On Turning

Seasons, sausages, sentences; ambition; Dublin coddle.

Woke up the other night to the sound of coyotes yipping. Looked at the clock — one-thirty in the morning — that threshold between old moon and new. Listened to the barks and the howls echo over the bog, fell back asleep with Doggie’s nose poking out at the foot of the bed. She had lifted her head up once, cocked an ear, then curled back up beneath the blankets. Woke up the next morning to frost on the windows, frost on the ground, frost on the pond. Good tidings on the eve of spring.

** *

Made Dublin coddle earlier this week — not quite for Saint Patrick’s Day — I was skiing with Uncles and Grandfather CWD — but close enough for it to feel seasonally appropriate; we used the sausages I made the week before with my friend Kyle last Friday morning; we spent the day grinding and casing; he left in the early evening with fifteen pounds of garlic and sage, black pepper and juniper, kielbasa; another thirty-some pounds drying in one refrigerator, some left loose in the other; he texted me as he drove home a photo of five does staring at him from the side of the road, just outside the farm: “grab your bow and meet me on Powisset street!”

***

Hemingway said you just need to write one true sentence; Joshua Ross inspired me to listen — doubt, however, that last one was the truest one I know.

***

Still, I try to write truthfully. I might have changed distribution of the sausages to read more smoothly, might have extended the timeline — but, still, the forty-five pounds of sausage was real.

The forty-five pounds of sausage was ambitious.

And, I suppose, that’s what we should strive for: to be ambitious. Ambitious in our pursuits, ambitious in our love, ambitious in our knowledge, ambitious in our living. Far too easy it is to drive on autopilot. (Or, too hard: Grandfather tried it in his rental car, leaving the mountain, letting cruise control and assisted-driving take over; he fought the car like a bronco for fifty miles each time he changed lanes — not realizing he needed to use his turn signal). Instead, we must seek out those thresholds, skirt the knife’s edge, cross the median, become uncomplacent; “We must uncenter our minds from ourselves; / We must unhumanize our views a little, and become confident / As the rock and the ocean that we were made from.”¹

** *

I wrote another children’s story the other day, one specifically for the Warthog. It’s about a boy who wakes up one morning and decides to be a hippopotamus. Problem is, he doesn’t know much about how to be a hippo — doesn’t know what they do, what they like, how they act. Fortunately, he has an older sister and she lends him a book: All About Animals. Next thing his parents know, the boy is scarfing dinner and sinking to the bottom of the bathtub — a bona fide river horse.

All it takes sometimes is the knowledge. That’s everything, the last piece of the puzzle. The context, the connection between the unconnected. That’s what takes you from a boy who wants to be a hippo to a boy who is a hippo (at least in his mind). It’s what takes you from mason jars filled with excess sourdough division to pancakes and waffles on the weekend; from vacuum-sealed venison, pork fat, and intestines to cased sausages; from a quart of extra kefir and kids who don’t eat breakfast to “chocolate morning kuchen” eaten with relish. It’s what takes you from a series of disparate vignettes written by Matt Smythe to the makings of one hell of a thriller. You just need that knowledge, that gumption, that know-how.

And, of course, the ambition to put it all to use.

** *

Was driving home with the kids last night after we picked up pizza. We went by the same field that Kyle had a week earlier — there, again, were the does. Kiddo looked out the window: Deer! she shouted. The Warthog said I see them!; the Monkey just giggled. As they passed behind us, Kiddo said to me that she wished it were deer season, then we could all go hunt them. I smiled, laughed, agreed — how I wish it were, how I wish we could. But it’s spring now — a season of renewal. Let the deer browse at will; let them enjoy the lingering light, be comfortable for a few months yet. There soon will be turkey to call and fish to catch; ponds to splash in and berries to pluck; fires to light and stories to tell. My ambitions extend beyond any one pursuit; my mind remains uncentered.

Like my children, I keep my eyes open.

Like those deer, Saint Patrick’s Day is in the rearview — but that still shouldn’t preclude you from enjoying Dublin coddle — a simple Irish stew. Traditionally you would use pork bangers for the sausage and add bacon — but, instead I used a mix of the deer sausages and skipped the bacon. I hope your Granny doesn’t mind.

In a large Dutch oven, brown several sausage links — or loose sausage formed roughly into balls — until there’s rendered fat in the pan. Remove the sausages and add onions and shallots, sliced into half moons. Let these sauté and then add back in the meat, several potatoes (whole or quartered, depending on size). Cover just barely with a thick, gelatinous stock, and let simmer for two to three hours until the potatoes are tender and sausages cooked through.

This would traditionally be served with soda bread (I imagine), but goes equally well with whatever bread you have on hand. It doesn’t even need to be eaten on Saint Patrick’s Day.

So there you go, folks: Dublin coddle. Make it this weekend if you, too, are expecting cold rain. Make it if you, too, are reminding yourself that March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb.

Before I leave you to your weekends, I have one programmatic note. I’ll be doing a book reading and signing at Powisset Farm in Dover, Massachusetts, on April 11th. If it’s convenient, I’d be honored if you’d stop by. There will be copies of Some Meat I’ve Known for sale along with some Cow We Doin’ merchandise (plus the the fully stocked and terrific Farm Store). The event itself is free, but a donation to the Trustees would be appreciated (and will also get you a copy of the book if you don’t already have one). More details to come.

If you can’t make it, you can always buy the book directly here or on Amazon (where I’m closing in on Henry David Thoreau in the best seller list for “U.S. New England Biographies.").

Whether you spend the weekend coddling or reading, I hope you spend it ambitiously.

We’ll see you back here next week.

1. “Carmel Point” by Robinson Jeffers.