Land Of Milk And Honey

Babies

2012-01-25T22:17:00.003-06:00

The other day I got an email from my former milk customer who bought Coco's heifer, Dulce. She had a baby girl! Can you believe little Dulce, remember Dulce and Carmelita? She is now a mamma cow!

Then Rachel told me that Priscilla had her baby! Priscilla went to live with Mr. Hill, next door to the Thomas's.

A couple of weeks ago David sent me a picture of Coco and Mary and the two sheep. I wanted to cry.

Their son was combing the wool of one of the lambs and their daughter was cuddled up next to Mary, the heifer, in their beautiful green pasture.

Such a sweet picture. How could I be sad, thinking of those animals being loved so dearly by our former milk customers???

Dave told me he hoped to get Coco bred soon.

I wondered if she might already be bred, and if so, when would that surprise baby arrive? Well, this evening I got a picture of the surprise baby! A beautiful little heifer, just like her big sisters, Mary and Carmelita. Duncan sure did a good job! And so did Coco.

I marvel when I remember back to that day I bought Coco and baby Priscilla, not knowing the slightest thing about cows. How we learned to milk. To make cheese and butter and yogurt. How so many people were able to drink such a wonderful harvest off the grass of our farm.

And now, several of those folks who enjoyed our milk have learned to take care of their own cows and are learning to milk and will begin to learn to make butter and cheese and yogurt and be educated about mastitis and good hay and pasture, turning their grass into good food.

Hmm.

Life is rich, isn't it?

PS I will be getting my 3 gallons of raw milk and pint of cream, butter and some buttermilk from my farmer Sally tomorrow. So thankful for her and her cows...

Visitors

2012-01-25T21:55:00.003-06:00

I do not know where to begin.

Maggie and James and Taylar arrived late last Thursday night.

Patrick and I met them, hugs were distributed and the immediate chattering made me realize that six months really isn't that long after all.

My children remembered who they were. And who they are and the eight of the kids played and hiked and leaped wildly off the broken down walls of the Hot Springs into the chilly waters of the Rio Grande.

OK, so it is a bit crazy having eight kids in one small house, but I hope you will believe me when I say that it was an orderly chaos, and not of the bad variety. We shared stories and made do and everyone was flexible and visitors helped wash lots of dishes.

I noticed that my children began to take pride in this region we have loved for their whole life as they shared their special places with our dear loved ones from Virginia. As we drove through the night from Midland to Alpine, I looked at the flatlands and smelled the natural gas, oil wells pumping away. The brushy creosote and lechugilla and cactus fill the fields with prickles. Entering the mountainous region, I think of the rolling Blue Ridge, the soft grasses and green trees and imagine that the kids must feel like they are on the moon. Or Mars. The Chihuahuan Desert is a long way from the Appalachian Trail, Toto.

Forty miles north of Alpine is a little rest stop, nestled in a hill, right where the flatland ends. Even though it was close to 1 o'clock in the morning, I pulled over, telling kids to pile out and look at the stars.

The stars at night are indeed big and bright, deep in the heart of Southwest Texas!

Voices, filled with delight, punctuated the clear, dry air, marvelling at the giant shooting stars who were welcoming the visitors to our dear new home.

Hearing Patrick and James argue over constellations warmed my heart deeply.

We packed in as much Texas as possible in one short visit. Walks around town. A movie in the Rangra theater. Drive to Big Bend National Park. Boquillas Canyon and the sand dune and rock skipping and the Hot Springs and swimming to Mexico and kite flying and Terlingua Ghost Town and Mexican food and very spicy salsa and an old broken down graveyard and Marfa lights and Fort Davis and Sul Ross Mountain.

It was painful saying goodbye.

But so very sweet.

We KNOW they are friends for life. And now they know what our cactus look like, and the jagged contour of our mountains, and the feel of the Rio Grande on a late January afternoon.

So we didn't butcher chickens or build bonfires. But many games of Uno and Monopoly and Marfa lights later, I think these kids know that miles do not mean the end of Real Friendship. I believe they know.

And I am so thankful.

Roosters

2012-01-18T19:02:00.003-06:00

Tomorrow three of our former homeschool friends will fly in to Texas from Virginia.

These kids have butchered chickens with us. They have marveled over brand new baby goats and lambs and turkeys and calves and guineas and ducks and chickens and pigs. They have mucked barn and built bigger bonfires than you can imagine. Shot guns and potato cannons. Swam in creeks.

A couple of weeks ago I was working in the bakery as usual. Knowing that eventually we would all need to eat, I pulled a rooster out of the freezer. The vacuum-sealed freezer bag was marked 7-09. It was carried in a big truck, in the freezer from Virginia last July 25th, 2011. I sat it out on the counter and returned to the bakery, the bread, the customers.

Before you know it, 6pm rolled around and said rooster still waited, partially frozen on the counter.

I think I might have let slip out a bad word. What to do? Kids can not live on bread alone, but that does happen a lot at our house...

Some little part of my brain reminded me that I have a pressure cooker.

You may not have been with me in the early blogging days, but if you were, you will remember that pre-farm I had never made jam, canned or any of those other domestic goddess duties. But my sister Terri had.

She would mentor me by telephone as my blood pressure rose, right alongside the pressure canner, just waiting for the moment I would blow the house to kingdom come.

I eventually canned hundreds of jars of goodies off our farm, along with chicken broth. But I never used the pressure cooker to cook regular food.

In a moment of desperation, inspiration rose up like a phoenix. Isn't that always the case?

As I do on a regular basis, I hit google. What in the world did I do before Google???

Rooster went into pot with a quart of water, a pinch of salt and a bunch of garlic cloves. I sealed the top, put it onto my ancient electric stovetop and waited for the steam to rise from the little thingymajig on top. When it did, I put the little pressure cap on and watched the pressure gauge. It stayed at 15 lbs pressure for 15 minutes. I prepared the rest of our dinner, helped with homework and probably poured myself a glass of wine.

Skeptical.

Perhaps a bit cynical, but deep, deep down, hope was telling me that this just might work.

We have eaten a bunch of roosters over the last few years. And a whole lot more Cornish Cross Broilers. The broilers are succulent. Tender. Juicy. The roosters are stringy. Tough. Even after hours in a pot of water on the stovetop. They make good broth. Their meat is dark.

Well. After the pressure gauge dropped down to zero, I opened up the contraption, wondering if we were going to have chicken for supper or not. Grabbed a fork. Reached in to the steaming, garlicky pot. Drooling.

Eureka!!!!

The most tender, succulent chicken I had tasted in ages. Juicy. Flavorful. TENDER. In fifteen minutes cooking time, probably thirty minutes total.

We shredded the meat, making some kind of green enchilada casserole, minus the tortillas. Maggie and I snacked away, and I couldn't help but exclaim over the miracle of the pressure cooker. We ate our supper that evening and I was amazed.

I looked on the blog and found a post written July 28, 2009, describing the day that rooster was harvested. It was a day that started out with Arlene and doughnuts and Ingrid and Sean and Serge and tarps for shade and ice and James and Patrick and the other kids chasing chickens and Stewart bringing us lunch and her and the other Maggie bagging the clean wholesome meat up in our kitchen with the Seal a Meal Serge bought her for Christmas the year before.

All of that. And here we are, in Alpine, Texas, eating that day, reveling in the pressure cooker given to us by the Geigers because I messed up the old one.

I don't know about you, but something about that meal made me feel so deeply, profoundly grateful, I can't even tell you. Made me know that even though we don't get to be a part of daily life with our dear ones, those ones who have shared EVERY aspect of life and death with us, they are with us. So very with us.

And now part of that contingent will be arriving by airplane late tomorrow night and we won't butcher a single chicken or light a bonfire or shovel manure. But maybe we will share a rooster. Cooked in the pressure cooker. And we will laugh and remember.

And I will thank God.

Big Bend Ultra Nice

2012-01-15T07:59:00.002-06:00

Yesterday morning felt brisk as we loaded up bread for the two farmer's markets. Patrick took care of things for me in Alpine, and Thomas, Rose, her friend and Nora loaded up to head south to Terlingua ghost town.

The sun warmed our faces as customers found their way to our spot in the desert. I was surprised at the number of Big Bend Ultra runners who discovered our little group and bought bread and granola and spelt chocolate chip cookies.

After market, the kids and I took picnic goodies (leftover bakery cookies and bread come in handy!) and traversed the bumpy Old Maverick Road to Santa Elena Canyon in Big Bend National Park. I paused in the middle of the desert to make the kids get out and exclaim over Luna's Jacal, a long structure, only 4ft high or so, roofed with mud and ocotillo, that housed a family of 10 or 12, back in pre-park days. Mr. Luna lived to see his 90's and was a respected man in the region. I suggested that our house wasn't nearly so small in comparison.

We got back in the truck and bore down on the massive canyon. Fifteen hundred foot walls of stone rise up from the lazy Rio Grande. We spread our table cloth and I proceeded to slice bread and tomatoes. A greedy roadrunner displayed his antics for the children, hoping they would disobey their mother and toss bits of spelt pound cake and organic almond raisin granola.

After a nice meal we hiked to the river and skipped rocks and Nora exclaimed, "Look! There is one of Mamaw's paintings!" as she stood mesmerized, peering toward the awesome canyon, amazed to see Santa Elena in real life.

We climbed up and in, leaving sunshine for shadows, taking off shoes to enjoy the powdery sand, shouting our echoes to the Mexican side.

Some of our party decided to walk in the cold water. Not me. Brr. We looked at gigantic boulders and raccoon tracks and fissures and fossils. And spent some more time searching out the most amazing rock skipping specimens. 3 skips was my record. Must be out of practice. Definitely out of Rose and Raymond's league.

What a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Next morning we drove to the East River Road in the park and cheered and hollered as Patrick came in, barely breaking a sweat, first place of all the 60 or 70 10k runners. Another fellow came in a minute or two later, then Patrick's best friend, one more guy, then, to our delight, along came my Maggie! 1st place in the woman's bracket! I have to admit that I was pretty teary.

The kids remind me that the serious competitors ran in the 25k and the 50k sections of the Big Bend Ultra. They think it is no big deal to run 10k. I remind them that they are running against folks who have been training for a long time, lots of adults, and that they came in first and I am PROUD! Of course I also reminded them that I would love them, even if they quit half way through. But being their mom, it is my job to be proud!

They have only been running since September 2011, but have been doing so under the direction of an amazing coach who lives to train these kids to love to run even more than to run to win. Their motto is "Run for your life." Can you imagine how cool it was for me to watch Maggie and Patrick compete in an amazing race in our favorite National Park, after all the years of their childhood spent vacationing out there?

I want to write inspiring posts about Nora and Rose and their dolls, perched atop a rocky mountain, gazing into the distance looking for their siblings. I want to wax poetically about the Hot Springs,seeing the kids and their comrades soaking tired muscles in the 105 degree mineral water, then leaping into the cold Rio Grande, sounds of joy echoing across Texas and Mexico.

So many colors I wish to describe and history and culture. But I am tired and have to get up extra early in the morning. So I throw out a few notes to help myself remember.

And to keep a few of you updated. At least briefly.

PS Sunny days of 65-75 degree weather haven't exactly hurt my feelings. This morning it felt eery to go to school in 57 degree weather. The wind came to shove things around, and you know what? I felt right at home and I suppose I should have gone outside to shout out hello and say thank you for coming all the way from the Catawba Valley to visit us. Her energy was electric. The roof and the doors on the greenhouse moaned and wished she would leave us alone. But I was kind of happy to hear her scurrying around, putting things "into order." Clearing a few more trees of leaves. If she is still around tomorrow, I will definitely give her a shout. Such wild memories of her slamming down our valley, blasting trees and barn and doors with a vengeance.

Monday, snow in the forecast, but they lied according to Nora.

2012-01-09T14:02:00.003-06:00

Yesterday's high 60's gave way to today's low 30's and big fat snowflakes.

We were hoping for a nice pile of snow and a day off from school, but the big storm bypassed us, gracing us with heavy leaden skies, cold temps and a few snowflakes that promptly melted.

The kids miss sledding and iceskating on the pond on the farm in Virginia, but I continue to remind them that we have probably had colder temperatures here in mountainous southwest Texas so far, and from what I have heard, the pond is far from freezing.

To be quite honest, I don't miss the snow and ice at all! And take a wild guess as to how I feel about not having to feed the woodstove in the middle of the night?

I Wonder as I Wander

2012-01-08T19:23:00.003-06:00

The sun shone warmly on my face. My muscles were grateful as the bicycle made its way out of town and toward the mountains. I almost felt like I was back in the country as I greeted the little Mamas and the big Mama cows in the pasture and said hello to horses in pens.

I solved absolutely no problems, but perhaps the exercise and fresh air gave me extra strength and resolve to tackle the tasks of tomorrow.

The weather forecast predicts snow for tonight and in the morning. Hard to believe while riding a bicycle out in the country in 65 degree weather with blue sky shining all around.

But we are in Texas.

PS We had a lovely Epiphany service on Friday, with lessons and carols and of course a terrific reception afterwards. I was happy to be asked to sing an old Appalachian carol, I Wonder as I Wander. The scriptures were meaningful and I decided that it is awfully wonderful to take aside some time after all the feasts and activities and hustle and bustle to concentrate on the sacred. I am thankful to have had some amazing epiphanies during my prayer time as I worked on Friday. I am asking God to persuade me that he loves us all deeply. I know I am loved by God, but the epiphany was that sometimes, deep, deep down, there are occasionally moments when I am not certain. I hate to even write it out or say it out loud, because I truly do believe, with all my head. And most of my heart. And the revelation that there might be even a particle of me, deep down inside that feels unloved because of unfortunate circumstances makes me feel bad, and sad and afraid to be honest.

Oh well. I guess I hope that if I can be honest, that will open up the possibility that the light and truth will reach the hurting places. I believe that it isn't up to me to try to work harder to know that I am loved. I read scriptures. I pray. I think I know how much God loves me.

This morning one of the hymns spoke about being persuaded by God that he loves us.

It really was an epiphany.

I prayed and told my creator how thankful I am how much he loves me, but could he continue to persuade me and my children, to know in the deepest, deepest part of us that he loves us. I want that message woven through every fiber of my being. Not just the superficial churchy places. But all the way down.

And something about the magic of epiphany (forgive my use of the word, but it is magical, this incarnation and revelation) gives me cause to believe that the work is going on, even at this moment as I type.

Thank you God for bicycle rides and scripture and beautiful hymns and pain that draws me deeper in to you.

We Are Trying, but what I really want is a great big piece of coconut pound cake.

2012-01-04T20:29:00.002-06:00

Can you believe I had another weepy day? Is it the brief cold spell? Grief? After holiday doldrums? I can't believe I am writing about it, because I really don't want people worrying about me. Things aren't so bad.

But I did hurt again. And missed Philip and wished we had an intact family, and wished there were a dad in the house and wished I weren't the only one around to boss around the kids.

So I cleaned house and then spent several hours working on spreadsheet of all Nov-Dec sales in the bakery and filled out quarterly sales tax forms and made two huge pots of turkey stock and cried over the phone with Rachel.

I dug out a package of frozen kamut noodles I had made a few weeks ago and turned turkey stock into turkey noodle soup. What I really wanted was a great big coconut pound cake, but the turkey soup tasted almost as good, and was much better for us.

At some point my weepiness overflowed onto the children as I bemoaned the VERY out of balance chore management. I cried. We fussed a little. I prayed, begging God to help me know how to better manage things. A few more tears were shed, then, just like the comeback kids, our favorite team, the New York Yankees, everyone grasped the concept that we have to work together, and that all the energy I use, repeating myself, telling kids to do this or to do that, or doing it all by myself, was wearing me out, and making me even more sad.

Rose suggested a chore chart. Everyone else agreed.

