The Peach Fairy Was Here!

. . . I'm sure that's what the woodchucks, "Beth" and "Little Beth," think whenever we set the morning's pile of peach peelings out under the walnut tree.

I've told you about woodchucks before. We have a few on our block that apparently live in burrows around some of the vacant and semi-abandoned and marginally maintained "rental" housing nearby. (We used to be unqualified preservationists, but some of the houses on our block are beyond repair and are simply waiting in line to be torn down.)

It's not like we're "feeding" the woodchucks, particularly (we don't even set seed out for the squirrels, to keep them from the bird feeders, anymore)--we just feed the birds, and seed falls to the ground, and the woodchucks come to vacuum up the scraps. Sometimes the woodchuck sits there on the ground right next to the mourning doves, who are similarly interested in Hoovering up spilled millet, cracked corn, and what-all.

But on these mornings when I peel three or four peaches to have with our breakfast, we have a choice of where to toss the peels and pits. Should we scrape them into the garbage can (where they would soon get boozy and draw fruit flies)? Or put them into our backyard composter? (It's a plastic bin that is always full of weeds and seems rather creepy with spiders, picture-winged flies, mold, and more--it's kind of hard to face in the mornings; plus, peach peelings seem too sweet and precious for the composter.)

So instead, we put them in the yard, where a hungry and appreciative mammal can find them.




Ever since that lengthy, dry, hot spell we had (practically from June through July), we've been setting our cantaloupe rinds and fruit peelings under the walnut, where we know that Beth and Little Beth walk past, on their way to our bird feeders, and where (we know) the local opossum(s) and raccoon(s) amble past during the night shift.

The scraps always disappear within twelve hours. Although I haven't seen it, Sue says that once or twice, she's seen the woodchucks discover a fresh pile of peach peels.

She says they fall on it like prospectors on the mother lode.

To them, it must seem like manna from heaven, a supreme ambrosial treat--especially given this hot, dry summer of crackling, brown grass and a dearth of anything remotely resembling "succulence."

To them, it must seem like the "Peach Fairy" came and granted them a special boon! If woodchucks are capable of rejoicing (they always have such a deadpan expression), this would inspire it.

And as far as we're concerned--as long as the woodchucks refrain from burrowing under our house--they are quite free to enjoy the sweet peels that we don't want.

Jane’s Varmint Vittles

Last night was a first for us! I love trying new foods, and this was a doozy.

Our friend Jane P. lives in a nice, wooded neighborhood in sophisticated, college-town Columbia (so don’t be going on about hillbillies here); she’s a foodie, I suppose—though she goes far beyond simple classifications like that.

Anyway, Jane has a couple of dogs, Wagner and Porter, and they . . . well, hunt things. They’re dogs! And this week a woodchuck had the misfortune, or the poor judgment, to get caught inside their dog-fence with them.

When Jane came upon the situation, the dogs were playing tug-o-war with the deceased woodchuck.

Most people would have chucked the woodie into the woods, or thrown it in the trash, or buried it, but not Jane, oh-no-no-no. Jane drained and skinned and gutted it, and made it into a stew!

And not just any stew, mind you—this was fantastic stuff, with big chunks of carrots and onion, as well as fresh local chanterelle mushrooms (yeah, in nice big pieces).

So she had us and her friend Rod over for dinner last night, to sample the culinary wonder that is woodchuck. Groundhog. Whistle pig. Land beaver.

“What did it taste like?” you ask.

It tasted great! Better than beef, in my opinion. Tender and rich, kind of sweet in a way. Yes, slightly “gamey,” but not overly so; in fact it was quite mild. And not stringy or tough at all.

As we ate, Jane explained that part of its tastiness might be from it being a fairly young animal—probably in its first year of life—and a female (thus less musky). Also, Jane had done her homework on cooking woodchuck and had removed the creature’s scent glands prior to any cooking, which probably helped the flavor immensely.




