On Nests

Robins, crows; turkeys; butterflies, mantises; bison "enchiladas."

Mrs. CWD texted me in the middle of steps ups the other morning, asking if I could grab the Monkey. He’s been waking up around five-thirty lately — overcome with another ear infection, his seemingly monthly affliction (we wait with looming frustration for a surgery date for tubes) — so, I dismounted my box — sweat-stained, marker-covered from Kiddo and the Warthog’s “assistance” — and ascended the stairs, released him from his crib, and then, as I began my descent, saw, in the transom window above our front door, a bird perched. We have a robin’s nest there — they moved up from our wreath, which we didn’t put out in time last year — and we’ve been watching it with growing anticipation each day, waiting for the fledglings. But, another step down, I saw the silhouette was not a robin, in its beak not bugs nor nest material; it was a crow, in its maw, a fledgling bird.

I processed this all in the half step to the bottom of the stairs, Monkey in arms, and shooed away the predator, who in two flaps cleared the overhang, baby bird still clenched tight. I pulled a chair over to investigate, saw another fledgling breathing heavily on the sill. I brought the Monkey downstairs, came back up almost immediately, thinking I’d return the survivor to the nest. When I got back to the top, the mother robin was there perched, staring at me through the window.

***

Spent the last month staring at fields of grass, looking for bobbing heads, strutting, puffing, blazing, snoods, white-tipped-black feathers. Saw plenty of them, stared at them, stared at hens, too. Duller, the hens, more muted. Saw them in the grass, nesting, domiciling, getting ready for the month ahead, a moon cycle, twenty-eight days. Still looking at these fields now, even though the season is over, still looking for birds, marking them down, admiring them, pining for them. A minute back, a minute back.

Noticed, driving, that more and more these fields are being mowed, shorn, tidied up. In the best cases, for hay; in most, simply for aesthetics. Wonder — what happens to the turkeys? Ground laying birds, resolute — what happens to the nests, to the eggs, to the hens? To the woodcocks and bobolinks and bobwhites? Illegal to knowingly disturb a nest — but, how many riding tractors even know? Would I, if I weren’t looking?

***

Kiddo and the Warthog have been monitoring all sorts of emergences. The robin’s nest — this being the second, the first in an evergreen in the backyard, predated already — a grackle, before the eggs even hatched — and also caterpillars — the Warthog correcting my lifelong mispronunciation of chrysalis — more knowing in his three years than my nearly two score — and praying mantises, too. The to-be-butterflies still hang, waiting; I returned from the farm Wednesday morning to the news the mantises had arisen. Mrs. CWD brought the cup outside, we tipped them onto the rose bushes in the garden (hoping to combat our aphid problem). Mrs. CWD cautioned me to keep them off the ground — easy targets for the ants — and we watched as they scattered into the greenery, a thousand mouths sent forth to consume.

***

Broke the news about the nest to Kiddo as she lay on the couch, lazing as I finished making coffee, getting things ready for the day.

Oh, she said — and then, what did you pack me for lunch?

***

Keep thinking about the shot I missed on the jake. Frustrated not so much by the miss itself, but the notion that I let myself down. Thousands of arrows shot, from all manner of positions, in between steps ups and farmer’s carries, burpees and box jumps — and still, in the heat of the moment, I didn’t execute. Reminded of the parable of the two arrows; reminded that I shouldn’t let the second hurt more than the first; reminded I felt the same way after the first week of deer season, too.

Perhaps I’m carrying around too many arrows.

***

Spring reverberates: a cloud of pollen pushes past the window. A robin chases a crow, blackbirds mob a hawk, ants swarm a fallen fledgling. Kiddo ate the first red strawberry from our garden, the wild flowers bloom ever brighter. As I look at the mother in the empty nest, I try to tell her — it wasn’t me.

We march toward the equinox, the longest day of the year — but, here on the ranch at least, time seems to be speeding up. Earlier this week, I threw into a Dutch oven bison shanks and short ribs, covered them with sake and soy sauce and a thick, gelatinous broth, and simmered them until tender. We ate them over noodles the first night, then with rice, and then as “enchiladas” — my lazy man’s version — to cap things off. If you’re so inclined, here’s the technique.

Heat, in a cast iron or roasting pan, a wad of bacon fat¹ until gleaming. Into it, place tortillas to cover the bottom of the pan. Smother them with pre-cooked shredded, chunked, or ground meat, a layer of cheese, more tortillas, more meat, more cheese (and peppers and onions, too, if so inclined), another layer of tortillas, cheese — and then douse it all with an enchilada sauce² and place it in the oven around 350°F until the cheese is melted. You can then broil until the tortillas are browned and sauce sizzling.

Cut into “enchiladas” and top with greens, ladling on more sauce as needed. Enjoy.

So there you go folks, lazy man’s enchiladas. This weekend we see warm weather — thankfully — but perhaps rain. We’ll, regardless, spend it outside.

However you’re spending your weekend, I hope you spend it aware.

We’ll see you back here next week.

1. Butter, or another fat, would work here as well.

2. I adapt endlessly Jesse Griffith’s version, which involves a base of lard or other fat, heated in a pan, with sour cream or crema or kefir mixed in, then thinned with a salsa (or even just hot sauce), seasoned with salt and garlic and cumin, and then reduced.