After table was cleared, dishes were washed, and floor swept, I noticed Rose grabbing pen and paper.

We spent almost an hour, thinking about the different tasks that were necessary to a smooth running household. She wrote down charts and lists and tacked everything up on the fridge. Even the occasional chores had their own chart.

I wished to write out chore charts for everyone, ever since we moved, but with paperwork, meals, laundry, bakery, stories, church, etc, that was one task I had been dreading and unable to accomplish.

Seeing Rose sprawled on the kitchen floor with marker and paper gave me a real boost. She and I brainstormed and I think we came up with a pretty conclusive list.

I know we are far from perfect and way too human. Kids' school schedules are demanding and so is my job. I imagine that even with the best written out chart we might stub our toes occasionally. But the new year seems like a great time for us all to implement some plans that will help us all work together more cohesively.

And that has helped my weepiness diminish significantly.

Please God, help us work together as a family, and to love each other deeply. For each of us to offer our special gifts to the rest of the gang. And thank you that Rose offered her amazing list making gift to us this evening. What a good boost.

One Foot In Front of the Other

2012-01-03T20:32:00.002-06:00

Today started out nice and chilly.

It seemed odd and not quite right to get up before dawn.

But we did anyway, and kids got to school and I got to work. I didn't feel like it, but baked a few loaves of bread and some pizza crusts and granola anyway.

I kind of hurt all over, missing my friends so much, but decided that it would probably be best to file paperwork and sort through receipts instead of go back to bed like I wanted to, remembering that someone somewhere said that the secret to success is doing things you don't feel like doing.

A few customers dropped in and I was reminded why I love my job so much. We didn't eat our turkey over the holiday, so I cooked it this evening and the children and I ate salad with chunks of turkey for supper and read another chapter of one of my favorite childhood books, The Mixed up Files of Mrs. Basil Frankweiler. I had forgotten what a formative book it was. Something about E L Konigsburg's writing speaks to me deeply. She captures the sense of awe and adventure and absolutely unstoppable and unfathomable sense of confidence of a pre-teenager. I just knew I would have to run away from home to the Metropolitan Museum of Art someday when I read that book as an 11 yr old.

And sure enough, I can't count how many times I have run away from home to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But I have never slept in a bed there. And now that we are in Texas, it will be a lot harder to run away to get there. But rest assured. I plan on going back. And as we sit around the table, enjoying the shared experience of story, I certainly hope that a child of mine (hopefully all five of them) will someday feel a deep and mysterious longing to wander those grand halls and find themselves there. And maybe read aloud the story to their own children someday.

PS During evening prayers we remembered the many people we know in need. And took some time to say thanks for Mrs. Konigsburg. And I prayed that God would help each of my children, in their own unique way, be able to touch some people just like he used Mrs. Konigsburg to touch us.

Looking for Rocks

2012-01-01T20:25:00.002-06:00

I went to church this morning by myself because the kids were still in bed.

As I got ready I prayed that God would provide for us this day.

Some neighbors and new friends happened to be in church and invited me and the kids to go out to their cabin and property south of town, on Calamity Creek. No one was terribly excited about leaving the house to traipse around the hills, looking for rocks, but they loaded up anyway.

We clambered and climbed, scrabbled and hiked, up hills, alongside creeks, over boulders, in and out of caves, up ravines. All of a sudden complaints turned into exclamations of joy and pride as we each found different treasures along the way. Mom, looks like the kids have inherited the rock hound gene from their grandmother. Two giant hawks perched on the top of Eagle Nest Mountain, then soared over us, giving quite a show. The cooler temperatures made sweaters feel great, but clear blue sky kissed our cheeks.

Liveoaks lined the creek banks. So did algerita bushes. And believe it or not, many of the same kinds of rocks we had on our farm in Central Texas. I felt so at home. Memories of countless other holidays, wandering the property with visiting family and friends, picking over rocks, filled my mind.

After a long hard traipse, we piled into the cabin and visited and ate and made friends. I can't suppose I can think of any better way we could have spent the afternoon.

I think when I go to sleep tonight I will dream of the many different colors extravagantly strewn across the rocks and boulders of Calamity Creek. And will be thankful for people willing to open up their lives and share with us this New Year's Day.

Happy New Year

2012-01-01T13:06:00.002-06:00

For many years we have brought in the new year with Kathryn and the kids. The kids would build a big bonfire, Kathryn and I would open up the wine and stand around in the kitchen, chopping, stirring, talking about work and husbands and children and God and literature, so very happy to be together.

We never ran out of a conversation.

This year they were in New Jersey and we are in Texas. We wept as we wished each other Happy New Year by phone and felt very lonely for each other. I decided that the best thing for me would be to do something completely different and out of character.

The children hung out with new friends and I got dressed up to meet my friend to go to a dance. Back in the day, over twenty years ago when I lived here in the Big Bend, we would love to go to dances. Sometimes my girlfriends and I, after a super long shift of waiting tables, would hop in the car and drive an hour or more to a community dance. Locals from both sides of the border, ranchers, a handful of tourists, and lots of music and cold beer. Country western, cumbia, rock and roll, we would dance and dance then drive the long road home in the wee hours, ready to get back up at 5 or 6am to serve the hungry hikers. We were young and apparently didn't need much sleep those days.

Raymond and I drove up to the Volunteer Fire Dept/Community Center in our separate cars. The music pounded and I got nervous. Cowboys in their hats and their girlfriends stepped out for a smoke. Decorations were hung and a few couples were out on the floor. It had been so long since I was a part of that world, I didn't know what to do.

The country band stepped off the stage and the Mexican guys stepped on as we tentatively made our way to the edge of the dance floor. Noone else went out, so, just like swimmers at the edge of a cold pool on an overcast day, we stuck out our toes and dove in.

We laughed as we waltzed and danced the cumbia and the shuffle. Other couples joined us, and the accordion howled and the guitars strummed and thumped and mournful voices sang in Spanish of leaving and returning and old ranches and I felt so happy to be back to border culture.

Kisses and hugs were shared all across the dance floor as the old year ended and the new one began. We danced another set, then got into our separate vehicles, he headed south and I drove west. A giant bowl of moon grew bright and orange as it slid down behind a mountain and a long train paused on the tracks, waiting for its turn to go through the town. Dull constellations faintly glimmered as I made my way into Alpine, and kissed my children and headed to bed.

I still missed Kathryn and other friends, but I didn't feel the least bit sad.

Welcome 2012. We are happy to greet you and welcome the many new things you have to offer us this year.

And to you, blog readers and friends, may this new year be filled with growth, peace, love and joy, and many opportunities to enjoy new adventures.

Still in the Middle of Christmas Holidays, yeah

2011-12-30T18:47:00.003-06:00

warning: extra long entry, trying to stuff several posts into one, since I have been too busy living to write. you might want to skip this one and wait til the next brief entries. Except for you, Mom, I know you and Daddy never mind the long, extra wordy stuff! thank goodness for parents!

I sit in our library, Nora plays with her little stuffed animals. Thomas is listening the Lady Gaga's 'Let's Dance." The dogs are sprawled, the sun has set and it is hard to believe that yesterday we were in our favorite national park, Big Bend, camping out.

Christmas was wonderful, so happy that Mom and Dad could come and be with us. There were lots of church activities. Walks in the snow. A nice afternoon bike ride with Raymond. Plenty of cooking and dishwashing. Only intermittent feelings of pain and grief and loss.

After a huge breakfast made by my Daddy, we gathered up tools and he and Raymond and I butchered a deer. Isn't it funny the things that make one feel at home? It seemed just right to be standing around the stainless steel table, sharpening up knives, cutting ruby red meat off the bone, cubing some up, dreaming of curries and guisado. Making steaks, dreaming of chicken fry and grill and port wine reduction. Grinding up more for spaghetti and tacos and shepherd pie. Some of which we enjoyed that afternoon with Christmas dinner mashed potato and pea leftovers.

I think my love language is working together with dear ones, doing something productive. It could be hay-making, yard cleaning, ditch-digging, meat-cutting or meal producing.

Mom and dad had some grandkid time and I headed to the park a day early so I could get up and take a hike, all by myself! Can you believe that we live only an hour and a half away from my very favorite place in most all the world and find my self so busy I can't get there? So my gift to myself was carving out the opportunity.

The parking lot was full.

The overflow was full.

I waited. Ten minutes later a spot opened up and I grabbed it, ready to head up the Lost Mine Trail.

Can you believe I had to wait for a parking place at one of the most remote National Parks in the country?

The day was pleasant. 60 something degrees. Clear. Sunny. I passed groups of hikers, families from India, China, Japan, France, Mexico, South America, several regions of the US and several regions of Texas. So many languages in one little area. As I wished for solitude and was tempted to pout, something grabbed my attention and made me grateful that many other people were searching for the same thing as me. Beauty. Peace. Grandeur. All away from electronics, stores, crazy consumerism. We were all able to enjoy the gift of the outdoors thanks to somebody who decided to make Big Bend a national park. In my heart I blessed those other hikers, the soloists, the cute couples, the families of children and parents and grandparents, the friends.

The hike is just under 5 miles. The climb is around 1000 ft, ending at 6800ft. The trail winds through mountain vegetation and trees, with perfume of pines offering incense to visitors. Pinon pine, alligator juniper, Texas Madrone, along with who knows how many other unique varieties of trees and vegetation decorate the way. The northside of boulders are scattered with colored lichens. Dollar bill green, mustard orange, chartreuse and rust. I feel certain I know where Jason Pollock got his inspiration.

Snow remained in little clumps here and there in the shade. Birds called.

My thoughts bounced, here and there. My muscles rejoiced. They knew what to do. At one point I came upon another hiker, tripod planted right in the middle of the trail, blocking the way.

My flesh wanted to grimace. To snarkily ask him to please scooch over so the rest of us could get by. In the same breath, I felt the spirit of Christmas come over me, and happily went around him, stepping in the mud, feeling rich in the ability to magnanimously give the gift of grace.

The voices of other hikers back down the trail wafted toward me. They wondered where the trail got its name. I imagined the answer I would give them if we were sitting around a campfire, cozy in for the night. As my muscles stretched and my heart pounded, the story wrote itself, as I dreamed of Spanish explorers and the hunt for gold, and Indians who knew that the true treasure lay right within our reach, if we would only get off the beaten trek and make time for beauty.

The destination on this hike is an unparalleled vista, set at the top of huge boulders, overlooking several canyons, desert land, a silvery trace of the Rio Grande and the far beyond mountains of Mexico. For me, the destination is a perch against a warm rock, back cradled. Eyes closed. Sun kissing my face and arms and birds calling and breeze caressing my hair.

My destination involves meditation. Prayer. Writing in my journal, thinking about pros and cons, business, spirit, parenting. A few minutes asking God to cuddle me up and let me know how much I am loved.

Well.

I found my little niche in the rock. Settled in. Then the party of 8 settled in above me. Which didn't worry me too much, since most people hike up and back out quickly, and don't sit down for long. But these visitors did. And they were loud. So I ate my lunch. Drank my green tea.

And laughed that after all the effort to make sure everyone was taken care of so I could grab some solitude, it was ironic that there was no solitude to be found! I considered hiking to another spot off trail, but since those folks would surely not be there for long, I picked up my book by Elie Wiesel and read. Night isn't exactly pleasant reading, but in my humble opinion, it is definitely necessary reading. So I read.

The sun kissed my forehead, the crows entertained me and the party of 8 left to be replaced by a party of 6. Who set up their picnic, whose children laughed and played rowdily. And I was proud of them all for getting away from the electronics, but wondered if I might ever find myself alone! So I decided to write down my story about Spanish explorers and the lost mine trail in my journal. And continued to marvel at the crackly sound of crow's wings as they soar through the air, and the funny sound of their call and answer.

Party of six moved on, then a sweet couple set up their picnic. Just a few feet above my perch.

It did get a little humorous. I think there is a message in it for me. Something about finding my peace in the middle of the chaos.

Finally, the hikers headed back down the trail and I was left all alone. Somewhat worried that my family might be getting a bit put out that I was away for so long, but trying to remember that I gave everyone good warning that I needed a large chunk of time, and that it was like the flight attendant giving out instructions about the adult putting on the oxygen mask first, and how I was going to be a much better mother for this long chunk of time, sitting out on a rock, sort of all by myself.

I finally spent some time working on lists. Not the to-do kind, but the heart inventory kind. And prayed. And didn't solve not even one problem. But I did feel greatly loved by God. And satisfied. And the trip down the mountain fed me.

We had some family time, watching the sunset from a hill down near Boquillas. Maggie and Patrick ran. We saw a cute coot (little duck) on a pond off the Rio Grande. Raymond grilled fajitas and I made freshly milled whole wheat tortillas and Daddy made his world famous specialty, pico de gallo. My long hike meant I missed out hiking into Boquillas canyon with Mom and the rest of the gang, but nonetheless I was so proud of her. 14 years ago she was told she would never walk again after a horrible auto accident. Not only does she walk, but she HIKES! I know it causes her great pain, but she does it anyway, and then goes home and paints about it.

We camped out on the floor that night, then next day, the kids and I gathered up the stuff and decided to primitive camp in an area we had never explored before. In a national park the size of Big Bend there is always a new unexplored area to find! We drove up the Old Ore Rd. I can't say everyone in the family was thrilled with the idea. After one day unplugged, they were not exactly happy campers. No movies. No texting. No FB or soft beds. Something in my gut told me that I needed to perservere, despite the complaining.

We said farewell to Mamaw and Papaw and bumped and bounced along the 4x4 road that traversed desert, slid through ravines and up rocky inclines. The girls wondered if I could speed it up above 10 mph, but no.

An hour and a half later, we left crowded wilderness to find the complete and utterly abandoned. We parked. We took inventory. Hmm. Rocks. Cactus. Lechugilla. Creosote. Great big hills. One tiny bird.

The group decided to camp underneath the stars. We pulled out sleeping bags and mats and everyone found a spot, and wonder of all wonders, the fighting and complaining ceased. The rough edges somehow smoothed, as we were thrust into such a rough-edged landscape. Rose and Nora grabbed their dollies and proceeded to climb up the farthest nearby little mountain. Thomas hiked down Telephone Canyon trail. Patrick ran the trail. Maggie found her own spot to hike. I prepared supper and then climbed a little hill. Then a slightly larger hill.

By seven we had eaten our dinner, cleaned up the dishes, then climbed into our sleeping bags, cold in the dark. Crescent moon, waxing, sitting like a bowl, slowly edged her way across the sky. We were in a bowl, surrounded by giant hills, in the shadow of mountains, tucked near the canyon. The silence was overwhelming. Not even cry of coyote or call of bird disturbed the quiet. Patrick pointed out the stars of Orion's belt and we all watched as he (orion) climbed up to the sky. Patrick then told us where to look for Taurus and a bunch of other constellations we had never noticed before. And I felt proud that these kids were willing to sleep out, under the stars, in the far away land. Nobody seemed upset about being unplugged.

As the night grew darker and the cold got colder, I realized I should have brought more sleeping bags for doubling up. I wondered if I had made a huge mistake. If children would die from cold exposure, and how that would make me feel as a mother. Then I wondered if I might die from cold exposure and how that would make the kids feel.

I wiggled toes and wondered what it would be like to go through the night without any sleep. Then I wondered how amazing it was that being cold totally eclipsed feelings of pain that I usually feel in my neck and back when sleeping out away from my bed.

Then I heard Maggie exclaim over seeing another shooting star. I removed the sleeping bag from my face, put my glasses back on and went back to watching the show. A giant shooting star. Apparently flung from Orion's bow, arching across the sky. And then another. And another.

I never got warm enough, and have to say that in my whole life have I never felt more cold. The temperatures were supposed to be in the mid 40's that night, but actually dropped down to the low 30's. Perhaps camping in the open air without warm enough sleeping bags is a bad idea. But once the water was boiled next morning and the sun rose over the hills and the coffee hit my belly, I knew that somehow we needed the camping trip more than any of us realized.

