Ode to a Rice Cooker



Riced in Peace.

 O Cooker, we
Are broken-hearted
That you are
Tragically departed.

You cooked up
Lovely, fluffy rice,
Making mealtimes
Very nice.

With rice, we always
Had good luck:
Your nonstick surface
Never stuck.

Another thing we liked,
O Cooker:
As rice pots go,
You were a looker.

Tubby, short,
And cherry red!
A tragic loss
That you are dead.

And now you face
The fate of all
Things that are
Shaped like a bowl:

Filled with dirt,
You will now not
Cook rice, but be
A flower pot.

Medieval Journey on Phinney Ridge

It didn't seem like an ominous day when I set out for a walk late last week with the dog. But as we trekked up one side of Phinney Ridge and down the other, we encountered signs and omens that perhaps we were on a perilous journey.

First, we found this:

I did not recognize it as The Sword On the Stone, otherwise I would've snatched it up to do battle with what we encountered next:

Fortunately, this monster was sleeping, or we would've been in great peril. As it was, we were able to sneak past it.

I'm not sure what damsel in distress we were supposed to rescue. Last year at about this time, we encountered the terrible Barbie Doll Head Upside-Down in a Tree (sadly, no picture), but I should think we were too late to do her any good.

We did find this when we got home, however--the only rose other than the wild roses to bloom in our garden this year. The rest of the buds on this bush would open up until they were fat, pink softballs, tantalizingly on the verge of bursting open into beautiful flowers--only to turn damp and brown and fall off before realizing their potential.

Seems odd that this one, coming of age at such a soggy, chilly time of year, would be the only one to emerge. Perhaps it has been left for us by some imprisoned princess as a Sign.

Farewell to Fall

I know fall doesn't technically end until just a few days before Christmas, but the fall feeling has definitely already fled here. There are still quite a few blazingly beautiful maples and other trees lighting up the otherwise gray, damp days; many, however, have tossed their leaves, which are now looking less like vivid red and yellow carpets and more like old brown doormats that need to be raked up and composted, the sooner the better.

And it definitely smelled like snow the other morning, after several very cold days on which it seemed that the falling rain might verge into sleet at any moment.

I love the upcoming winter holidays, but I'll miss the beautiful warm colors of autumn.



The witch hazel out back is now the only shrub in the yard displaying glorious color. It's as if
it waited on purpose for all the other plants to shed their leaves so that it could show off all
by itself. Now if only it would flower in January like it's supposed to, and hasn't for years...



Luna the Lab displays her natural camouflaging properties amidst the last of the birch tree's fallen leaves.

Plenty of pumpkins...




...and gourd-geous gourds.



Week of Weird Weather and Wonderful Wildlife

Nope, I didn't see a grizzly with a pumpkin on
the streets. This is Keema, a grizzly who lives
at the zoo, safely behind thick glass.

Typical Pacific Northwest damp fall weather took a holiday on Halloween this past week and also called in sick on several other days, perhaps having exhausted itself by pulling out all the stops on Monday with a record-setting rainfall.

But most surprising was the wildlife. The city gifted me over the past few days with an abundance of sightings, including some critters I'd never glimpsed in our streets before. (And I don't mean the two-legged cows, miniature unicorns, Godzillas, and oversized bees wandering on Halloween night.)

First, there was the bald eagle, sighted on Sunday, a day that was true to its name--blazingly sunny and balmy atmosphere. That day, we decided it was time to tackle the dreaded task of cleaning the gutters. Which we hadn't done in a decade, at least. But when we saw six-inch-tall plants sprouting from the southernmost gutter over the back of the house, we knew we couldn't avoid it any longer.

While teetering atop a ladder scooping up muck and lime-green moss, I chanced to look up and spied the eagle wheeling over our house. Chocolate-brown body, bright white head, spiraling against a turquoise blue sky. It was a fine reward for grubbing about in the gutter.

Bald eagles aren't an uncommon sight in the city--there are even several pairs nesting within its limits. But they never fail to amaze. A Cooper's hawk, on the other hand, is harder to spot. There are probably plenty of them living in city limits, but being smaller birds accustomed to hunting at lower levels instead of riding on rising vortices of warm air, one doesn't see them as often. But this hawk streaked across the road ahead of me as I walked the dog that day. Typically when I've seen a Cooper's in town, it's being chased by crows, but this one seemed to be flying below the corvid radar.

That night, while my dog and I accompanied a large duck, a nun, a witch, and a can of soup on a trick-or-treat tour of the neighborhood, we spotted a strange animal that is scarcely ever seen in the flesh--and actually we're not quite in agreement as to which normally-underground beastie it was.

It was scuttling about near the curb under parked cars after dashing down a driveway. The witch thought it was a lost guinea pig, and rushed over in an attempt to "rescue" it, with the soup can and the duck in tow. But they backed off when the clearly-not-a-guinea pig trundled out from under a car and bored its way back up the driveway, seemingly oblivious to onlookers.

It looked like a very determined fur-covered butternut squash. Luna (the dog) was flabbergasted as the thing practically strolled right under her nose. Normally she lunges at her leash to try and chase squirrels; now, with a squirrel-esque summer sausage practically on her paws, she just gaped in amazement.


A young mountain beaver
(from a U.S.G.S. photo)

I'm thinking it was a mountain beaver, judging by its size, shape, relative speed, and apparent lack of a tail. The soup can is more inclined to the view that it's a Townsend's mole. Both animals are often active at night--the mountain beaver gathering plants, the mole hunting worms or gathering nesting material.

Midday Thursday, I spied another small scurrying scamperer I've never seen in the streets before (though I know they live in the parks): a chipmunk, species unknown. It was skittering about in the yard and on the sidewalk in front of a house one block over that was built to very exacting and expensive "green" standards. Which makes me wonder if all newly built "green" homes come complete with adorable chipmunks.

