the sky, thickly veiled in white smoke, gradually darkened. i paced the house, obsessively looking out the window as the wind picked up, swirling through branches and laying grasses down flat. it seemed the promised rain might actually arrive. like much of the west, montana’s summer has once again been plagued with drought and fire. we desperately need rain, yet the occasional thunderstorms blowing through place us on edge; every lighting strike could spark another conflagrat

Swing the axe In the hour before daylight Note the sparks That attend to the blade — Jeffrey Foucault, Dishes If I look over the top of my laptop screen, through raindrop-pebbled window panes, grass fronds feather sideways and tree branches flail against a backdrop of slate cloud curtains nestled among mountain layers. Copper leaves scud down the street and cold presses through double-paned windows. It’s only October, but we’ve already woken to snow several times, once dee

If you keep driving: beyond the outskirts, past the horses and hay bales, to the far side of split rail fences and civilization. If you keep going far enough, you enter God’s country. That phrase means different things to different people, I’m sure, but the land I speak of is this: Wide open spaces unmarred by structure and untrammeled by man. Where braided gravel bars and river corridors wend their way through a sponge of alpine tundra then tumble down waterfalls cut deep in

Before I begin today’s post, I would like to extend a heartfelt thank you to those following my blog. Welcome to the world of coffee and woodsmoke. I appreciate your support and hope you enjoy your stay on these pages! The local grocery store here is called “Town & Country.” I reckon for many visitors even the town seems pretty country, but when you take the time to drive just a half an hour out–maybe not even that far–the difference makes itself known. Time slows down and sp

An almost imperceptible shift in the light. A slant of golden, the earth’s turning reflected in sunflowers’ faces. The skies blue again after a good night’s wind and rain scrubbed the smoky haze that had descended over the mountains, stacking them like so many cardboard cutouts. Around the edges the air is cool, threaded with the promise of chill. The creek meanders along, more leisurely than lazy, having left the frenetic pace of runoff behind. A grasshopper symphony plays f

Walking along an ice rink road riddled with puddles, there is a whisper in the air; an undercurrent. Spring is not here yet in the north country, but there is a promise in the breeze. Hold on just a little longer, says the wind to the buds that have begun to swell on the trees. The morning sunlight has shifted, now angling gold through the bay window. I look up and a bald eagle soars overhead, low enough that i can hear each wingbeat. vanilla caramel cashew buckwheat clusters

In late October, I returned to Montana after a rather lengthy absence. I returned in time to see the last of the fall colors, ochers and golds deepening into late-autumn glory. I returned, and soon it snowed. And it snowed. And it snowed. I stood one evening watching out the window as thick flakes softly sank beneath the yellow cone of light offered by the corner streetlight. The snow fell as peace descending from the sky. I stood watching, and I felt its peace. I felt at pea

Daybreak reveals a heavy grey blanket of sky, coming to rest just above slate mountains’ rise into icy peaks.  It looks like November.  Filtered light makes its way through, silhouetting skeletal trees, whispering across brittle, tawny grasses breaking through the snow’s thin crust. We’re easing into winter this year.  Cold, snowy days followed by mild, almost springlike weather; this past weekend saw nearly 50 degrees, and I took the opportunity to harvest the remaining 7 lb

An unexpected and sudden storm blew in late afternoon last week.  The skies in Montana had been thick with smoke from wildfires burning across the West, and the sun hung low and red in a hazy sky.  There wasn’t much daylight left for the evening dog walk, so I leashed Pono up and we stepped out onto the front porch.  In the same instant a gust nearly took us off our feet and a low rumble of thunder rippled across the sky.  We stepped back across the threshold, shut the door,

I’ve been on a bit of a Montana-themed reading bender of late: Ivan Doig’s This House of Sky, a whole slew of Jim Harrison’s short stories (Legends of the Fall, The Beast God Forgot to Invent, The Woman Lit by Fireflies, The Summer He Didn’t Die), and, as of last night, Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It.  As a general rule, I’m not one for forewords in books; I’m usually impatient to get to the work itself, and find myself rushing through the pages numbered i-ix hurrie

Weekends go by so fast.  This one was a good one.  Summer days in Montana, celebrating the best the season has to offer. Saturday began with a trip to the county fair, where two-day old Vietnamese potbellied pigs suckled or slept under the warmth of a heat lamp.  So tiny, so delicate, so clearly brand new to this world.  One tiny piglet awoke from his nap, stood up on spindly legs, tottered, and then gave a long, slow, delicious stretch.  A stretch worthy of any practiced yog

I finally returned home to Bozeman this past week after a couple of weeks on the road.  I do love traveling–experiencing new places, and old places anew–but Dorothy says it best: there’s no place like home (even when it’s snowing and blowing, in May).  Perhaps it’s because, after decades of peripatetic wandering, I find myself rooting in a place.  I long for this place, this home, when I’m away. It’s good to be back. And back in my kitchen, of course.  I hadn’t been home for

Zone 4 It’s almost time … We’re so close … But not quite there yet … With the sunny mild weather we’ve had this spring, it’s taken every ounce of willpower I have not to start planting (the foot of heavy wet snow we got a couple of weeks back reminded me why I’m waiting). But just give it a week or two and the cool weather seeds will be sown and home-grown deliciousness will soon follow. My love affair with gardening began when I was as young as I can remember. One of my ea

A trail runs along the creek in my neighborhood, and the dogs and I walk with its flow several times each day.  One day this past week, as we made our way along the well-worn path, I was (as I often am) lost in thought … about who-knows-what … the monkey-mind swinging from thought-tree to thought-tree.  Our footsteps shuffled through the fine gravel.  All was still. Until in a moment, the hush broke with the resounding trumpeting of two sandhill cranes.  They floated in on si

I’ve thought about starting a blog, on and off, for years now.  A couple of things really inspired me to jump in: the re-entry into the blog world of my friend Katherine; my seeming addiction to cookbooks and food-related websites and blogs (Food52, I’m talking to you); and, perhaps most of all, coming up with the name of this blog.  The name bubbled up a few months ago when I was listening to my all-time favorite singer-songwriter, Jeffrey Foucault, sing a little tune of his