We hiked some more, and my runners, Patrick and Maggie, hit the trails, and covered six miles without stop, and Rose and Nora and I climbed up very high and could see very far, and threw rocks and yelled.

I wish we could have camped another night, but duty called. So did my warm bed. People are back to electronics. Rose wonders if I am trying to catch up for three months, since I am taking such a long time on this blog. Now she and Nora play Battleship and Maggie hangs out with her friend and Thomas plays with his Ipod and Patrick hangs out with Thai. I can't even see the moon.

Nevertheless, I will never forget her, crossing the sky, she and her lovely chorus of stars, more stars than I have ever seen in my life, more beautiful than any movie, telling me stories that have been told for thousands and thousands of years. Definitely worth the lack of sleep and cold.

BTW, noone died of cold exposure. Hard to believe, but true. And nothing is better for snarly teenagers (and their mothers) than a good campout. What a gift.

PS there are so many other stories I wish I could share, like a visit from a girlfriend and her husband, and our memories of working together over twenty years ago, as waitresses in Big Bend National Park. Our hikes and polyster blue uniform dresses and hairnets and making the Century plant Christmas tree and making lots of music around campfires in our spare time. And sharing Christmas with new church family, and the irony of a white Christmas in Texas! And the absolute highlight of my whole holiday so far: singing around the piano with Daddy and Mom and Raymond for an hour and a half on Christmas night. All the good Christmas songs and a few more and a couple of hymns thrown in for good measure. I don't know what I could like more. What a great gift. Music ringing throughout our new home. Thank you, Mom and Daddy, for giving me so many wonderful gifts, art, music, good food, lots of love.
I sure do love you.

rosemary focaccia

2011-12-23T10:01:00.002-06:00

I promised Stewart I would post my favorite bread recipe, and realize I forgot. As I watch the sleet come down and the grey roll from the mountains into our neighborhood, I think lots of people would enjoy eating something warm and savory with family and friends. So, with no further ado:

Rosemary Focaccia

3 tsp yeast
2 c. warm water
1/4 c olive oil
1/2 c coconut oil
1 tsp salt
5-6 c freshly milled whole wheat (a hard white wheat yields the most tender focaccia) or spelt
and for the topping, minced garlic, fresh rosemary, olive oil and salt

Dissolve the yeast in the warm water and add the oils, salt and 3 cups of the flour. Beat the batter with a dough hook for 10 minutes. If you are making this by hand, use a very sturdy, large spoon and beat for at least 15 minutes. You are developing the gluten in the dough, which will make a nice, fluffy bread. After you notice the dough is getting stretchy and stringy, add the rest of the flour, bit by bit, kneading it in until it is smooth and bouncy. Don't add too much flour, or the bread will be heavy and dense.

Now it is time to throw another load of laundry in, or check your email or walk the dog while the dough rises a couple of times. When it has doubled, punch it down, and let it rise again. Preheat your oven to 375 degrees, and divide your dough in two or three pieces. I roll it out into a rectangle and place it on a lightly greased cookie sheet. Generously cover the dough with the garlic and olive oil, then sprinkle with chopped up fresh rosemary and the sea salt. Let the focaccia rise one time more, then bake for 25 or 30 minutes, until the dough is golden and your house will smell SO good, you might just have to stand around your kitchen and eat the first loaf as it comes out of the oven.

Enjoy!

emmanuel

2011-12-22T23:20:00.002-06:00

Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat.

I remember driving to Grandma and Grandpa's for Christmas and singing the round with my sisters. We especially liked the "doodle oodle oo, boom boom boom" part, back in the day. I guess most of you have no idea what I am talking about...

Singing in the car whilst driving somewhere for holidays is a part of my childhood experience. I thought about that while the kids and I drove to the big city for a last minute holiday extravaganza this week. I hurried to finish up deliveries of bread on Tuesday afternoon so we could drive up to Odessa to meet our friend. We went to the mall. We ate at restaurants. We ice-skated. We slept, all piled in, at a hotel.

Sounds like fun, right?

Well, the honest to goodness truth is, that occasionally we had moments of brilliance. Kids laughing. Songs being sung. Oohs and aahs over pretty Christmas light displays. And interspersed through it all were moments of pain, tears, fussiness and complaining.

After a not too brilliant moment of me trying to remember how to ice skate, I felt pain wash over me and couldn't stop crying. I retreated to a corner, as merry christmas music washed over the place, tucked up my ice skates, and tried to discreetly weep.

Have you ever noticed how hard it is to weep discreetly?

For a moment I tried to get my bearings, wondering why the wave of pain. We were celebrating Patrick's 16th birthday and the luxury of a day in the big city with my dear friend. Why the tears?

All of a sudden I remembered that on that day I would have been celebrating my 20th wedding anniversary if Philip hadn't died.

And all of a sudden, the insecure feeling I had on the ice, wobbling around, trying to find my balance, while ankles quaked and body tensed, seemed way too much like the way I feel in real life.

I cried a few tears, felt embarrassed, and my dear one gave me a hug and understanding. The kids gentled themselves toward me and interestingly enough, a brief moment of vulnerability on my part opened them up to compassion. We got through the moment, and managed to get through the day, and even though we were all severely over-stimulated by the mall and noise and lights and horrible exhibits of consumerism, at some point, I think when we were eating supper together at Rosa's, and Patrick was playing with the little robot creature the other kids gave him for his birthday, I had the feeling that everything was going to be okay, no matter what.

Holidays are a bit rough for those of us who have been dealt loss at some point of life or another.

Is there anyone out there who hasn't experienced some loss or another at some point in life?

So we muddle through.

This morning I didn't really want to get up and work, but thanks be to God, had enough something in me to get up, make coffee and grind the wheat and spelt. It helped to have some orders waiting. Different people dropped in to pick up bread and I was glad to have a purpose. I told Rachel on the phone that I felt worn out, discombobulated, and in pain. I don't know what to do with myself, now that Philip is gone, friends are in Virginia and New Jersey and we are too far away.

Wonder of wonder, another anniversary passed, some bread got baked and the children survived. I remembered that two years ago we were in Texas, in Big Bend National Park, camping out on Patrick's 14th birthday. Philip was in Va, in a blizzard. We didn't know we had so little time left, but a dream told me to be aware.

There is an Andrew Peterson song i like that says something about falling down isn't graceful, but it is full of grace.

I believe that grace filled up my day today, as i hurt, but endeavored to fill up bread orders anyway.

We are definitely finding our way, on this path laid out before us. We didn't exactly choose this path, but here we are, anyway. And in the middle, God is good. I missed my friends so badly today and felt quite alone. Taking a risk, I asked a new gal friend if she would like to hang out with us tonight after work. Her daughter is friends with one of my dear ones. Kids played and ran around and made homemade pizzas and hot chocolate. New friend and I ate dinner the two of us and shared stories. We all sang "Oh Come Oh Come Emmanuel" around the advent candles and believe it or not, in the middle of the pain I felt the presence of God.

Life is a mixed up bag. I want to be grateful for the beautiful moments that are given me in the middle of it all. Kids telling me thank you. Nora and Rose looking up recipes. Seeing Maggie and Rose gracefully glide across ice. Nora, conspiring, visions of sugar plums dancing in her head. Big boys helping me carry. Tender hearts planted in their wonderful masculine chests. A dear one, great big hands tenderly telling me that I am loved, even when tearful and fearful.

Christmas is a wonderful time for me. Even since it became painful. The meaning of Emmanuel, God is with us, means more to me than ever before. Oh how grateful I don't have to get it all right, all perfect, all finished before I can enjoy and appreciate Emmanuel.

Well, better get to bed. Christmas is coming. The goose is getting fat. Please put a penny in the old man's hat. If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do. If you haven't got a ha'penny then God bless you!

I Love Sunday

2011-12-18T17:22:00.004-06:00

I love to go to church.

When we miss, I miss our dear ones there.

HOWEVER, I discovered a few years ago that occasionally I need to stay home on a Sunday. Sometimes the world says "Hurry! Hurry! Go! Go!" and I forget what it means to be still and worship.

This morning was a morning to be still.

I leisurely got out of bed after 8:30am this morning. Made my coffee. Sat down with my Bible, Book of Common Prayer and devotional book. Had a longer than usual coversation with my Creator. Listened to Maggie play the piano. Made my bed for the first time in days. Cleared off my desk. Sat down at the piano and played through at least 6 or 7 Advent hymns and sang with Maggie.

I feel more refreshed than I have in I don't know when, and am so thankful that there are many ways I can worship God, and even though communal worship is important to me, I revel in the freedom to stay home on those rare occasions like today. Even the children seem more energized today than they have been. What a gift.

BTW, the skies are cloudy, and gusts of wind threaten to tear the house down every once in awhile. The air is not cold. For the moment. But it certainly looks like December outside and is beginning to look a lot like Christmas on the inside.

Now is time to change clothes and head to the kitchen. Friends from ages ago are driving into the area this evening and will stay overnight with us. She and I worked together at Big Bend National Park as waitresses twenty something years ago. 'Twill be fun to catch up over dinner tonight. Roasted Chicken with brown butter sage sauce. Roasted vegetables. Sweet potatoes. I had better get busy.

Holes

2011-12-16T22:29:00.003-06:00

The kids and I are working through the book Holes by Louis Sachar.

It is set somewhere in West Texas.

Reading out loud to the kids is one of my favorite things in the whole wide world. Especially when even the big kids keep begging me to read another chapter. And another one. And another one. I think it will be fun to watch the movie once we finish the book and talk about how much better the book is. Can you believe that the kids have read that book several times on their own and they still beg me to keep reading chapter after chapter?

I wish more people in the world would read books aloud with their loved ones. There are six of us. Thomas, the 18 yr old, Patrick, almost 16, Maggie is 14, Rose is 11, and Nora is 8 years old. Then you have the 45 yr old mama. A good book can draw us all together more than just about anything else.

Trying to Figure it out

2011-12-16T21:37:00.002-06:00

Last night I went to a Chamber of Commerce mixer which took place at the new business of an aquaintance and bread customer of mine.

It was rather hard to leave the kids for the evening, but they seemed to be fine as I put on go to town clothes and some lipstick.

I don't get out much, but feel it is important to spend a little time each month getting to know some folks in my community, not to mention have some grown up time.

I hopped on the bicycle and rode up the hill, around the corner and down the side of the college campus in the brisk, dark evening.

Folks mingled. Tables were laden with ceviche, carnitas, tamales, pico de gallo. Yeah. I am definitely back in Texas!

I visited with a woman I had previously met at church. She was lamenting the fact that being a writer, she hadn't been exercising her craft, but was bogged down in trivia.

I told her I thought that part of the reason I felt a bit exhausted and frustrated was that with the start up of my business here in Alpine, with trying to run a household as a single mom and manage two properties in two states, I was always needing to use a certain part of the brain, leaving little time for my creative energies to be expressed. I haven't been able to figure out where to fit in writing and hiking and outdoors in our new life. Too much work on figuring stuff out, like ordering ingredients and making labels and marketing and what not.

Not necessarily bogged down in trivia, because the things that occupy me are definitely not trivial. Nevertheless, I am still trying to figure out how to exercise the writing part of my brain that thrives with creative energy.

I knew that the farm was a great venue and tried hard not to take it for granted. All that built in outdoor, meditation time, thanks to Coco and milking. And chasing errant animals. And having to fix fence. How in the world am I going to figure out how to get all my creative needs met, here in our little town?

Well, riding my bike back home in the dark, I listened to the whiz of the tires and felt the brisk wind smack my cheeks. I thought about the variety of people with whom I spoke. So many different stories and journeys, all thrown together in one Chamber of Commerce mixer! Spicy, sweet, pungent, all mixed up like that nice pico, ready to enhance our tacos.

I wanted to run away. To sit on the top of my favorite mountain. To feel the sun on my face and to journal and pray. But today I couldn't do that. Responsibility called. I prayed that God would meet me in the middle of it, as I felt frustration mount.

And can you believe it? I believe I was met. There was opportunity to hand out a few hugs today. There was opportunity to pray with some friends. There was a moment of tender transparency between mother and daughter. I guess I am tired and don't even feel like searching for the words. There are things I want to write, but I am always running out of steam by the end of the day.

As that woman and I chatted at the gathering last night, I suggested that I would pray for her to find her spot to write, if she would pray for me. I prefer to write when inspiration is flowing, full of energy. But maybe I had better write, even when dull and not terribly inspired so I will be in place when those wonderful moments happen to unfold.

Sorry readers, for subjecting you to random wandering thoughts. I guess if I were a better blogger, I would edit all this stuff out. But here I am anyway. Trying to figure out what my life is about here in our new world, off farm. I do believe we are in the middle of our land of Milk and Honey, here in Alpine, but I am not sure what that means. I can't even begin to describe the giant skies and the wide opens and the way the shadows of the clouds decorate the low hills. As I drove and looked in awe and wonder yesterday, I tried to come up with words and it was beyond me. I am having to come up with a new vocabulary and it is a bit tiring. Maybe you should come back in a few months after I have it all figured out (ha ha.)

Friday Night

2011-12-16T21:18:00.002-06:00

I was outside this morning before daylight, taking some of the kids to school. Rose had a project that was too unwieldy for a bicycle ride. A big sun hat fashioned out of old newspapers and cut up organic sucanat bags, designed by Rose for her Environmental Science class's Trashion Show. It was pretty cute, and I would like it even if I weren't her mother.

The sky was still dark at 7:30am and I asked Patrick to accompany Nora as she rode her bike to the Elementary school.

It was clear to me that we were nearing Winter Solstice. Coming up in less than a week. The shortest day of the year. Patrick's birthday.

Frankly, the dark felt a bit depressing, but my insides reminded me to take heart. Sunlight will return to us in short order.

I am thankful that my bakery is a nicely sized sunroom, what used to be Mrs. Turner's art studio. Even though I don't get outside most of the day, at least I can watch the mountains in the distance and the yard in the near. The best thing I saw outside all day long was Nora, swinging on the swing with her school friend Jocelyn. She was delighted to have a friend come over for a visit. What an answer to prayer for a little girl making her new way here in Texas.

Customers came and customers went.

I think I used to be a little grateful, back before the farm and the bakery. But somehow I think that grief and work and transitions have done something to make me more grateful than I have ever been in my life. When someone walks in the door, with a smile on the face, happy to smell bakery magic, ready to engage in a chat, I feel like I have a role in this life. I realize that those folks could have skipped dropping by the bakery. It takes extra effort to go out of their way to come over here instead of pick up a loaf of bread or a bag of granola at the grocery store. I truly believe that the grain I mill and the bread I bake is nutritious, but sometimes I doubt, or question, or wonder. When those folks come by and spend their hard earned money on my craft, I feel so grateful to be able to own this business. Rough around the edges, but grateful. Hmm. I wonder what transpired to make me so much more thankful than I used to be?

Thomas washed up bakery dishes for me so he could earn $5 to go to the movies. Sherlock Holmes 2 is playing tonight and I really want to see that movie. But not tonight! I am thankful for Thomas cleaning up, and for Patrick cooking up green beans to go with our chicken, and thankful the kids can have some fun on the first night of their Christmas vacation.

PS I miss the outdoors. But am too tired to go sit out there in the cold. I think the moon must be waning, but haven't even taken a look.

Compare and Contrast

2011-12-16T05:55:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago the weather turned cold.

On the farm when the weather turned cold, we went out to the woodpile, carried in armloads, trailing dust and bark and other detritus, gathered newspaper and debated the different methods of lighting a fire in the woodstove.

Here in Alpine, I have an old Lennox gas furnace tucked in the bathroom closet. With a pilot light.