Weather-wise, the week's wonders included Monday's rainfall of 1.56", a new record for November 1. And Wednesday boasted a high of 74F, the record high temperature for November 3.
If I were superstitious, I'd be looking for signs and omens in a Halloween week of weird weather and wildlife. But, oh, maybe it's just climate change.

Stink, Stank, Stunk

Found this dinosaurian insect lolling around on the strappy leaf of a daylily today. He wasn't in a hurry to go anywhere and took no offense at my sticking a camera in his face.

Which is a good thing, because he's a stinkbug. Specifically, a green stinkbug. As you might've guessed just by looking at him.

Stinkbugs don't like to be disturbed. In fact, when they are, they make a stink about it. A real stink. The odor is described as the essence of skunk with notes of dirty sock and a hint of cilantro. It oozes from glands when they're upset; if squashed, they get the last laugh by releasing lots of their repugnant pong.

Birds aren't fond of the fluid's taste, which is presumably as bad as its smell, so the stinkbug's perfume makes a great defense. A predator that catches it may drop it in disgust, giving the stinkbug a chance to escape. Still, many birds, spiders, and other insects aren't repelled enough by the smell or taste to forgo making a meal of the stinkbug. Maybe a stinkbug is akin to Limburger cheese or truffles in the animal world.

(Some stinkbugs will even eat other stinkbugs. Then they're put on trial and the judge gets to say, "Odor in the court!")

This stinkbug is probably looking for a place to overwinter in the garden, someplace slightly damp and protected from the elements. Next spring he (or she, I guess) will emerge to lay eggs.

My Audubon field guide makes it clear that green stinkbugs aren't exactly beloved: "This pest damages apple, cherry, orange, and peach trees, and eggplant, tomato, bean, pea, cotton, corn, and soybean crops." It probably leaves the top off the toothpaste tube and dishes in the sink, as well.

Just for fun, I decided to find out how you say "stinkbug" in German (since so many words are much funnier in German than in English, at least what I remember from my many years of German back in the day). Not knowing where my German-English dictionary is (and feeling about as lazy as a late-fall stinkbug on a daylily leaf), I decided to use an online dictionary.

This resource didn't have an entry for "stinkbug," however, and instead asked me if I'd meant to look for "shooting box steamships." Well, yeah, of course. Isn't that obvious?

No Grizzlies Mangling Pumpkins, but Still a Lovely Day

Went up to the zoo today, intending to join a press photo shoot heralding this upcoming weekend's Pumpkin Bash--an event featuring the joyful union of curious, hungry animals and large orange gourds. (Think "hippo eating pumpkin.") I looked forward to seeing meerkats dart in and out of Jack o' Lanterns and the grizzly bears destroying theirs. This week, however, has been confusing, and I had shown up on the wrong day.

But this was not even remotely a disappointment. For the sky was deep blue, the air crackling with autumn chill, the leaves flaming with color. And any day that includes meeting a wallaroo is a good one.

The keeper noted that this wallaroo is
the grand old lady of the zoo's mob and
often appears to pose for pictures with
great dignity. I like her black gloves.



The barred owl was enjoying a nap
on his branch, stirring only to regard me
soulfully before shutting his
eyes and no doubt getting ready
for a good day's sleep.



The Komodo dragon, proudly displaying his lacerating claws
and his deadly, bacteria-laden saliva.



You can never have too many meerkats.

The day also offered up many non-zoo animals to enjoy: a bevy of crows in a bare birch tree, lots of very busy squirrels, and many tiny Anna's hummingbirds zzzeeping and zipping overhead. Anna's hummingbirds overwinter in Seattle, which is a fairly recent phenomenon. Ornithologists speculate that a combination of feeders, exotic garden plants, and climate change may account for this shift in behavior (and they have suggestions here for how to take care of hummingbird feeders in winter).



Hummingbirds can also sink into a state of torpor at night
when it's cold in order to conserve their energy.



The nice thing about having missed the photo shoot, of course, is now I have an excellent excuse to skip off to the zoo again in the middle of another work day.

Upfall

Spring's got flowers, birds, and rebirth, and summer's got long, lazy, nostalgic days, but there's nothing like the snap and tang of a beautiful autumn day as crisp as a firm apple.

A friend once expressed astonishment that I actually liked fall. "All that death and decay!" she exclaimed in horror. But it just doesn't strike me that way. Maybe because getting into flannel pj's and settling in with a good book and a glass of wine on a chilly evening is so lovely, and the way the overwintering insects, other animals, and plants prepare to go to sleep for the winter seems so akin to that settling-in to me. Not like death at all.

And the excited chatter of the birds pausing to refuel in our trees sounds more like pre-vacation hubbub than the start of a forced march south.

As ever, this fall saw us trekking out to a pumpkin patch, where we took pictures that we've taken a zillion times before and will no doubt snap again in future.


It's a very, very sincere pumpkin patch.

 

Never noticed how much corn buttress roots look like dinosaur feet...



...nor how much a corn tassel looks like a hydra.



This year the pumpkin farm added an adorable horsy tractor-train--quite amusing to see it chugging across the field from far away; you could only see the horses' heads over the corn stalks.



Rose hips in hedgerow.



Another sure sign of autumn: the pumpkin cannon, which can hurl
a pumpkin across two fields and into a swamp.



Picture 2,412,693 of our paper birch in fall splendor against blue sky.



I know we're very safety-conscious in the USA,
but are falling leaves really that heavy?

Autumn also means maple pumpkin cupcakes from Cupcake Royale.
Nothing sad or decaying about that!