To round out the meal, Jane also served us fresh cooked greens, a medley of diced squash and red bell peppers, roasted potatoes and onions, and a bowl of fresh wild persimmons. It was a truly special, delicious meal, and we felt like royalty.

I had asked what we could bring, and Jane—based on a sample she’d tasted—suggested an “old-vine Zinfandel.” Which I promptly went out and bought. Although I did ask the lady at the wine department, anyway: “What can you suggest: I’m looking for a wine that would pair well with woodchuck . . .” Yeah, I asked just to see the look on her face.

I also brought a blackberry pie that I picked up from a Mennonite lady at the Cole County Farmer’s Market.

It was all incredibly delicious . . . and the dogs got to lick the plates.





Epilogue. Four minutes after we said goodnight and left, Jane tells us, the dogs had murdered an opossum in their enclosed area. Jane was tired; it was a work night. . . . She flung it over the fence!

Just Deserts

Comeuppance. Punishment. Karma. As ye sow, so shall ye reap.

This is what we get for tolerating woodchucks when they come into our backyard to chew on the field corn we put out for the squirrels to keep the squirrels from monopolizing our bird feeders.




Herbivory.

Remember when I told you about “Beth”? Well there are indeed two of those woodchucks, and as the weather’s been getting cooler, they’ve been growing (even) fatter, more “senatorial.”

And last weekend, we revitalized the flower bed under the bird feeders, planting four awesome, fully budded and flowering chrysanthemum plants (from Longfellow’s, so you know they’re excellent plants) . . . and guess what happened.

I like how they left some flower petals behind on the mulch, like crumbs. Nice touch.



I imagine the conversation between the woodchucks.

“Mmmmm, I loooooove this time of year, don’t you!”

“Yeah, all these great plants and flowers to eat. Hey, which of these do you like better, the yellow, or the pink?”

“Well, the yellow are pretty good, but I like the pink ones better because they taste spicier . . . !”

. . . Blah, blah, blah, blah. (You have to make up a voice that sounds like a big tubby rodent’s.)

. . . Okay, actually, they could never say these things to each other, because every time we see them, they’re chewing. They have their mouths full. So instead they’d have to, um, telepathically communicate these thought to each other, right?

. . . Kind of how I’m telepathically communicating with you, now. Dorky as they may be, you are reading my thoughts. Man, I'm sorry. My apologies. Maybe tomorrow it will get better.

Meet Beth

I've been keeping pretty busy recently. One of my recent projects is (once again--yawn!) to put some effort into developing some healthier, more balanced habits. Like eating more healthy food--but gosh it's so convenient to hit a restaurant.

Anyway, I've also been trying to clean up this place of late. Being a freelancer, I'm finally spending quite a lot of time here at home, and I've finally looked around and gone, "Criminey, I need to clean up this place!"

But I do have something to share with you. In this case--if you are woodchuck-phobic, don't look any further, or you'll be offended.

Yes, I do know that they burrow like crazy and have a tendency to breed like, um, rodents, and that they love to eat up one's vegetable garden. Let me try to explain.

Here's how it started. See, we put feed out for the birds. That's okay, it's normal. But the squirrels tend to hog up the feeders. So to keep the squirrels away from the bird feeders, we've been pouring a little bit of field corn out under the walnut, well away from the bird zone.

To be funny, we put the corn in an old wooden bird feeder that was falling apart. It looked like a little house. You have to admit it's cute.

Anyway, a woodchuck or two have located this cornucopia of corn, so they've learned to visit the squirrel feeder.

Which is to say: We didn't invite the woodchuck(s). They appeared on their own. And so now we're "subsidizing" two types of mammals in order to get them to leave the bird feeders alone. It's like a payoff, or a bribe.

No, we're not going to shoot "Beth" (we call the woodchucks "Beth," short for "Beth DeWoody," a memorable character from a favorite episode of AbFab--long story). But I'm not keen on them getting any ideas about burrowing under our sunporch.

So far, the bribes are working. And we're enjoying watching our chubby little cornfed pals.

It's cute how they get along with the squirrels . . .