I have never lit a pilot light on a gas furnace before, but I figured it couldn't be that hard. Just like on the farm, I turned to Google to help me solve my daily challenges, like butchering chickens, shearing sheep, castrating bulls and pilot light ignition.

There are more videos than you can imagine on YouTube, demonstrating the fine art of lighting a furnace pilot. Step by step, long pieces of wadded up newspaper, matches, tucked in some basement, in who knows which state of the union. I watched. I attempted. I watched again.

For some reason, castrating a bull left me less fearful than dealing with matches and natural gas.

I went to the kitchen, found the phone book, called the gas company and within a couple of hours, a very kind man came to the house and lit the pilot light for free! He told me that Mrs. Turner, the lady who is selling me this house, was his elementary school teacher, and how he loved her. And within minutes, our house was warm.

I miss a lot of things about Virginia and the farm. But I can't say that I miss heating our home with firewood right at the minute! What a contrast to go over to the wall and turn the thermostat.

Tuesday Evening

2011-12-13T21:17:00.002-06:00

This morning I saw the world through rose colored glasses as I rode bicycles to school with Nora. The heavy clouds tried to smother the sky, but as the sun pushed up, the entire town was bathed in pink.

Nora's favorite color.

I haven't ridden bikes in ages, and even though I had too much to do, when Nora asked, I had to say yes.

Today is Tuesday, so I baked bread. And granola. And cookies and focaccia.

Customers came and I was grateful, even if a bit late. When six pm rolled around I saw the sun heading toward the horizon and felt like I might just die if I didn't go outside for a little bit.

So Rose and Nora took care of the bakery and I grabbed a sweater, jumped on the bicycle again, and was bathed in gold. Gold washed over me and the golf course, the homes and the streets, and the sun hurried, and hurried and I tried to slow down as I rode. I can't say that the stress exactly rolled off my shoulders, but as I raced toward the west, trying to catch up with him, he laughed, ran ahead, and then painted the sky red and orange and purple, then dipped behind a mountain, knowing that I would never be able to catch him for good. And I decided that it was a very good thing to be outside for twenty minutes, even if it meant pushing my work much farther into the night.

The kids were on their own for supper tonight. Some ate leftover homemade tamales from Mari. Others ate ramen noodles. I grabbed a glass of wine and paused my work to go into the library to read a few chapters of HOLES to the kids. We had a very hard time finding a stopping place. After reading two or three chapters longer than I planned, we folded down the page, said our prayers, and kids went off to study for finals or to play, and I returned to the bakery to bag granola.

A blog friend put up a quote by Anne Frank on his blog the other day. "I can shake off everything if I write. My sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn."

I think I might survive the holidays if I can open up the door to myself to sit down and write. And maybe pause to be bathed in pink and gold every once in awhile. I hope everyone out there takes the time to go out and feel during this lovely Advent season.

PS I really do have so many more stories to share!

Tomorrow is my Birthday! 11/11/11 Am I lucky or what?

2011-11-10T20:25:00.005-06:00

So much for family togetherness tonight.

I worked on some major house projects today then headed out to the yard. I thought about boiling up a couple of roosters from the farm, turning them into homemade chicken Kamut noodle soup for the kids.

But the kids didn't feel nearly as enthusiastic about our outdoor chores as me.

It took me a bit longer than I planned, but my soul definitely needed to be outside raking leaves and putting them on top of our compost and future garden beds. One child, who will remain unnamed, came out to help for 2 minutes. This child asked why we have to cart the leaves over to the compost and the future site instead of just bag them up "like all those other normal people."

Well.

My answer was brief, believe it or not. We are a different normal than those other normal people. And we need dirt. And leaves and compost layered on hard, desert soil equal rich black dirt, eventually. And I take joy in gathering leaves and putting them onto our garden.

So said child went back into the house and I pouted, but raked anyway. And ran out of time to make supper, and so ordered Pizza Hut pepperoni pizza for the kids' dinner.

Life is full of contradictions, isn't it? Another child, one who is probably most like me, came out and helped gather. And another one came out and picked up dog poop. And another one took out piles of trash and old boxes. They all took care of their tasks, normal or not!

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Eight years ago or so I had an epiphany.

Seemed like every year I would sabotage my birthday. Nobody could do enough to satisfy me.

I hate to admit it, because admitting frailties is a scary thing and I hate to be judged. Or to be thought self-centered and silly. But it is true.

That pivotal year I decided to ask God to help me know what I wanted for my birthday.

Isn't that silly?

I asked, and then when random silly ideas came into my head, I told Philip and the kids. Who loved me and were more than eager to please me, and had been trying all along, but with no direction from me. I had carried this silly notion that people who love me should read my mind.

That was one of the best birthdays ever. And from then on, instead of being depressed and morose, I actually had fun! And I gave my family room to bless me, which they had wanted to do all along.

Some years, all I wanted was a hike with the fam. I think I posted about that a three or four years ago on this blog. Another year I wanted a KitKat clock. And dinner in a restaurant. And a visit with the family to the family cemetery in Boonton, NJ. One year, Philip, Ned, Kathryn and Peter met up with me in NYC and we ate at my favorite restaurant, La Bonne Soup, Kathryn and I went to the Frick Museum and saw beautiful things, and then we went to a Blues bar and stayed out way too late.

Another year, on the farm, Philip and the kids bought Strawberry Shortcake decorations, strung streamers, hung balloons, made a cake, invited friends, and Philip bought me lipstick (still one of my favorite colors). Not too long ago they decorated with Hello Kitty, and even sent me an invitation, and went wild with fun decorations, and Philip even took an old newspaper article from the Wall St. Journal, about influential women, and cut out and glued my picture all over it, and hung it on the wall.

I came across that newspaper the other day as I was cleaning out the secret drawer in the buffet.

It made me sob.

And remember how much better it was to have birthdays after I started to pray to God to help me know what I want.

Tomorrow I plan on baking, so early in the week, I prayed to know what would be the best to help me feel a bit celebrated, and to rejoice that I got to be born and be alive this year, surrounded by friends and family.

Since I love to hike so much, and since I am within sight of my favorite national park, I decided to wrap up my tasks early yesterday, and drive to Big Bend National Park, meet up with my dear friend, have a lunch of curried pumpkin soup, then take a hike up into a beautiful canyon. I sat on a hill, above a big pour of slick rock, with sun on my face and thanked God for my life and asked him to satisfy me and help me to be grateful.

Even though life is so very good, and I am right where I want to be, sometimes the pain is rather intense, and all I can say is that it hurts. Especially around holiday times or birthdays, when so many memories come in an avalanche.

So today I took care of a sick Nora and worked on helping girls organize their tiny bedroom, shared by three girls. Emptied out boxes, found winter clothes. Put stuff away. Washed piles of laundry. Raked and carted and ordered pizza. Felt a bit of self pity because I had wanted to go to the Highland Home and Garden party this evening, with a bunch of other like-minded ladies in the community, but I was dirty, grumpy, and too busy working on my home and garden to go...

Deep in my heart I knew that going would be a good gift to myself.

But for a few minutes I took a bit of sick joy in enjoying the self-pity as I threw another load of laundry in the washer.

Then the phone rang.

One of my new friends called. I was so surprised to hear her voice. She was wondering why I wasn't at the gathering, and suggested I come anyway.

So I did.

Because you know something I wanted for my birthday? To go for a quick bike ride in the evening, under the brilliant, full moon. And to be in a BEYOND beautiful setting in a round the corner new neighbor friend's home, with amazing food, and wine, and music and a fire, with other gals who are real, and funny and made me happy and relaxed and okay to be myself.

What a gift.

And when I got home, the kids were so thankful for the things I had done for them, they made me feel loved.

I don't feel the slightest bit alone. Or pitiful.

Actually, I feel happy to be alive, and grateful to my mom that she went to all the trouble to birth me, and to her and Daddy for all they did to bring me up, loving me, telling me stories, teaching me things, showing me that they have rich lives as well, always coming to the rescue when the car would blow out, back in college days, cheering me on through thick or thin. They gave me opportunities to see that I live in an amazing and beautiful world, full of art and music and books and a great big outdoors. They willingly allowed me to travel far, perhaps they were afraid, but they didn't show it to me. They let me buy lots of Scholastic book fair books. They let me go get a job. They let me go on mission trips to Mexico. They blessed me every single major decision I made. And prayed to cover over all the weak spots.

And somehow, Mom, through all those times I saw you pray, it must have stricken me deeply, and as silly as it seems, praying to be satisfied and content on my birthday has helped me in so many ways, all through the year.

How thankful I am to have been born that day, 45 years ago tomorrow, November 11, 1966, in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, to my parents, John and Fran Rowe. And even more thankful, beyond words, that my life includes Thomas, and Patrick, and Maggie, and Rose and Nora. And the old friends. And the new. I hope someday my children will remember to be thankful that they were born, and to ask God to remind them what it is that they most deeply want, and I hope that they will be content and satisfied in their life.

But now, I had better say goodnight and evening prayer and get myself to bed. The bakery awaits. I think I will make my favorite cake tomorrow sometime in the middle. Remind me to share the recipe.

PS I told the kids that what I wanted for my birthday, besides a clean house and a picked up yard, was a pair of slippers. We have tile floors which are pretty cold in the fall and winter. Can't wait to see what they pick out!!! I think that next year I will ask for a replacement KitKat clock...

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

2011-11-08T08:04:00.002-06:00

Nora and I shared a sunset bike ride yesterday evening. The air was balmy as we cruised around the golf course. The sun dipped below the horizon in the west and the moon rose over the hills to the east. She is getting plump, quite pleased with herself as she makes her rounds.

The goat meat curry was nicely cooked down by the time we got home, and the house smelled rich. Leftover pita bread was drizzled with olive oil and toasted in the oven. Can you believe five children consumed a dozen and a half spelt pita? The last dozen was smeared with honey and made for decent dessert as I read our chapters of Holes, by Louis Sachar.

Science project was spread all over the dining room floor, other various homework notebooks were piled here and there around the meal, but at least we were all together, at the table, at the same time. I had no idea how much effort it would take to make dinner together with all my children happen. But it is effort worth the while.

A cold front is blowing in. Maybe tonight we will huddle around warm goat meat guisado for supper. I never thought we would be eating goat meat on purpose. When we raised goats ourselves, they were for dairy purposes and were our friends and pets. For some reason, eating meat that was raised and butchered by someone else, doesn't offend my senses nearly as much as it did back on the farm. Especially when the freezer is nearly empty of our own farm raised meat. So thankful for real meat raised and butchered by friends!

Here is my very basic recipe for curry. You can use goat meat or lamb or beef or chicken or pork or venison or tofu, or skip the protein all together. It is still quite tasty! Especially if you have some wonderful farmer's market veggies!

Curry Recipe

Saute onion until tender. Add celery and saute until translucent. Now add the cubed meat and saute at a fairly high temperature until the meat is browned on most sides. Toss in sliced carrots, garlic, peppers, okra, eggplant, whatever vegetables you happen to have on hand, some chopped fresh tomatoes or a can of crushed. Give the veggies and the meat a stir, add a generous bit of curry powder. I like to use Penzey's Garam Masala and Sweet Curry powder, at least a couple of big spoons of each, in my gigantic skillet, but you should go by your own taste. After sauteeing the spices for a half a minute or so, add water or broth to cover everything, and a generous pinch of salt.

Turn the temperature down, start some brown basmati rice on the side, and go for a bike ride with someone smaller than yourself. In about the time the rice is done, your curry should be thick and the meat tender. This is when I add a big bunch of chopped cilantro and some cream or coconut milk if we want to be very decadent. Yum. A great way to get big kids to come to the table.

PS fresh ginger makes this dish if you have some tucked in the bottom drawer of your fridge. Add it when you add the garlic. If not, it is still quite tasty!

Saturday, What a Day

2011-11-05T18:27:00.002-05:00

The morning was brisk, it seemed as if the wind woke up on the wrong side of the bed. She yanked on the branches, tugging and pulling, scattering leaves as she made her way around our yard, pounding the carport with pecans.

Patrick got up and it seemed like old times as we divvied the market goodies. "Hmm. Think we can sell this many loaves of Milk and Honey bread at the Alpine market? I wonder how many I should take to Terlingua?" We grabbed the extra table, the extra tablecloths and cutting board and knife and receipt book and I deposited Patrick and half the goods at our usual spot. It was barely daylight when we headed down the street around 8:15. After unloading his things, I pointed the car south, heading toward Terlingua ghost town.

Terlingua used to be a mining town back in the day. It was rich in cinnabar, from which mercury is extracted. In the late 1800's the village grew to a population of around 2000, serving several mines in the district. The desert is boiling hot in the summer, and mild in the winter. The area is remote, on the road to Big Bend National Park. There is no dirt. Just dry powdery white dust as hard as pavement, dotted with ocotillo, creosote and scrubby mesquite and cat claw, with many varieties of cactus thrown in for free. Interesting draws and canyons make one curious to take a hike, just remember to take your water and watch out for snakes and vinegaroons. And wear a hat. The Chisos mountains in the distance are a brilliant backdrop in what is some of my favorite country in the world.

Can you imagine a farmer's market in such a spot? Almost 80 miles due south on Highway 118, over some mountains, across some desert flats, through a pass, and then turn right and go up and over a few dark rust colored hills, turn onto the dirt road, past the old time cemetery, and there, tucked in between the cactus, is nestled a community garden and almost a dozen vendors.

Today's venture was a bit of an experiment, because I am rather partial to community living and farmer's markets and local economy (have you noticed?). I know it is crazy to drive so far, but this does happen to be one of my favorite drives in the world, and as I listened to Motown and drank my coffee, it almost felt like a vacation, watching the ribbons of cottonwoods, glowing golden under the pink and gray sky, weighted down by heavy piles of clouds.

For a moment I wondered if all those hours of baking yesterday were going to be for nothing. I mean, really, just how many loaves of bread can one ghost town of 200 something people, spread over 40 miles or so, buy? Would I even be able to recoup the gas money? If not, at least I would get to spend the morning meeting some new friends, hanging out in one of the state's totally hip spots...

Well, Shannon and Zoey greeted me with hugs and genuine delight and I was was delighted to see the huge garden they have been working on for the last three years. www.terlinguagreenscene.com is their website. These folks are all about everything we have been trying to do in our own life for the last several years; help the community develop viable ways to use resources available to them to grow their own food and create an economy with their local infrastructure.

The garden is lovely, even in the middle of the desert in a horrible drought, and the vibe of the farmer's market was a joy. I couldn't believe how many locals came out to buy bread and peppers and milk and cheese and other goodies. Tourists who happened to be in the ghost town for the big Chili cook off came out to sample and walk away with Pumpkin Kamut muffins and Spelt Apple Challah and Seedy crackers.

Along with some great chat, I sold as much at that little ghost town market as I did back at our Catawba market. Crazy. Good. And got a significant dose of Vitamin D.

Patrick was a wonderful partner here in Alpine and I was thankful he was able to represent the bakery for me and that the other kids managed in town while I worked on the experiment.

I won't drive down to Terlingua every week because that distance isn't practical for our family. But once or twice a month is a good economy. Especially if next time we can continue the short drive on to our favorite national park for a nice hike!

Running the bakery is hard. Sometimes so hard I think it is going to do me in. Yesterday I woke up and got to work at 3am. Put the head on the pillow at midnight. It is hard to run the family as a single mom. The lines between work and home get really blurry when work is at home and vice versa. But farmer's market day is a good reminder why I am doing this. I am filled to overflowing with gratitude to all the folks who make the effort (and in regions like Alpine and especially Terlingua, it is a HUGE effort!) to go out of their way to spend their hard earned money on my bakery goods. The truth is, no matter where you live, it is a big effort to get out to buy locally produced foods and products. It is well worth it, but it is expensive and inconvenient. I am humbled and thankful to imagine that my freshly milled whole grain breads and other things are contributing to the good health of other people and they are contributing to the good health of our local economy. And so far, (Please, God, let it continue!) we are able to pay all our bills.

