Tonight’s dinner of braised root vegetables was seasoned with bouquet garni—a pleasing little bundle of parsley, thyme and bay. We ate the sweet potatoes, carrots, and beets over gnocchi, drizzled with the pan juices, butter, and chopped herbs.
The wind picked up this afternoon and the air was chilly, but we still ate outside. Hints of things to come. School started yesterday, and thus the slippery slope into thoughts of wool sweaters, pumpkins, and evening fires.
The three of us picked and snapped young green beans after dinner. I’m so pleased that we caught them at just the right time—young and thin. We’ll eat some for dinner tomorrow and freeze the rest to enjoy with roast chicken or in a winter soup.
One chicken, Bluebell—an Auracana, has been getting out of the chicken run and roosting in a tree for the last few nights. We listened to her squawking as she tried to find a branch that would hold her weight in the lilacs by the kitchen. The bush was a flailing silhouette against the darkening sky—a flailing dark shape that held a single chicken orchestrating all that movement. She finally flapped her way high enough to gain a solid purchase and calmed herself to silence.
When I closed the other four in the cozy hen house I passed by and saw her there, just a shadow, barely noticeable. Eyes closed.