, but we’re out)
• 3 C cider vinegar (I used our own; Braggs is great, too—both have live mother)
• 2 small onions, chopped

Cook until peppers are soft (about 30 min. for frozen, as much as an hour for dried peppers) in a covered saucepan over low heat. Puree in food processor until smooth, return to the pan and reheat to boiling. Stir frequently to prevent sticking or burning. Add

• 2 T lime juice

and bring to boil again. Fill the sterlized jars immediately with the heated sauce, cap with canning lids and cover with plastic storage lids (also made by Ball to fit canning jars). Cool to room temperature, then store indefinitely in the refrigerator.

If you give this a try, let me know how yours turns out, and any ingredient variations you tried!

Vive la salsa!!

The Cathedral Pines — if you look at the center of this photo you can see the tops of the "Cathedral" pines.

We have a huge area of pine trees that we call “the cathedral”—that’s what it feels like when you wend your way through those tall trees. They were planted years ago by the sisters, who hoped Christmas trees might provide a small financial support for them.

The quality of sound changes as you cross the threshold from sugar maples and thick understory into the needle-soft ground of the cathedral. No longer can you hear the crunch of broadleaves on the woodland floor, and even without a noticeable breeze the forty-foot high pines chant softly overhead.

But the sisters were unable to maintain this area over time, and the trees, now growing much too close to each other, are beginning to suffer from lack of sunlight. It’s time to give them a hand. We are hoping to have a portable sawmill brought in so that the trees that must be sacrificed for the good of the others can continue to be a part of our lives—this time as a three-season kitchen, a goat shed, a pole barn … we have any number of great plans that could become new home for this wood.

I was thinking about all this as I was weaving yesterday, and suddenly I became aware of all the wonderful wood surrounding me. The loom itself is nearly sixty years old, and as wood seems to do, it feels deeply “soaked” with many years of peace and meditation that a loom provides its weavers.

Bill has been busy over the past year creating wonderful tools for the loom room —

a perfect weaving bench made from old chapel prie dieux [prayer desks];

a marvelous wide pick-up stick (just to the left of the shuttles) with which I have added

Leno lace to my current placemat project;

and a warping mill, which saves me hours of work (and mistakes) in creating warps for the loom.

I have no idea of the history of the shuttles, lease sticks, and other wooden tools of this trade, but I know they have been used carefully, lovingly and creatively for many years.

All wood brings to this moment its life in a forest, and much of it has a lengthy existence beyond that—in another woman’s home, in chapel, on a wall … and who knows where else. What I do know is that wood seems to live well beyond its “death” from a forest, and that life enriches ours from seed pod to placemat.

Take a look around you, and give a little gift of thanks for the wood that shares your life.