Well, the wind is calm, the sky is tinted pink and I get an extra hour of sleep tomorrow morning!!! Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

So Thankful to Have Lights on My Bike Now

2011-11-04T20:36:00.002-05:00

The night is dark.

The air is cool.

I just biked back from our church after our First Friday event. Each first Friday we host a musical event, followed by a wine and cheese and other goody reception. Our little town of Alpine is small, under 7,000, but we have a very diverse and talented population. This evening we had the Big Bend Chamber Music Consort provide pieces by Bach, Hayden, Copeland and others. Flute, Clarinet, grand piano, soprano. Our little church was comfortably filled with neighbors from all over town. Some St. James church goers. Some other church goers. Some non-church goers.

We all were nourished by the lovely music. And then we enjoyed treats in the Parish Hall, getting to know one another.

I still have granola to bag and challah to bake and bread to wrap.

But I was terribly hungry this week and was praying to God to satisfy me.

After having my soul fed by the lovely performance, framed by peaked roof and stained glass, and after a couple of meaningful conversations and some helpful advice, I feel a bit more equipped to handle the rest of my hard-working weekend.

I think I will put on Beethoven to accompany the rest of the evening. Spelt Apple Challah, here I come.

Sweet Stuff

2011-10-31T20:29:00.003-05:00

Why, oh why do I let several days go by in between blog posts?

Real life happens, I guess, and I hate to stop it to sit down and type.

This evening I have a stomach ache, so I helped Nora and Rose with hair and makeup, and Thomas went out with them to trick or treat. What a treat it is for me that we live in town and Thomas, our 18 yr old on the autism spectrum, is not ashamed to put on a mask and walk around with his little sisters. Getting candy might have something to do with it. But I think he would be happy to go out, even if he weren't hoping for the loot.

Earlier today I made a drive to Ozona to meet Mom and Daddy for lunch and for honey. Being particular about my ingredients not only costs me a lot of money, but a lot of time and effort, too. Much of the honey one buys from the store comes from multiple sources from different countries, from bees fed sugar, corn syrup and who knows what else.

A few miles from my parents is a family-owned company, Fains. It was started by Mr. Fains back in 1926. The story is a fascinating one. Mr. Fains was farming, and had 10 hives on the side. One year, the honey made almost double the money compared to the farm. This entrepeneur realized that beekeeping could be a business much more lucrative than any other option, so he set to collecting swarms, increase his business exponentially, and began a business that is still thriving, now owned by a grandson. The Fains Honey company started out in Central Texas, not far from my hometown, then moved down to the Rio Grande Valley. Use of pesticides and herbicides destroyed the honey bee environment, so after due diligence and plenty of research, Mr. Fain moved his business up to Llano area, where they are now located. Even though the region is arid, there are plenty of native plants that bloom with any little rain, especially something called Bee Bush. It has a teeny white blossom and you can smell the fragrance from far away. Sweet, like candy. Makes for wonderful honey bee food, along with many other varieties of wildflowers.

They sell their honey raw, and I am very thankful to get an amazing ingredient to be used in our milk and honey bread and granola. It gives me joy to support a family-run business. And it was a pretty nice excuse to share lunch with my parents and get to see some of my mom's new paintings she was delivering to the Fredericksburg Art Gallery in Fredericksburg, Texas for a big art show coming up next week.

I'm so proud of you, Mom! And thanks, to both you and Daddy for the fun lunch and for supporting MY business by helping with a speedy delivery so I can bake bread tomorrow!

PS If you like beautiful art work, check out www.fbgartgallery.com and look up Fran Rowe. She has some AMAZING pieces and there are some other wonderful artists there as well. xoxo

Another Friday Night

2011-10-28T20:14:00.002-05:00

Nora and I dropped Patrick and Maggie off at the last football game of the season. Rose was there already with her girlfriends. Thomas walked to the theater to watch a movie.

As Nora and I drove home, the sun dipped below the horizon, washing everything with dusk. I caught a glimpse of the waxing moon, catching up with the sun. It was a glorious sight for me, knowing that she is growing fat again, though still in her crescent form.

The bread was waiting for me, so I turned on the music and started to tear paper to wrap things up. Nanci Griffith gave me a hug I truly needed. What a friend is her music to me.

More work is calling my name, but I though someone out there might need a hug from Nanci as well, so I leave you with the lyrics of one of my favorite songs of all time:

Trouble in these Fields

Baby I know that we've got trouble in the fields

When bankers swarm like locust out there turning away our yield

The trains roll by our silos, silver in the rain.

They leave our pockets full of nothing but our dreams and the golden grain.

Have you seen the folks in line downtown at the station?

They're buying their ticket out and talking the great depression.

Our parents had their hard times fifty years ago,

When they stood out in these empty fields in dust as deep as snow.

Chorus

And all this trouble in these fields, if this rain will fall these wounds can heal.

They'll never take our native soil.

But if we sell that new John Deere and then we'll work these crops with sweat and tears,

You'll be the mule, I'll be the plow,

Come harvest time we'll work it out, there's still a lot of love,

Right here in these troubled fields.

There's a book up on my shelf about those dust bowl days and there's a little bit of me and a little bit of you in the photos on every page.

Our children live in the city and they rest upon our shoulders,

they never want the rain to fall or the weather to get colder.

CHORUS

You'll be the mule, I'll be the plow, Come harvest time we'll work it out, there's still a lot of love, right here in these troubled fields.

Nanci Griffith, Dustbowl Symphony

I hope you will take a listen and I hope that her song will give you a hug as well. Now Nora and I will get back to the bakery. She is going to put labels on for me.

Winter Blew in for a Little Visit

2011-10-27T19:42:00.002-05:00

I went to sleep last night with the windows wide open. In the middle of the night a cold wind blew in, carrying the smell of burning firewood and desert and wintertime.

Instead of closing the window, I pulled up the blanket, happy for the change.

We never rose above the 40's today, the sky was rather dark and I felt like cuddling up with a good book and a cup of tea. The truth is, I felt a bit tired, morose and wanted to shove all responsibilities in the garbage. Instead, I worked on mountains of laundry and mountains of paperwork that I had been shoving to the side. Made some phone calls. Dug through files. Drank more coffee and then hot tea. Never made it to the book.

That's okay. I did pause midday to have lunch with a new friend. A bowl of Jalapeno Cilantro cream soup at the Reata. With chunks of avocado and tomato. Quintessential Texas comfort food for a brisk day. And a nice chat that allowed me to feel like I could be real. Be myself.

This afternoon I paused the work again to help kids gather odds and ends for the Halloween costumes. Tomorrow is dress up day at school. I think they are ready. Even Thomas is catching the excitement. He will wear a cool Asian mask that our dear friend Donna gave us years back. Now what in the world will I dress up to be for the Farmer's market on Saturday? I guess I will have all baking day tomorrow to figure it out.

The windows are closed this evening, but I have an urge to go grab a couple more blankets and open them up so I can smell the smell of winter. And hear the dried pecan leaves skitter across the yard.

Ahhh. I do so love changing seasons.

Seedy Crackers

2011-10-25T20:04:00.003-05:00

This morning as the girls and I rode bicycles to school the dark sky began to lighten and the tiny little sliver of the almost new moon glowed in the east. I find great comfort in the regularity of the moon.

It would be easier to drive the girls to school in the morning, but I am trying to stay in the habit of bike riding. We have to rush and rush, but being outside, seeing the moon, feeling the different temperatures from day to day centers me. The kind crossing guard gets us over to the elementary school. I kiss Nora, then Rose and I make the nearly two mile bike hike around the corner, down the street, over the train tracks and a little way further to the middle school. It surprises me that so few kids bike to school. We watch the sky change from black to grey to pink and peach. The school bus lights flash and shine like Christmas. Rose occasionally deigns to give me a kiss, but always says goodbye, I love you, even when we have shared cross words earlier in the morning.

This morning I whizzed the two miles back home, poured another cup of coffee, made myself an omelet, then got to work on the many bowls of bread and pizza dough waiting for me in the bakery.

Lately I have been making lots of crackers, having fun with Kamut and spelt. I thought i would share with you the recipe for my most popular experiment so far. Crackers are a pain to make in bulk, but not that difficult. Considering all the unhealthy ingredients found in store bought crackers, it is worth the while to experiment. Doesn't everyone like a little something crunchy and tasty to enjoy with goat cheese? Or tuna fish? Or chicken salad? Or plain old snacking in the afternoon?

I hope you will give them a try sometime. Be patient with yourself. The rolling out gets easier with some practice. And be CAREFUL not to burn too many. I burned one tray today because I walked away from the oven must a few minutes too long...

SEEDY CRACKERS
3/4c freshly milled spelt flour (I use organic, from Montana)
1/2 c freshly milled kamut flour (Ditto)
1/3 c sesame seeds
1/3 c sunflower seeds
1/3 c flax seeds
1 1/2 tsp salt (I use Redmond's Real Salt)
1 1/2 tsp baking powder (I use aluminum-free)
3 TBSP coconut oil (I use organic, from a source in Mexico)
1/2 c-3/4 c water
Mix all the dry ingredients. Add oil. I use an amazing organic, non-hydrogenated coconut oil. When it is completely incorporated with the dry ingredients, add the water, but bit by bit, because you may or may not need all of it. Stir it in until the dough forms a ball. Let the dough rest 15 minutes or so. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Divide dough into 8 pcs.
I use a french rolling pin (thank you Stewart) and roll each piece out as thinly as possible. To make these crackers it is best to get the dough even thinner than pie crust. But do the best you can. I aim for a rectagular shape, but if you aim for something akin to Brazil or Texas, that will be fine, too. Use a knife or pizza cutter to cut the dough into squares or whatever shape you wish. Place on cookie sheet and bake until lightly browned around the edges. You have to be SOOO careful, because these crackers are not nearly as good burned as they are lightly browned.

After your crackers are done, let them cool, then store them in a giant glass pickle jar, the gallon size, or in a ziploc bag. They should stay fresh for a week or two, but I doubt they will stick around that long. Some of you may not have a grain mill or access to cool grains. Try to find a friend with a mill if you can and work out a trade. The freshly milled grain is so much more nutritious and delicious. But if not, experiment with whatever cool kinds of flour you can find from the grocery store. Isn't it amazing the options out there? I am thinking these crackers would be great with quinoa. Or rye. Or add a little millet.

If there is one series of lessons I wish I could teach folks when helping them learn cooking skills, it would be to have fun, learn the basics, then don't be scared to go improv every once in awhile.

If you learn to make a good cracker, you will be very popular at the next wine and cheese party. Really.

Well, I had better hit the sack. The dark morning and dark moon won't be waiting for us for long. I will be glad when the time changes back even if the evenings are darker.

Good Magic, or My Farmer's Market Finds

2011-10-24T09:26:00.002-05:00

It was a lovely day at the Farmer's Market on Saturday. Lots of visits with neighbors and visitors. I was astonished at how many travelers popped in to our market. We aren't even on the beaten path.

Astonished, but I guess it isn't that surprising when you think about all the good things going on in one big parking lot. Pumpkins and tomatoes and eggplants and peppers and onions and sweet potatoes and green beans. Swiss chard, herbs, zucchini, spaghetti squash, patty pan squash, seedlings, flowers. Apples and pears. Cool jewelry, hot coffee and tea, parathas, samosas, scones, homemade donuts, homemade pickles and mustards and relish, salsa and jam. Chili rellenos, big pots of beans and bbq. Milk and cream and seven different kinds of cheeses. Fresh butter. Homemade soaps. Who knows how many varieties of baked goods (including my freshly milled good stuff!)? A solar power oven display, a guy from the Lion's club. Dogs and children and young artists and happy hikers and local musicians and teachers and folks who work for Homeland Security. Builders and librarians, ministers and Tai Chi instructors. Senior citizen tour groups passing by.

All thrown together on a brilliant October Saturday morning, making for a lovely picture of community and local economy. I wish everyone had a chance to check out their farmer's market. Some people tell me they don't go because they don't have the money, that goods at the farmer's market are priced too expensively. And yes, many things could be purchased at Wal Mart for significantly less. But can we afford the bargain? The cost that comes from not knowing our neighbors? The cost to our health that comes from eating cheap, nutritionally deficient, overly processed foods? The cost to our environment when we pay people to raise meat and vegetables and fruits irresponsibly?

I realize that for many of us on a tight budget, the extra few dollars a week make a huge difference. But as I have witnessed the joy that comes in developing an economy of bartering, it makes me realize that there are options out there for cash-strapped folks who are willing to be a little creative. On many occasions I have suggested to folks that they can pay what they can afford for my bread. Or barter something that they have. I have heard lots of other vendors suggest the same thing.

Have you wished you could afford to eat more healthy foods, but don't see a way it can be done? Trust me, I know what it means to be a penny-pincher, wondering if there is enough left in the bank to pay the water bill and the house and the electricity and the insurance, along with a pair of shoes for a growing kid and a prescription for a sick kid, all at the same time. And for those of you who don't work at a farmer's market, the idea of trying to fit one more thing into a busy Saturday morning might be more than you can imagine.

But as I wax poetically over the joys of our cool world of real food and neighborhood community and producers who make stuff with their own hands, I hope you won't feel like that is something just for me and my kind. There IS a way to experience that kind of food and community, but you might have to start out with some baby steps. And use your imagination and make a little extra effort. I promise that it will pay off. In more ways than you can imagine.

PS By the time the bakery and the kitchen were cleaned, the floors swept and mopped, the laundry folded, the trays and pans washed and dried, I was pretty exhausted and in need of a real meal. A chicken was sprinkled with loads of fresh rosemary from the yard, a squeeze of a couple of lemons, some chopped garlic, salt and olive oil and shoved in the very hot oven. I took a red onion, sliced, place it in a layer on a pyrex, topped with sliced zucchini, garlic, eggplant, fresh tomatoes, more onion, fresh thyme and basil, bell pepper, another layer of tomatoes, drizzled olive oil and a sprinkle of sea salt, then placed that pan in the oven with the chicken. A loaf of Italian Peasant bread was sliced, brushed with olive oil, and placed on a tray to go into the oven as well. It didn't take any work at all to throw it together, then we lit candles and the tiki torches and sat out in the balmy starry evening air, European style (almost 9pm!) and enjoyed good food, great conversation, and a fitting end to Farmer's Market day, grateful for the dozen hands or more who contributed to our dinner.

It probably would have been just as delicious if we had made our dinner with all store bought veggies, but there is a unique kind of magic that comes with knowing who helped grow your food. Very good magic.

Friday Nights Aren't Really a Party for Me, but that's OK

2011-10-21T19:59:00.004-05:00

Whew. Another day almost done. Well, the dirty pots and pans and trays are waiting for me, but at least the bread and goodies are wrapped and ready for tomorrow.

The sun has set, the stars are beginning to pop out and the evening is still and quiet. I just had to come outside for a few minutes and feel the air since I have been working indoors since four this morning.

As tiring as my job is, I enjoy the routine and the rote order of the day. I don't really have to think when I get out of bed. I hop up, put on water for my coffee, grind some beans, put on some milk to warm, then start the mill to grinding. I have an order to the day, starting with the Hard White Wheat products, the Milk and Honey bread, the Pizza Crust dough, the Italian Peasant Bread. Then, as those doughs are rising, and I have my second cup of coffee, I pull out the Spelt berries and begin to mill them. Spelt Milk and Honey bread, Spelt and Wheat Seedy Loaf, Spelt Almond Raisin Rye, all the ingredients perform amazing alchemy in the kneading bowls. After the Spelt Challah is placed in the bowl to rise, I move on to the Kamut berries, milling them, meanwhile making the honey/sucanat mixture for the gigantic bowl of granola, using 24 cups of organic oats, eight cups of organic raisins and eight cups of almonds. Plus lots of cinnamon. Today I made Kamut Applesauce Cake and Kamut Oatmeal Cookies and Spelt and Kamut Seedy Crackers.

