Instead, they seem to walk by, or walk away, and all I get are pictures of their butts. Here are two tails we got a good look at. One is clearly a raccoon, and the other looks like a cat, but it’s definitely not our cat. If you can tell me it’s the rare cat-like New England panther, I’ll be forever in your debt.

And they say you shouldn't wear horizontal stripes

Look in the lower right ... tell me that's not a housecat.

There is only one animal who strolls right up, and gives us a great view.

No mystery here

I’m very fond of deep-fried things, but I’ve never deep-fried at home. There are two reasons I’m reluctant to start now. The first is that I’m intimidated by hot oil. In the olden days it was a weapon, poured over the ramparts onto whoever was trying to storm the castle, and I’m just not sure I want that kind of thing in my kitchen. The second is that I’m trying to rein in what seems like inexorable winter weight gain.

So, when those authoritative sources said I could bake them, I wanted to believe. I mixed my filling. I kneaded my dough. I rolled out my wrappers and formed the little stuffed triangles. I even pan-fried them to give them some crunch on both sides before I baked them.

I had high hopes as I slid the tray into the oven, but they were dashed when I took it out. My samosas were pasty. They were dry. Although the flavor wasn’t bad, they weren’t at all what samosas should be. They were a disappointment.

I now consider myself an authoritative source, and I’m here to tell you that you can’t bake samosas. You just can’t.

The last of the flock block

This was supposed to be a flock block update. And it was supposed to be written yesterday, when the flock block was down to the size of a baseball.

But yesterday got away from me, and today is too late for an update. The flock block, which was the size of a golf ball by the time we put the chickens to bed last night, is now officially gone. They went straight for it this morning, and it had disappeared in a matter of an hour or so.

Which means … drumroll please … the winner is Jen, who guessed March 11. Jen, please send your mailing address so I can send you a jar of genuine, hand-crafted, Cape Cod sea salt. Better than Christmas!

Thanks to everyone who participated. Blogs are so much better when people play along.

Mussels with Garlic and Pernod
(serves four as an appetizer, or two as a light main dish)

4-5 dozen mussels, cleaned and de-bearded
1 T. butter
4-5 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 cup white wine
3 T. Pernod or other anise liqueur (I use the cheap stuff)
¼ c. chopped fresh cilantro
¼ cup heavy cream
black pepper to taste

In a pot large enough to hold the mussels, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the garlic and cook, stirring frequently, until it softens and begins to brown, about 5 minutes. Add the wine, turn the heat to high, and bring to a boil.

Using a steamer insert, put the mussels in the pot and cover it. Cook until the mussels open, about 5 minutes. (Discard any mussels that don’t open.)

Remove the mussels to a bowl, and cover it so the mussels stay warm. Add the Pernod to the pot, and cook the liquid down until it reduces by about half. Add the cream and cilantro, and cook another minute or two. Serve the mussels in the liquid. A crusty bread is required.

Freedom!

The last three days have been sunny and warm, with highs pushing 60. The chickens, who don’t seem inclined to want to leave their run when it’s snowy and cold, start a full-court press for freedom when the sun’s out and the ground begins to warm. They take up their little signs and pace back and forth along the side of the run. “Free range! Free range!” they squawk.

We want to let them out, but the risk-reward calculation is the same as it was a month ago. There’s still not much good foraging, and there’s no protective leaf cover under which they can hide from passing hawks.

What there is, though, is a garden full of the winter rye we planted as a cover crop. If we put them out in that, we can stay close enough to discourage hawks, and they can have a beautiful afternoon’s outing, eating some much-needed greens and taking dust baths on the perimeter. The grass is surrounded by a chicken-wire fence, so they can’t go rogue, and we can put them back in the run when play-time’s over.

I suppose there’s no real way to determine if a chicken is happy. They don’t smile or laugh, and they certainly can’t tell you. But, roaming around the grass field, eating their fill with the sun on their backs, they certainly looked happy. I know I was happy.

Chickens dustbathing from Tamar Haspel on Vimeo.