THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY – News From The Hills

A yellow butterfly hovers over the Persian lilac bush, with its purple blooms swaying in the breeze. Purple and yellow seems to be the color scheme on this lovely spring day, with dandelions and violets vying for attention along the edge of the yard, and winter cress spreading yellow clusters in the meadow. From the leafing maple tree, a cardinal pours out a melody of pure praise, thanking the Great Creator for another beautiful day.

Although there has been a light frost the last three mornings, it doesn’t seem to have affected anything. The peonies (piney-roses) are growing lush and green, and the bleeding-hearts are blooming, unscathed. Apple blossoms are scattering their petals across the lawn like snow in April, and the weeping willow tree waves light green branches in the air.

The merry month of May is entering our hills, with promises of warmer weather, although Criss says it is not safe to put out tender plants until the tenth of this month. It has been too wet to put out anything much, although we do have a lettuce bed that is sprouting tender leaves. Our old neighbor, the late Liddie Coon, always told us that things planted in June will come up and thrive better “after the ground warms up.”

The yellow morels, or what we call “creek merkles,” are being found now by avid mushroom hunters. These are a choice edible, and are bigger than the early black ones. There is a morel-hunting festival in Michigan, where hundreds of people race to find and collect as many morels as they can in 90 minutes. The record for one person is more than 900 morels. That sounds like mushroom heaven to me! We are happy when we can find a big mess of them. They can be prepared in a variety of ways, but we usually sauté them in butter or oil, or roll them in flour and fry them in hot oil. (Be sure to split and soak them in salt water a few hours or overnight to rid them of any tiny bugs.)

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Here is a recipe for stuffed morels, if you are fortunate enough to find plenty of large ones:

STUFFED MORELS
2 cups morels
2 cups cubed stale bread
½ cup mushroom or chicken broth
1 egg
½ cup finely chopped wild onions or
you may use green onions
½ cup diced celery
½ teaspoon dried sage leaves
Salt and pepper to taste
Remove hollow stems from morels and dice them. Slice caps in half lengthwise.

Mix bread, broth, egg, onions, celery, mushroom stems and herbs; if mixture is too thin add a bit more bread. Season to taste. Stuff morels with this and place in a well-greased casserole dish. Bake for 30 minutes at 375 degrees.

In case you don’t find any morels, here is a new suggestion from a friend of mine. (I haven’t tried this) She picks dandelion blooms (no stems), soaks them for a few hours in salt water, and drains them well. Then she coats them with flour, salt and pepper, and fries them in hot shortening. She says that they taste like mushrooms. In fact, she fooled her husband with them.

We’ve had a request from “Janet” who is searching for a candy recipe that a lady used to make for their church Hot Dog Sale-the lady has since moved away. It sounds like some sort of a divinity fudge, coated with peanut butter and then formed into a roll. If anyone is familiar with this recipe, she would love to have it.

One of my dear friends, who happens to be 93, sent me a poem that she found in her mother’s purse at the time of her death, at age 90. She calls it Georgia Ellen’s legacy.

NOT GROWING OLD
by John E. Roberts
They say that I am growing old,
I’ve heard them tell it times untold,
In language plain and bold–
But I’m not growing old.
This frail old shell in which I dwell
Is growing old, I know full well-
But I am not the shell.

What if my hair is turning gray?
Gray hairs are honorable, they say.
What if my eyesight is growing dim?
I still can see to follow Him
Who sacrificed His life for me
Upon the Cross of Calvary.

What should I care if Time’s old plough
Has left its furrows on my brow?
Another house, not made with hand,
Awaits me in the Glory Land.

What though I falter in my walk?
What if my tongue refuse to talk?
I still can tread the narrow way,
I still can watch, and praise and pray.

My hearing may not be as keen
As in the past it may have been,
Still I can hear my Savior say
In whispers soft, “This is the way.”

The outward man, do what I can
To lengthen out this life’s short span,
Shall perish and return to dust,
As everything in nature must.
The inward man, the scriptures say,

Is growing stronger every day.
Then how can I be growing old?
When safe within my Savior’s fold
E’re long my soul shall fly away,
And leave this tenement of clay.
This robe of flesh I’ll drop and rise
To seize the everlasting prize.
I’ll meet you on the Streets of Gold
And prove that I’m not growing old.

“After we come to mature years, there is nothing of which we are so vividly conscious as the swiftness of time. Its brevity and littleness are the theme of poets, moralists and preachers. Yet there is nothing of which there is so much-nor day nor night, ocean nor sky, winter nor summer equal it. It is a perpetual flow from the inexhaustible fountains of eternity: And we have no adequate conception of our earthly life until we think of it and live in it as part of forever. NOW is eternity, and will be, tomorrow and next day, through the endless years of God.”
–Stebbins

DEATH IS A DOOR
By Nancy Byrd Turner
Death is only an old door
Set in a garden wall.
On quiet hinges it gives at dusk,
When the thrushes call.

Along the lintel are green leaves,
Beyond, the light lies still:
Very weary and willing feet
God over that sill.

There is nothing to trouble any heart,
Nothing to hurt at all.
Death is only an old door
In a garden wall.