Sometimes the phone rings, sometimes someone pops in for a chat, but mostly I am hyperfocused on my tasks, ITunes Library cranking out a bizarre soundtrack for my day.

I love music. Many varieties. Some days I start with Andrew Peterson and continue with an inspirational playlist. Sometimes I have to have my favorite women artists, like Eva Cassidy, Sheryl Crow,EmmyLou, Cindi Lauper, Mindy Smith and Nanci Griffith. Occasionally the 80's overwhelms the mix, with Chicago, Journey, Peter Gabriel and the like.

I even like to belt out the Folk Songs arranged by Beethoven and performed by the New York Philharmonic.

This evening, as I finished wrapping up the last loaves of Spelt Milk and Honey, Twila Paris came up on the list with her collection of hymns. I grew up in a Southern Baptist church, went to seminary and served as a missionary off and on. Now I go to St James, an Episcopal church. We don't sing the same hymns, but I like the liturgy and the hymnology. Even so, there is something about the songs of my childhood that feel like balm to a tired soul. The old songs from the good old days, that actually were pretty tough old days for the hymn writers and the church of that day.

"When the Roll is Called up Yonder" came on and I mindlessly sang along for a few minutes, creasing the paper, tearing the masking tape, placing the labels. Then came the stanza, "Let us labor for the Master from the dawn til setting sun, Let us talk of all his wondrous love and care,Then when all of life is over and our work on earth is done, when the roll is called up yonder I'll be there."

So many sense memories washed over me as I sang, I had to rewind and start the song over again. I could feel the seats in the old church in Naruna, Texas, and could hear my Dad's voice as we sang in the little bitty country church, windows wide open, live oaks in the cemetery, maybe just maybe some of "Aunt" Ruth Vann's fried apple pies to go with dinner on the grounds.

And I thought of the work of my hands, and how it isn't done. Not for now, at any rate. And then I thought of how tired Philip was his last few weeks of life. I thought of how hard he would work during the day, putting on a good face, but at night, when all was still and everyone else was in bed asleep, he would tell me he was praying for the Lord to return because he didn't think he could endure much longer.

He was so tired.

He hurt so badly.

His heart had been wearing out since he was a little baby with rheumatic fever and we had been to doctor after doctor trying to get that poor thing out of atrial fibrillation and into regular rhythm. And through it all he fixed the cars and shoveled the snow, cut the firewood and restored our farmhouse and someone else's farmhouse and helped with the farm and loved on me and the kids and did who knows what all to help other people who crossed his path.

All those things crossed my mind as I mindlessly wrapped up the bread and sang along.

And I was so grateful that Philip's work on earth is done and that his worn out heart can rest now.

Then the song changed and moved on to Van Morrison and I finished loading up the tubs with the farmer's market stuff and came outside to see the dark sky and feel the air for a moment before finishing up the pots and pans.

Grief is weird. It sneaks up on you at the strangest moments.

I miss Philip so much, yet it seems like maybe it was a hundred years ago or so he walked the earth with us. Even though it is hard figuring out how to live life without him, I would never, never, not in a million years wish him to leave his rest and come back to suffering, pain and exhaustion.

I'm glad that hymn came up on the playlist and gave me such depth of sense memory. Even though it feels a little raw, it isn't as raw as it was a year or more ago. Makes me thankful for a job that gives me time to think as my hands work. I feel better for having felt the loss tonight and the bittersweet memories. Isn't that strange?

A Quest?

2011-10-20T19:30:00.002-05:00

Stir-fried vegetables and leftover roast made for a delicious supper. With some roasted sweet potatoes on the side. Almost everything grown by new farmer's market friends.

Kids were running in different directions, so I took my plate out to the backyard with a book. Nora helped herself to applesauce and went to the swing. Rose popped out eventually, with a nice big bowl of carrots and cucumbers and some newly purchased Organic Hidden Valley Ranch dressing.

"Is this dressing gone bad?" she asked. "What is wrong with it?"

I don't buy Ranch dressing very often, but the kids love it so when I saw the Organic version on the shelf last week, I thought it would be a nice treat.

I told Rose that the only thing wrong with the dressing was that it wasn't filled with toxic chemicals. She and Nora asked if I would please purchase them some toxic chemicals to put on their organic carrots and cucumbers.

Hmmm. Maybe we will have to try a homemade version...

Moving On

2011-10-19T19:25:00.003-05:00

Well, the sheep are gone. Not from here, but from the farm.

I have had them offered on Craigslist. Sold a few ram lambs to be butchered by an African guy, some Bhutanese and some Bosnian fellows. A couple of people offered to buy the whole lot to butcher them all, but I had been holding out.

It is hard the think about slaughtering heritage breed sheep who are valuable ewes with many more lamb-bearing years ahead of them. Seems like a poor economy.

So when the gal emailed me last week, telling me she and her son want to get the Jacobs registered and raise them, I was delighted. Ophelia will get to live on a new farm with her dear ewe friends and the wethers. So she, Freda, Esther, Amos and Andy and Easter Bunny, Sissy, Willow, and the remaining lambs from the spring crop went to live in West Virginia.

You know how I cried every time we had to sell off another farm animal? This time I didn't cry. I am merely grateful to have them gone to a good new home. Now Ribeye, the steer, is the only one left, besides a handful of chickens and a few baby chicks who hatched out early this fall.

And Malt O Meal, the barn cat who still patrols the farm for rodents.

Today I don't miss the farm.

I am sitting outside in the backyard watching the blackening trees stir in the cool evening breeze. The air smells brisk, like November. I don't see the crowds of Monarch butterflies today, but we did a week ago. I wonder if they have made it down to Mexico yet. Before you know it the temperatures will rise and we will be sweating again, even if it becomes November. We are in Texas, you know. But this cool spell is refreshing to my senses. I want to drink it up! Must find time to take a hike this weekend.

Brrr!

2011-10-18T21:53:00.002-05:00

This morning the sky was gray and dark as we made our way to the schools by bicycle. I was full of coffee and warm from milling and mixing and kneading dough, but by the time we were halfway down the street by the golf course my hands were shivering and my cheeks were numb.

Tuesdays are a light baking day and perhaps a bit more pleasant than Fridays, giving me room for some experimentation. I have been making delicious grownup crackers ever since the organic Kamut came in. The big kids were pretty impressed, but Nora was not. So today as I milled I was thinking about Nora. Nora has a bit of a sweet tooth.

Hmm.

What to bake? I decided that Kamut graham crackers and Kamut peanut butter cookies were in order. After getting the regular goods well on their way, milk and honey bread, spelt milk and honey bread, the pizza crusts, the granola, the italian peasant bread and the spelt almond raisin rye, I got to work on the treats.

Kids get home a bit before 4. Customers come shortly after. It is fun setting out little bits of this and that for the kids to enjoy as an afterschool snack and for the customers to enjoy as samples. One of my new friends and customers took a bite of the graham crackers. Her review was the best compliment! She told me that after tasting the freshly milled Kamut version, the store bought variety were just plain boring!

It is a joy having customers come by the bakery in our home. People slow down, catch up a little, eat a slice of homemade pizza or a bite of spelt brownies and kiss babies and share stories. I have learned so much about our area already by conversations had in the bakery while wrapping up someone's bread. Local economy is spell-binding, on many levels. What a grateful heart I have for all those customers. I thank God for them.

After the bakery closed, Rose and I hopped on our bikes and rode over to the middle school for a Community Garden open house. Rose is in 6th grade and one of her elective classes is Environmental Science. She has an amazing, young, energetic and forward thinking teacher who apparently has a rather amazing support network. He and several volunteers from the community have started an organic garden outside the school. They are using recycled materials to build up the area.

Of course you can imagine it did my soul good to see that lovely garden. Rose tells me that they are outside working on it most every day.

What delighted me even more was seeing the paper-crete project. The school is collecting all recyclable paper, the children shred it by hand, add water to make it into pulp, then fill a 5 gallon bucket 3/5 full, mix in one coffee can mortar, three coffee cans water, stir thoroughly, then pour into forms to make blocks which they will use to build a tool shed for their garden.

Ten years ago or so, it was legal to cross the border in Big Bend National Park and we would often go across the Rio Grande with the kids on our camping trips to eat tacos in a little village. There we would see folks making adobe bricks for their building projects. I loved the organic ingenuity. Using material at hand, dirt, manure, straw, water from the river, they came up with building material that would last for many many years. No Lowes withing driving distance, and even if there were, no one would have the money anyway.

Well, there is no Lowe's in our town, but there is a lumberyard. The school teachers could probably go and buy some cinderblocks. But can you imagine the lessons the kids are learning as they gather up the teachers' waste paper and turn it into real, solid, long lasting blocks that will build a structure? They are using their hands and hoes and a donated wheelbarrow and wooden forms built by the highschool industrial arts kids.

I guess it doesn't take much to delight me. Simple pleasures and all that.

I was impressed. So happy to see that our school here in Alpine is willing to educate our children on many levels. Happy to see volunteers working with my daughter, people from our town who don't even have children in the school, working together because they know they are being a part of making our world a better place. One tomato plant and one paper-crete block at a time.

Somehow I think the lesson here is way deeper than I can even begin to cover tonight, but I am tired and hope to put my head down on my pillow in a few minutes.

As Rose and I rode our bikes back home, the temperature dipped even lower and we felt like we could smell the Arctic Ocean. The sun fell and we were shivering by the time we reached our warm house. The roast and the stir-fried green beans tasted like a feast. Everyone ate more bread and cookies. We finished A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle last night and haven't started a new read aloud book yet. Everyone retired with their books or Ipods or phones and we are all enjoying blankets. I think that the temperature is supposed to drop down to the 30's tonight. Can you believe it?

Sacred Space

2011-10-13T21:02:00.004-05:00

Some days I get up at 3 in the morning and work for 18 hours or more before I sit down.

Other mornings I get up at6:30, get the kids off to school and work steadily through a more reasonable 8 hour pace.

Today I woke up at 5:15, got up, made pancakes (4-grain, freshly milled organic, with real maple syrup from Michigan, thank you Raymond) got the kids to school and went back to bed and slept for a couple of hours. Well. 3 hours plus.

Part of me wanted to berate myself. But the other part rolled over and closed her eyes after she reminded the other part how hard we work on a regular basis.

At some point I got up, gathered my things, took care of some business, spoke to some customers who came to the door, then loaded up the rest of my paperwork because I decided I couldn't be in the house for another 15 minutes.

Here is a true confession.

I hate to do it because I don't want to ruin my reputation.

OK, here goes.

I drove over to Sonic to get a cheeseburger because I felt kind of depressed and needed some comfort. And yes, I asked for the whole wheat bun, but who knows how much whole wheat is actually in that whole wheat bun, and why bother when you are getting a fast food cheeseburger anyway, but there you have it.

I don't know why, but it has been a pretty hard few days for me. I have felt sad and tired and maybe all the work of still adjusting to new town and new business and new single-parenting and all that is still catching up with me. So I grabbed my burger and diet Dr. Pepper (don't you love the oxymoron) and asked God to please tell me what I needed to do to feel better.

Thursdays are kind of my day off, since I work so hard over the weekend. I try to get a plan for what I need to bake, come up with an ingredient list, return a few emails and rest.

For some reason Fort Davis kept coming to mind, so I pointed the car that direction, stopped in the Stone Village store to grab a couple of items I needed plus a cup of locally roasted Big Bend Roaster coffee then went back toward Alpine. Around halfway between the two mountain towns is a little roadside picnic area. I remember parking at those little tables over 20 years ago to enjoy some solitude and beauty.

Cup of coffee in hand, devotional book, journal and scratch paper, I sat down at the solid concrete table and benches.

At first I couldn't hear a thing but the voice in my head, rattling, rattling.

Then the skitter of a leaf caught my attention.

I paused to breathe in. Breathe out.

A truck and trailer rolled by.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

I opened up my little devotional book which reminded me to be still in God's presence. Sarah Young, author of Jesus Calling, and now my invisible friend, suggested that "the more hassled you feel, the more you need this sacred space of communion."

So I was still for a moment, breathing in, when all of a sudden my attention was caught by the lovely cottonwoods surrounding my little private retreat center, I mean, the public picnic spot by the side of the road. I have always loved cottonwoods. In southwest Texas, if you want to know where some water is located, just span the horizons for some cottonwoods. Their bright green leaves were turning sunshine yellow, around the tops of the trees, and occasionally one would be flung loose, floating toward the ground, skittering across the pavement.

Fall.

Funny that I didn't notice the leaves turning until I took the time to breathe in and out a few times.

After a few moments of peace and still, I prayed and threw out my concerns to God, while listening to the whirr of a cricket across the road, the bawl of a cow a few miles down at Calamity Creek Ranch, the scratch of a few leaves being blown in the parking area and the whisper of the cottonwood leaves, sounding like the Holy Spirit.

Then I got to work and put pencil to paper, taking care of business.

Shortly after, the coffee was gone, the list was done and it was time to head back home. I ran to the store to pick up ingredients I needed for tomorrow, then helped Rose work on her science experiment. She is comparing and contrasting freshly milled organic spelt and whole white wheat to store bought organic spelt and whole white wheat, using the same recipes and techniques. We will see if one or the other rises higher, has better crumb and see how they result in blind taste tests (thank goodness we have plenty of taste testers in this house.)

Then it was time to meet up the some new friends at a Home and Garden meeting at the Saddle Club in town.

I feel so much better after getting my tank filled up, at least for the moment. Tomorrow will come early and will go long. But I am thankful to have a job that contributes to the health and well being of my family and neighbors. And thankful to have a job that allows for time to breathe in and out and notice the change in the leaves. And thankful my kids are big enough to fend for themselves a couple of hours so I can meet some other gals and get to know my neighbors.

Fall

2011-10-10T19:52:00.003-05:00

The sky is the color of a peach on the western horizon, but in the east it is grey, like silk. The blackened silhouette of the trees makes everything look like Halloween, according to Rose, who is sitting beside me. The moon is almost full and slowly makes her way up the eastern sky.

This morning Accuweather told me that the temperature in Alpine was 42 degrees. My truck thermometer registered 46. It was pretty chilly, but warmed up to the 70's which made for perfect outdoor dining this evening.

Last week the mill seemed to be dragging, so my friend and I took it apart this afternoon to clean it and put it back together. Well, mostly my friend did all the work, but I did unscrew a couple of screws and loosened a couple of bolts. I am always amazed and grateful to people who are mechanically minded and willing to share their skills and time with me!

It should be up and running just beautifully in the morning. Won't it be nice to bake in a cool house!

I'm Rich!

2011-10-06T17:37:00.002-05:00

Rich in grains, that is.
My ship came in, well the shipment arrived around noon on an Old Dominion truck that pulled up next to my carport.

He called just as we were finishing up Bible study and I hopped on my bike and raced back home.

Fifty bags of grain is a lot of weight lifting. The driver asked me by phone if I had a forklift to pick up the pallet. I tried not to laugh too hard.

My friend drove over and between the her, the driver and myself, we knocked the job out pretty quickly. I pulled some bread out of the freezer to tip the driver for his help.

I do feel rich as I look at all that organic grain, ready to mill into tons of loaves of bread. Well, at least a ton and a half of bread, give or take. Please God, let there be plenty of customers.

Now to find a source of local honey...

PS, it is nice and breezy today and quite warm. The sun is shining, but in a distinctly October way. My mom and I always notice that the sun has a different look in October. Fall. Welcome! It will be really fun to bake when you bring us some chilly weather!

