Ten years ago in June, I first wrote about our little house in the country. Not a house yet, just a piece of beautiful property on which slumped an old house and a sturdy barn. That was the beginning of The Wood. So it’s an appropriate anniversary to bring our little house in the city onto these pages. It’s not a house, never will be, and not a condo either. At best, it’s an apartment in the old folks’ home. Park View at Terwilliger. We stumbled over what to call it, and Allison had the idea to simply name it 862, its address in the building. Maybe that will come to be. Right now, we just say Portland. As in, we’ll take that to “Portland.” Time will tell, right? The surprise is that we are coming to love it.

Why do we have an apartment in an old folks’ home? Because we’re old? Well, yes, that. No, we’re not moving! We’ve just found that, having sold the condo, we like a place to spend the night when we’re in town to see friends, for the symphony and play tickets. And, honestly, it’s an insurance policy. Farming really is a dangerous occupation and we just may need a place where we can land when the day comes . . .

Anyway, no photos to show you, but it’s on the 8th floor, has a nice view and a tiny deck. A living room, kitchen, dining space all in one, two bedrooms, two baths. The second bedroom is now an office space. We hired a designer, so have a sofa and a couple of chairs, a fake fireplace, and are beginning to give it some personal bits and pieces to make it seem homey. Well that sounds perfectly awful, and it isn’t. Honestly.

Daughter Jenny had planned to spend the weekend at the farm, so we suggested that she get as far as Portland on her way from Seattle, then stop at 862 to have a look, spend the night. She was surprised to find that it really was better than she’d expected! So that’s good.

Then we all caravanned to The Wood on Friday morning. We did have some chores for the weekend, but first Jenny wanted to make the acquaintance of the chickens:

“You can’t really pick them up,” we told her. Jenny didn’t listen, and here she is with crabby old Grace. Jenny and her brothers didn’t grow up on an actual farm, but we did live out in the country, and her roots are showing here. Speaking of country bumpkins, if you notice that her shirt appears to be inside out, it isn’t. Look at the buttons. I guess it’s a thing in Seattle to construct clothing seam side out?

Friday was apple picking day. We have three trees that are bearing credible, edible fruit, so we got busy and collected three baskets. There are Honey Crisps, another whose name Larry will have to go upstairs to find, and Granny Smiths. Here are the Grannys:

We left the apples in the wheelbarrow by the shed, and Jenny and her dad went out to attend to the bees:

Jenny was the photographer here, so no pix of her. Everyone safe, and on to Larry’s garden to harvest whatsoever there may be:

That thing is a cucumber. A very mature cucumber. Some exotic strain, and at first I was reluctant to try it. But it’s awesome. Crunchy, fresh-tasting, mostly flesh with a small center core of seeds. You do have to peel it, but one cucumber will practically feed the whole family.

In the evening we introduced Jenny to Jeremy Clarkson, Clarkson’s Farm. It’s so damn funny, and she’s a convert. Says she’ll watch the remainder of the series at home. Sidebar: Larry and I are working with designer Chris to see if we can retrofit the Wood with a TV set in the living room. Will make it easier for 3 people to watch Jeremy, if Chris can figure out a plan.

Next day we had to do something with the apples. First choice of the resident parents, make mincemeat. Jenny was somehow born with the gene for sugar missing. Dessert? Meh. But she had to pitch in. We have a little machine which cores, peels, slices the apples, and Larry mans that on the assembly line. I curate the arriving slices, chop out the worm holes and etc., and feed them into the next machine. A doo-dah which levers the slices through a grid into small dice. Jenny mixes together the sugar, brandy, spices, and the whole recipe gets put into sterilized jars, heading for the freezer. Tiring, but so rewarding. For those of us who do like dessert. Me, for example. (Ah, Larry has just come downstairs with the information that our third apples are Gala.)

Out to dinner. We like a local restaurant, Castor, which serves up Cajun food, so Gumbo for two of us, shrimp and grits for me. (OMG. Next time you come and visit us, we’ll take you there.) The Beavers were playing at Reser Stadium, crazy crowd, but we made it back to Llewellyn before the game ended, and we climbed up to Larry’s office to watch another episode of Clarkson. I know. We’re simple people.

This morning, Jenny gathered herself and left for the trip back home to Seattle. Larry and I are left alone to manage the rest of all those apples. Just an observation. We worked ourselves through pickle season and tomato season, but another hand in the kitchen in apple season is a rare and fine thing! Come back soon, Jenny!