Second frost

Second frost? Not first frost?

Well, it’s like this. It’s midnight before first frost and I’m reading, and the plot thickens and then it thickens some more, and then more after that, and then it’s two thirty in the morning and Chopper asks what happens next, and I check the next chapter title and I tell him, and he says, Hagrid’s back! You have to keep reading!

So, blame the lack of first frost photos on J.K. Rowling and the fact that we’re well over a year behind on our Harry Potter reading. And the fact that one simply cannot stay up till 3:30 am and expect to wake before the frost melts.

So, second frost.

Also, rose hip harvesting time.

Our meadow is thick with wild roses. Nootka roses, or rosa nutkana to be exact. They bloom delicate pink in May, and by fall their Christmas-red hips are everywhere. I spend October and November, impatient; chomping at the bit. I want to get out there and gather my bucket of vitamin C-laden nuggets, but I’ve got to wait. Rose hips are best after first frost when their sugars have concentrated, but if I wait too long, if we have a late first frost, many of the hips will have died; shriveled up into useless black lumps.

Patience, patience… some will still be red. I’ll still have enough for a harvest.

So, when first frost hits, I leap out of bed and go a-gathering.

(Or I would have, if it hadn’t been for that damn Harry Potter book.)

Two days later we are thick with snow, so harvest is delayed again. Then, second frost. I leap out of bed (for real this time, only because we’d hit a slow spot and Chopper’d drifted off early during some bit about centaurs or celestial orbs or whatnot), and I head out to the meadow with camera and puppy.

First, I take photos, then I harvest.

I soon discover that harvest is easier said than done. I need gloves. And boots. And thick, snag-proof pants, not these ancient sweats — which I notice, too late, are on backwards so they’re saggy in front like freaky old man trousers. And I need Tall Guy.

Tall Guy, alas, is in the kitchen cooking kippers and eggs and I’m most grateful he doesn’t ask me to photograph the finished product because if ever a dish fit the comfort food is butt-ugly bill, it would be Chopper’s kippers and eggs. The kippers, chunked up and tossed into the scramble, give the whole plate a rather sickly beige tint, reminiscent of a few of the more frightening entries in the My Blog Went up in Flames competition, or of something the cat’s hurked up.

They do still taste good, and they give me a nice little boost of energy for the harvest, if only I can drag Chopper out into the meadow. (Whaddya mean you’ve got other things to do?)

Oh, okay, the harvest can wait a few more days.

Meantime, I gather what I can reach, take a few more photos, and spend most of the time viewing the surroundings in a blur:

The puppy, who loves the frost, cannot help but do figure eights around my every move. I’m surprised I don’t end the expedition on my ass.

I return to the warm house with just a small bag of rose hips. Not enough yet for tea, or jelly, or crumble pie, but we’ll be out there again shortly; as soon as we’ve got the time. Just hold on, I say as look out our window and spy the telltale red dots that pepper the meadow. Don’t shrivel up and turn black just yet. Stay tasty.

(Check out more Weekend Herb Blogging over at Kalyn’s Kitchen!)

This entry was posted on Saturday, December 17th, 2005 at 7:44 pm and is filed under food blogging events, weekend herb blogging. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.