Feelings, Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, Feelings (Don't be scared of Barry Manilow, people)

2011-10-04T18:43:00.003-05:00

I don't write everything I feel or think on this blog. So many moments pass by that don't make the cut. Not an intentional cut, but life is full and time to sit and type requires discipline and I don't always have it in me. Who wants to read that many words anyway?

My work is not quite done for the day but I need to sit and take a rest. Maggie and Patrick are at cross country practice. Thomas sits at the dining room table working on his homework. Rose is reading a book. Nora is working on bike tricks. I have some of my favorite music playing in the bakery (Andrew Peterson) and the cool of evening is blowing in on a gentle breeze.

So this evening I think I will blog about how I am really feeling while I sit outside in the backyard and watch the sun go down. The work won't take me long to finish up when I go back inside.

The sunflowers next to the western fence are leaning to the side, loaded with blossoms. The gorgeous vine climbing up the wall next to the car port is covered with salmon pink blossoms, providing a drunken fest for a bunch of honey bees. The waxing moon is halfway thru her journey today, and slightly over half full, sitting almost on top of one of the neighbor's pecan trees. A train whistle blows as it cruises through town and butterflies hover around the leaves of one of the pecan trees in our yard.

Sometimes I am afraid to write about our grief journey because I think that readers might pity me. Or think that I am a mess. Or maybe it will make them uncomfortable or maybe someone will think I am unhappy.

Grief is such a raw thing.

Even though we are learning and adapting all the time, it comes up when least expected.

For example, last night I accompanied Patrick to his induction ceremony into the National Honor Society. As I walked by myself into the auditorium, I felt gripped with heaviness. As I sat down, I froze my face, hoping that no one would come up to me. As I waited, alone, sobs threatened to rack my body but I dared not let a tear escape, and I sat there stunned to think that Philip was gone, and that my son would walk across that stage and his dad would not be here in the flesh to shake his hand and joke with him and tell his funny stories about growing up to be the opposite of the National Honor Society member in his highschool experience.

It hurt very badly. I felt extremely alone.

Of course, as I watched the children light their candles and receive their collars, pride and joy welled up in my heart and I thought about how proud Philip must be of his son. Of his children.

And when the kids stood in a line in front and the parents lept up to take their flash photos, I couldn't help but grin, thinking of the story Philip would tell us every Christmas about the time he was an angel in the Catholic school Christmas play. He poked his head through the heavy velvet curtains on the stage, catching a glimpse of the audience of proud parents who were snapping flash photos. Being the class clown and consumate impersonator, he wheeled around, leaping up in the air, pretending to be a parent, trigger happy with his invisible camera. The drama only lasted a mere second or two until it came to a screeching halt when one of the nuns whacked him on the head with a ruler. He was so indignant that the nun had the audacity to whack a 7 yr old angel right on his halo! I wondered if Patrick remembered that story.

Living here in Alpine feels like I have come home. I have a dear old friend who is involved in our life, an old friend from over twenty years ago, who now brings me great joy. It has been great fun reminiscing, remembering all the good old days, and realizing that now, as two grownups, we still have lots in common, and it is like a miracle that we have come full circle.

But what is weird is that even the joy and the fun of a friendship with another guy sometimes triggers grief and makes me long for the ease that comes with an 18 yr marriage and almost 20 year friendship.

I guess the point I am trying to make is that learning something new hurts at times. Grief isn't something we just "get over." As Martha, our grief support counselor would often say, "You don't get over the loss of a loved one, you get through it, and learn to adapt." (I hope I didn't misquote her too very much!)

I have never felt sustained pain before in my life, before Philip's death, that is. I felt little bits of pain and sorrow. When a church friend died. When my friends' daughter died. It was intense pain. And it lasted for a long time. But it wasn't so sustained.

That is why I mention the sweet relationship with my old new guy friend. We share some of the sweetest moments I have enjoyed in a long time. And the joy of a sunset or a sunrise always gave me pleasure in the past, but now that I have felt true pain and grief, those things are almost more beautiful than I can stand. The other evening my friend took me to the symphony and we heard Beethoven for the first half and then Holst's The Planets for the second half. The beauty of some of that musical creation was so intense, I nearly wept with joy and it was a truly spiritual experience. The love of God washed over me, (especially during "Jupiter") and I thanked God for the ability to feel and to hear and to be. Even the blood-stirring, pounding notes of "Mars" made me feel stronger and able to defeat the difficulties that threaten to overwhelm me.

I have other friends who have lost loved ones and they tell me that these mixed up, painful grief feelings are pretty normal. I guess the symphony was a pretty good metaphor for me. All those instruments. Over six or seven french horns, who knows how many violins, all the trumpets and many different instruments, including the harps and the tympani and bass drums all working together to make something absolutely astonishing. I think that the occasional throbbing of grief pain is a note that blended in with all the other beautiful parts of my life creates music that is lovely and real.

I wish we could go back two years and have Philip back being the dad of our house. I wish the kids could have their dad patting them on the back as they do their new things and achieve success. But he is gone. And who knows if they would even be running in cross country or riding bikes to the library or making new friends if he were here. We are in a new world, on so many levels, and even though it pains me at times, I hope to embrace it fully, and to show that kids that even if the tears fall, we are going to live our life.

BTW, have I mentioned how thankful I am to live in the same state as my parents? Daddy was grandpa babysitter for part of last week and took kids to school events, and watched runners cross the finish line. He made them donuts, NOT the freshly milled whole wheat variety (aren't the kids lucky to have a grandpa!) and even took the girls to McDonalds (they are still talking about it!).

I am a very lucky* woman. And you know how I know it? Thomas came out and grinned at me and when I asked him if he could please go in and wash my bread baking pots and pans so I could finish blogging, he went right in, and I can even now hear the clanging in the kitchen.

Lucky=blessed with great favor!

PS the sun has set. The clouds are threatening to fill the sky. The moon is lightly veiled and now sits near the top of one of our pecan trees instead of the neighbor's. The butterflies must have settled in for their evening and I guess I had better go finish my work so I can settle in as well. Tomorrow after bicycling the girls to school I will bicycle up the hill behind our house to the University where I will attend a symposium on economics and small businesses. They offer a free lunch. Yeay for me.

Seasons are changing, the earth is tilting

2011-10-04T18:04:00.002-05:00

So these days I am not milking a cow in the morning.

This morning I bicycled with the girls to their schools. Nora's elementary school is just a few minutes' ride, but Rose's middle school is around two miles from our house. When school started in late August, the sky was bright and clear when we departed our house. We wore shorts and I huffed up the hills, not having ridden a bicycle for the better part of 18 years.

Now the sky is dark black velvet when we cruise away from our driveway. School buses in the distance flash and gleam red and gold. By the time we get to the end of the street and the crossing guard sees us across, pink streaks light up the sky. I kiss Nora goodbye and by the time Rose and I make our way over the train tracks, the world is washed with pink. Most mornings we are enjoying our sweaters.

I am not huffing quite so much.

Grains

2011-10-03T08:40:00.003-05:00

The morning is brisk and the sky is clear. I read on the Accuweather website that Catawba weather is even "brisker" and was to drop down to low 40's last night.

It isn't cool enough here for a fire in the fireplace, but it would be back on the farm.

The onset of fall is my favorite time of year.

I am still waiting for the arrival of my shipment of grain from Montana. Have been waiting for a couple of weeks. Last week I was speaking to one of the gals in the office who told me they were still testing the quality of the 2011 harvest. When it was all said and done, they discovered that the protein content for the Hard White Wheat, a variety of golden wheat that I use for many of our recipes, was in the 13% range. Too low.

You see, after milling grains and using 100% whole wheat and spelt for my bread recipes for several years, it became apparent that even a half percentage point in the protein department would make a huge difference in bread quality. Many bakeries use different ingredients, like gluten, to maintain consistency in their breads. These extra ingredients also have different preservatives and chemicals that I wish to eliminate from our products. That means I have to really pay attention to the quality of ingredients I get, since I don't have the margin of those "back up" elements.

Higher level of protein is what makes bread have a lighter texture. It causes the cells of the flour to have enough heft and structure to hold up to the rising action of the yeast. When baking cookies or cornbread or biscuits, one wants a lower level of protein, to make more of a crumb. But not in a chewy loaf of italian bread. Or a flexible tortilla. Or slice of toast that won't completely fall apart in the toaster.

So after a couple of phone calls back and forth with the grain company, speaking to the guy who does the lab tests and the lady who does the real life in the kitchen bread baking tests, we decided to skip buying the 20 fifty pound bags of this years wheat and to go for the 2010 harvest, which is still plenty fresh, should last for at least two more years, and has a protein content of 14.5%.

It is on an Old Dominion truck right now, heading south, along with almost 25 fifty pound bags of Organic spelt berries and some Organic Durum Semolina grain and some Organic Kamut and Rye.

It is good doing business with a company who does what they can to make sure I have the right ingredients for the type of bread I bake. The grain from this year's harvest will be just right for many other bakers, so it won't go to waste. But I won't be stuck with something that produces an inferior bread.

I hope it gets here soon so I can return to my regular bakery schedule.

Oh, and for you, Debi, and others who are wondering what the heck Spelt is, here is a brief description I give to all my customers!

Spelt is an ancient grain, granddaddy to modern wheat berries. It is a grass, its use traced back over 5000 years to what is now modern Syria. The grain was grown in Germany and then brought here to the US by religious groups who did not believe in the practice of hybridization. So spelt has been grown in closed communities, in small volume, without the use of pesticides or other chemicals, for many years. Never cross-pollinized with other types of wheat.

It is a very high protein grain, red in color, and sweet in taste, if freshly milled. It makes an amazing bread, cake and cookie, if you know how to use it. One of the things that makes it so desirable is that for some reason, many folks who are made ill by regular wheat products can eat spelt with no ill effects. Spelt is NOT gluten-free. In fact, it is very high in natural gluten. But some folks who negatively react to wheat products are not actually allergic to the gluten, but some other factor in the wheat.

Since spelt is a specialty grain, grown in less quantity that the standard hard red wheat that is cusomarily used for most of the nation's wheat products, it is very expensive. But I have noticed that my spelt customers are some of the most loyal of the bunch, thrilled to have access to a yummy bread or cake or cookie that doesn't make them sick.

I think spelt has a hearty, rich flavor, and I love how it works in the breads I bake. My kids don't really care about the nutritional benefits. But Maggie and Patrick can each consume a loaf of spelt almond raisin rye in one afternoon. And Nora especially likes the spelt chocolate chip cookies. Rose likes the spelt seedy loaf and Thomas can consume several grilled cheese sandwiches made from spelt Milk and honey bread. All in one sitting!

But for today, at least, the mill is silent and the bakery is gathering dust until that pallet of grain arrives. I certainly hope the truck gets here after school so I have some young man and woman power to get it into our bakery! At least it isn't 95 degrees.

Happy New Year!

2011-09-27T20:29:00.004-05:00

At some point today I looked outside and the wind was toying with the leaves in a very Octobery fashion. The morning started out chilly, but before you know it, the temperatures rose and reminded me that even if we are officially in fall now, Texas is still purty warm.

But what was it that made the breeze and the leaves look like October? The color of the sky behind them? I don't know, but whatever it is, I like it. Fall is my very favorite season.

My grain shipment, all 2,500 lbs of it, was supposed to arrive yesterday so I could bake today.

It did not.

I had just enough spelt berries left to fulfill an order of apple raisin challah for a farmer's market customer. Tomorrow is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. A time to think about new beginnings, cast aside those regrets, say our sorries, and be thankful for forgiveness. A time to hope for sweetness to temper the inevitable bitterness that seems to seep into peoples' lives.

I have eaten challah, but never made it. My customer was thrilled to imagine challah made with freshly milled spelt, even if it wasn't kosher.

After a diligent search of several recipes, I felt very inspired. Almost in awe that bread has such an important part of our spiritual life: daily bread, the eucharist, a sweet hopeful symbol.

It was a joy to bake that bread. Unique, because instead of the usual list of different breads, the challah was the one and only star of the show (seeing as I was completely out of more grain). As it came together, I thought of the thousands of other women and men kneading and forming their challah, offering the gift of their hands to their loved ones, hoping for sweetness and joy.

The best reward for me was the review given by children, hungry after school, happy to demolish two loaves, regardless of the fact that it is not quite the right day! How in the world could we wait one more day??? And regardless of the fact that we are gentile thru and thru. "Great!" "Can I have some more?" Will you please make this bread every week?" "Mom, this is my new favorite!"

I guess I had better share the recipe with you. I hope some of you will give it a try. And to everyone, as we enter into a new season, may we all enjoy much sweetness.

Spelt Apple Raisin Challah

1 TBSP yeast

3 1/2 c. freshly milled spelt flour (or whatever you prefer to use)

1/4-1/2c warm water

3 lg eggs, plus 1 for glaze

1 1/2 tsp salt

1/4c oil

1/4c honey

Mix the warm water, yeast and 1/4 c of flour. Let yeast dissolve. You can do this in a bowl, by hand, but I used my Bosch mixer. Add eggs, salt, honey and oil and the 3 1/4 cups of flour. Mix together well. Continue to add flour, but tablespoon by tablespoon, so you don't make the dough too dense and dry. Knead until dough is satiny, bouncy and very stretchy.

Set dough aside, cover well with plastic wrap or a damp towel. Let rise for at least two hours or until double or triple. Punch down and let rise again. Divide dough into two or four pieces. Roll the dough out into a rectangular shape, nice and thin, aproximately 1/4 inch to 1/2 inch thick. The dough should be flexible and pliable. At this point, scatter chopped apples and raisins across the top of the dough, then fold it up lengthwise. Twist the long rope of fruity dough like a snake. I felt kind of like I was back at Kindergarten! Coil the dough into a spiral, starting in the center, then round and round to make a beautiful round loaf, tucking the end under and pinching to seal.

Cover the loaves and let rise until double. Brush an egg glaze over the loaves (egg, sucanat or sugar and a spoonful of water). Sprinkle raw sugar over the loaves and bake in a 325 degree oven until the loaves are golden brown and sound hollow when thumped. I had to cover mine with a bit of aluminum foil so the top wouldn't over-brown.

Even though the bread was made with 100% whole spelt, not even one little bit of white flour, it was tender, light, with an incredible crumb. I think we will have to make challah a Friday tradition in our house. YUM!

PS for you bakers out there, I know this is a rather brief, off the top of my head recipe. If it doesn't make sense, email me for more info and I will edit this post later. But there are several online sources to help you in your challah adventures and I hope you will give them a try!

Peace!

The Chicken Juice and Crispy Skin is the Best Part. If it is a grass-fed, non-chemical laden bird, that is...

2011-09-15T19:22:00.003-05:00

After a bit of cajoling and boundary making, we managed, all six of us, to sit down to table this evening.

I can't tell you what a relief it is to me to have all the kids sitting around the table with me.

Even though the weekend is ahead and we are all going separate directions, everything felt better with chattering kids sitting around the table with me.

Tomorrow is baking day, so we may eat nothing more than sliced bread with butter, but today I pulled a chicken out of the freezer, one we brought from the farm. I sliced up some sweet potatoes, grown by my dear dad, and opened a jar of canned green beans from friends in Virginia. I can remember the windy September day I canned them, just before coming on a getaway trip to Texas with my mom and sister last year.

Maybe there is no better comfort food than a roast chicken, served with homegrown veggies on the side along with some good bread.

All my problems are not solved, I still miss my friends and wonder when the farm will sell. But things don't feel quite so bleak after some sweet family time.

I am thinking that if all families made a point to sit down at the table on a regular basis, roast chicken or stir fried tofu or macaroni and cheese, we might be a few steps closer to world peace.

Thank you, God, for supper. (And most of all, for my kids.)

Showers of Blessing

2011-09-15T09:31:00.003-05:00

Crashing thunder, cracking lightning woke me in the wee hours this morning. Oppressive heat of the afternoon was replaced with cool wind and the smell of high desert rain, perhaps my favorite smell of all time.

