The woodcutter's daughter's tale

I awoke this morning later than my wont, much encumbered with the cat. I petted her a time, arose, and made a pot of coffee and a hearty breakfast before retiring to peruse a chapter of the Holy Scripture and then the Saint Athanasius. You may inquire how a mere woodcutter's daughter would come into an acquaintance with such as these, but I was blessed with a better education than most in my time, whether male or female. After reading, I sat back and Contemplated Life, much as a friend of mine once did in Madrid.

I was aroused from my contemplations, not by a Spanish drug deal in my vicinity, but by the voice of my father inquiring if my mother was ready to go. “Go?” I shouted. “Where?"

“Hiking!” he replied. “Do you want to come?”

I certainly did, so I replied in the affirmative and clothed myself appropriately with much haste. Woodcutters, as you can probably imagine, do not ordinarily go for strenuous hikes with no purpose beyond the pleasure of the walk, but my father makes his living helping to reckon the finances of our local alchemists and weapon-makers, and only chops wood on weekends, and therefore has not partaken of that sad dislike.

The day was a beautiful particularity of late September at its best. The air was cold, particularly when the wind blew, but the sky almost clear and the sun hot. Across the valley fresh snow glistened on the highest peaks. Wildflowers bloomed. This is a good year for the yellows and purples: chamisa, mountain asters, sunflowers. We stopped at a trail near a mesa and hiked along its base, orange cliffs against blue sky. We took pictures—many, many pictures. I filled my memory card; though admittedly it already bore the results of two prior expeditions.

Upon our return home, Dad purposed in his heart to take out half a juniper tree in our front yard. It had been mostly dead for several seasons, and furthermore this year winter is setting in cold and early. So he pulled out the great saw and, when it was quite prepared, I joined him. We cut down the dead half, sliced off the branches, and generally took it apart.

It took us the full afternoon. Our front yard filled with piles of brushery. When we cut logs, we discovered that junipers have red hearts, much like cedar! They smelled like cedar also. When we expressed our surprise to Mom, she said, “Oh yes, juniper is related to cedar. I thought you knew."

We came in an hour or two before sundown and I started making Cornish pasties for dinner. I have long desired to try my hand at them, and some time ago in my researches found two different recipes. They were pretty similar, except for different amounts, so I sort of melded them and did my own version. I did use store-bought pastry, for the lateness of the hour and the hunger of my long-suffering parents, but the filling I made with beef, potato, carrot, onion, and celery—and they were very good. I understand in the high medieval era, pasties were a royal dish, but pretty soon the Cornish miners started making them because they were easy to transport into the mines for lunch. For a while they'd put meat in one half and fruit in the other, for dessert. You really can put anything in a pastry. I highly recommend them.