Thunder continues and the rain pours down this morning and my skin soaks up the moisture. The trees in the yard are gently waving their uppermost branches, as if in a grateful dance of praise and worship, drinking in the gift. Water accumulates in low spots of the yard and I can't help but imagine the ducks from the farm and how they would love to splash and play. Perhaps the human duckies will want to splash and play once they get home from school. That is, if the water doesn't all evaporate by that time!

Can't wait to see all the high desert blooms that miraculously appear once they get a little drink. Phenomenal, really, the ability to hold on to life in a drought, yet summon up enough energy to bloom with the slightest of showers. Cenizo, the silvery barometer bush blooms a lovely lavender flower. Ocotillo, a crazy stick that reaches 8 feet tall, throws out green leaves and a gorgeous red flower on the top. The creosote casts her perfume for miles!

I think there is a message here for me, somewhere. Am feeling rather dry and bloomless right now. Tired of trying to figure out how to get the bakery going, how to be a good single mom, how to juggle two properties. How to navigate new relationships, missing my friends and all the old ways. I believe I will pray that God would give my soul a good watering. That he would show me what would cause me to feel refreshed so I could muster up a bloom. Perhaps sitting still and enjoying the smell, feel and sight of this rain is a good start.

Wednesday Morning

2011-09-14T07:53:00.003-05:00

Today I will try a new tactic.

It is a chilly morning, so I have wrapped myself up in the cozy prayer shawl Suzy made me and have sat myself out in the back to look at the pink western mountains, the clear blue sky and the solitary sunflower who is flashing a smile from her corner of the yard.

Busy town noises serenade me, the tap, rat-a-tat-tat of a jackhammer somewhere on the road project downtown. Cars pulling in to the doctor's office across the street. Beep, beep, beep, a big truck backing up somewhere, maybe near the jackhammer. Any minute now I expect to hear a train sound off as it enters the station.

Threaded throughout all those small town noises, a dog barks, several birds sing, at least 5 or 6 that I can distinguish. They are happy to hang out in our backyard in the pecan trees, the oak, and especially the figs. When the Turners built this home, there was no hospital nearby. No golf course. No doctor's office. No neighbors. At least no neighbors right next door. He was a professor at the University three blocks or so up the hill. She was an artist. He is now deceased, and has an animal science complex named after him. She is in a retirement home. I have never met them, but I can tell why they chose this spot for their home. Things have built up over the last almost sixty years; even so, I still have a lovely view of the mountains that surround our little town.

I have felt blocked in my blog writing. I used to love to get the kids to bed and then sit down with the computer to wrap up my day. Either sitting on the deck or in my room, windows open, nighttime sounds permeating our little world. Nowadays, Maggie and Patrick have cross country training, every evening of the week. They leave at 6:45, bike over the the highschool, then head to the hills with Coach and the team. Sweaty, flushed, exclaiming over the four miles or the six miles or the ice baths, they get in close to 9:00. We are having a hard time getting supper done together and figuring out how to read our book out loud at the end of the day.

Consequently blog writing, or any writing for the matter, falls to the wayside as we try to make bedtime happen in such a busy household.

Someone asked me if I missed the farm or regretted our move.

Without hesitation, I said, no, not one bit. Of course I miss our friends, but, no, not the farm.

Well. I have no regrets. I love our new home and the view and our town. It amazes me that the bakery is getting such a great reception and I am beyond grateful for our new customers and especially grateful to have a business that provides for our family that allows me to do what I love to do. Living in town in a smaller house with a big backyard, near enough to schools to walk is such a relief I can't begin to tell you. We can manage here. I am thrilled to be near family. This Friday we will head to Austin to celebrate my sister's birthday with her and her son and Mom and Daddy.

But maybe I miss the farm more than I wish to admit to myself. Maybe I am afraid that if I admit that I miss the farm, I will think that I made a mistake. Or maybe if I admit that I miss the farm it will open my heart up to yet another wave of grief.

Alright, already.

I do miss the farm.

I watched the full moon rise through the notch in the mountains as my friend and I enjoyed our Sunday night picnic at the Post park in Marathon. We ate (yet again!) stuffed patty pan squash served on a bed of spaghetti squash, everything covered with a fresh tomato sauce with peppers and onions and garlic and eggplant and herbs. All locally grown, purchased at the farmers market from new friends. Plenty of freshly milled whole grain italian peasant bread. A glass of red wine. Mason jars of cool water. Ducks splashed in the creek, evening birdsong echoed through the pecan trees, rustling cottonwood leaves made an overhead canopy. The evening sky metamorphosed, changing from clear blue to pink and orange and then black velvet. Warm dry air felt fresh.

I didn't miss the farm so much at that moment. We were surrounded by lovely nature, peaceful noises.

But when the days get busy and I forget to sit outside and listen to the whispering leaves there is an ache in my heart and I realize how easy it was to experience my world when I had to go outside and milk Coco every morning and every evening. I don't want to go back. I love it here. My heart has been in this region since I was around 12 years old. So even though I have no regrets and am very happy to be back home, I might as well be honest with myself and admit that I miss the farm so much it hurts. I miss the willow tree and how she changes throughout the seasons. I miss the sound of the wind barreling down our valley along the top of the ridge, just like a train rushing down the tracks. I miss watching the sheep make their way to the barn in the evening light, lambs skipping and leaping. I miss mucking the barn and homeschooling and family all together, planting and harvesting.

And if Philip were still alive, I guess we would probably still be there, somehow figuring out how to work things out on the farm. I miss him.

A monarch butterfly just flew past me and headed to the fig tree. Or maybe over the the pink and yellow lantana bush directly beyond. Tabby is sprawled on a warm spot on the patio, seemingly relaxed, but I know she is keeping her eyes open for lizards. A gentle breeze stirs the leaves and the sun makes her way up the sky, reminding me that I won't need the prayer shawl for too much longer. I have to get up and get to work anyway. Bills await my attention. I am still trying to find new distributors to provide my quality ingredients for the bakery.

PS Later today someone is bring me a load of manure from her farm down the road. I made a request via Freecycle. We have several other offers, I just have to go and get it. Some waste hay as well!!! Thomas and Patrick have laid out cardboard from moving boxes and compost we started a month ago to make a couple of garden beds. We might not get a fall garden growing, but at least we will be ready for spring. Lasagna gardening, here we come!

Bakery-Still Trying to Find Our New Normal

2011-09-09T19:50:00.003-05:00

Last Friday morning the electrician finished wiring in my equipment in the sunroom and I got to work milling spelt and wheat and rye and making all the usual breads in my new bakery. My muscles felt so relieved to be back to work rolling out pizza crusts and kneading dough.

So much of life is about being afraid, but doing it anyway.

I was afraid that I was a fool for thinking that I could pick up my bakery and move it to Texas and start up the business again. Afraid that if I baked a bunch of bread, people might taste it and say,"Gross, I am never going to buy her stuff."

Interestingly enough, on September 1, last week, Texas passed the Cottage Food bill, HB81. Home bakeries became a legal enterprise in the state of Texas.

I looked into other jobs, am still keeping my eyes open for the time being, but felt like I had to give the bakery a go. I have enough inventory for the time being. The know-how, the pots and pans and now the nice wiring. Everytime we went to the farmer's market I felt off, being a consumer instead of producer.

So, in faith, with hope and a healthy bit of fear, I got up at 4am, started the coffee, turned on the mill and got to grinding.

A new friend found out I was opening the bakery, and sent out an email to her local friends, who emailed their friends. The week before I had been placing business cards and flyers out and about. Before the afternoon was over, I had several customers come to our door who were excited about our breads, had several samples of fresh out of the oven loaves, and walked out with purchases. The next morning, Mom and Daddy went with me to set up at the farmer's market, and pretty much everything was sold out by noon. Except for one loaf of Milk and Honey bread I saved for the kids. Who were pretty darn happy to see real bread happening in our house again.

I was tired. But very thankful. And excited to be able to give my business a decent try here in our new town.

I am now baking on Tuesdays and Fridays for customer pickup at our house, and then market on most Saturdays.

PS Just a strange aside. Grief pops up at the weirdest moments. I wasn't going to mention this, but thought that maybe someone out there needs to know that they are not alone. I was typing labels in the late night. Needed to change address and name, as we are Taste and See Bakery, instead of Full Circle Farm-Taste and See. And now our location is Alpine, Texas instead of Troutville, Virginia.

Everytime I typed in Alpine, I felt a twinge of pain. As if my fingers were telling me, over and over again that we had moved on from one chapter of our life. I wanted to sob, but didn't because I thought that I was being overly sentimental. But I missed my friends deeply, and felt very alone at that moment.

But as we met new friends and customers that evening and next morning, I felt hope surge sweetly and was even more confident that we were in the right place. Funny how it can be so mixed together: sad, happy, confidence and fear, grief and hope.

There are so many things I wish I could share with you. Like how we joined some new friends and an old one on Labor Day and went to our favorite National Park, Big Bend, and swam in the Rio Grande, and bathed in mud, and climbed up a giant sand dune. And how the mornings tint the mountains pink, and the moon in the evenings is bright and tonight almost full. And how I rode bikes with kids to the Homecoming Parade last night and watched cheerleaders cheer and saw Patrick win a spirit award for the best camoflauge outfit (does that surprise you?). And how the evenings have been downright cold and the days mild and dry and little by little we are recognizing new friends in the stores and on the streets. And how there are people here who are thrilled about the idea of freshly milled spelt and whole wheat and for now I have a job, doing what I love.

But I still have bread to wrap up and I promised Nora I would help her with something. So more later. I am trying to figure out the new normal and my new blog posting slot in the day. My fingers miss typing.

Peace!

Stuffed Patty Pan Squash

2011-09-01T21:10:00.002-05:00

Patty pan squash are those funky little summer squash that are occasionally white, sometimes green and gold, scalloped edges, sort of like alien spaceships.

They are available at our farmer's market.

Tonight the kids asked if I really like those squash since we have eaten them once a week for dinner. I told them that indeed I do, as it is especially wonderful to eat vegetables grown by yourself, friends or acquaintances and that is one of the vegetables that grows around here.

It was so pleasant sitting outside with Mom and Daddy this evening, sun setting beyond the mountains. Mom exclaiming and grabbing her camera. Daddy remembering old Yankees baseball games. Nora swinging on the big swing since she is not much into steak. Or patty pan squash. Or broccoli.

The other night I prepared the squash as a main dish with ground lamb from the farm. Tonight the squash was the side and a wonderful side at that.

Here is how I fixed it: Slice off a teeny portion of the bottom so it will sit flat in the pan. Then cut the top part of the squash off, like a lid. Scoop out the insides, leaving a nice shell. While I am slicing and scooping, I saute a minced onion in a fry pan with a little oil or butter or bacon grease. Then when the onion is tender, I add the chopped squash innards, a minced red pepper, garlic, some cilantro and cook until just tender. I preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Tonight when the veggies were just done, I added a beaten egg and some leftover bread crumbs. Mounded the stuffing in the hollowed out squash, added a piece of pepper jack cheese, made by Mennonite people who live in Mexico on the other side of the border (purchased on a quick trip to Ojinaga, Coahuila, Mexico the other day.) After the cheese, I put the squash lids back on, sprinkled everything with a bit of Redmond's Real Salt, then poured green salsa, just a bit, over everything, along with a bit of Mr. Roberts' cows' heavy cream, since I love cream so much. Gilding the lily squash?

I threw the squash in a medium hot oven and bicycled over to the park for Rose's Girl Scout meeting.

When the squash is tender and the sauce is bubbly, it is done. Ours got a little crispy around the edges because I visited with the ladies for a few extra minutes, but it still tasted GREAT!

Even the kids liked it. Except for Nora. But she doesn't count. When we made it as a main dish, I sauteed lamb with the onions. Added rice instead of bread crumbs. A couple of tomatoes. It was divine.

And the best part of that kind of meal is almost every ingredient was locally grown, or brought to Texas from our farm.

I hope you will try patty pan squash. It is such a fun meal. Looks beautiful on the platter and adapts to any ethnic cuisine. Basil, rosemary and oregano with tomatoes would be italian. Lamb with oregano, a pinch of cinnamon would be a nod to the middle east. Curry powder, raisins, almonds. Yum. Imaginative cooking sure is fun.

Seiko, my patty pan squash source, told me she would have a half dozen more waiting for me this Saturday. Look out kids! No telling what Mom will try next! But Nora, don't worry. I promise I won't fix any for your birthday supper tomorrow night.

Anybody Out There?

2011-08-31T22:21:00.004-05:00

Hi friends.

You know how it is. A few days turn into a few more days, a few weeks fly by and then you don't exactly know how to restart the conversation.

The move was pretty traumatic for me. We had much help, it was overwhelming. Have you ever felt so grateful it hurt? Pain was kind of the theme for me for a few weeks. Good and bad pain. Funny how grief does that to a person.

So I grieved leaving our farm and friends and animals and the mountains and cried myself to sleep for a few nights as we headed west.

Then our caravan made its way through Midland/Odessa and headed south. The hot, dry air seared my skin and felt like medicine. We laughed as dust devils swirled tumbleweeds across the long, flat highways.

All of a sudden a pulsing energy filled the vehicles.

We were headed home.

My friend Raymond pulled the big truck over in the middle of absolutely nowhere across the highway in front of a cinder block farmstand.

Coyanosa is the name of a little spot I suppose you could call a town, if you were extra generous. A sweet, Mexican lady spoke to me in Spanish and I was thrilled beyond delight.

We grabbed at least 20 canteloupe, picked fresh that morning. Peppers. Onions. Eggplant. Watermelon. Honeydew.

Said our muchas gracias, loaded up and continued south. Not too far down the road, majestic blue, craggy mountains appeared in the distance. The overwhelming scent of canteloupe comforted me, just as did the sight of those familiar peaks, and I couldn't help but speed it up a little as we headed home.

It is hard to explain, but as we finished up the last hour of our several day drive, the pain of leaving completely washed away.

Having the children explore and exclaim "It's better than we imagined, Mom!" was the cream in my coffee, and you loyal readers know how much I love cream in my coffee. Picking handfuls of figs from our tree and sitting down in the backyard, looking out to the mountains was even better than I imagined.

I had taken a look through the house back in April, but never saw all the cabinets, closets, pantries and shelves. Can you believe all our books fit? And so did all my kitchen stuff! And bakery equipment?

So we made it here safely, unloaded, unpacked, and have been settling in for the last month.

There have been tough moments and sometimes I miss my friends so badly it hurts me physically. And sometimes grief over Philip's death gets mixed in and hurts us all deeply.

All that said, I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that being here in Alpine is good. It is so very good.

Can you believe that in one month's time, I have been with my parents on three occasions? Twice here and once in their house. And they will be here tomorrow to help us celebrate Nora's birthday. Quick little visits. But my mom and I almost giggle when it is time to say goodbye instead of cry because we know it won't be that long til it is time for the next one. Not too long ago each visit ended with tears and heaviness and wonder how long, six months? Two years?

And can I tell you what a relief it is to be living in town? I was a bit afraid that the move to town would be beyond difficult for us.

It is not.

We can walk to church. And do.

Everyone rides bikes to school. I bought a bike for myself yesterday and no longer have to steal, I mean borrow Maggie's to accompany the little girls to their school. I can ride my bike to the computer class I am taking down at the library.

After all this time, I have finally learned how to cut and paste and do a spreadsheet! How in the world did I run a business without being able to do a simple spreadsheet?

It is hot here in Alpine, but the temperatures are consistently 10-15 degrees cooler than the rest of the state, with low humidity and gentle breezes. The drought has been hard on the land, and wild fires have ravaged thousands of acres. Even so, every morning as Rose and I bike the couple of miles over to the middle school and the sun rises and the mountains glow pink and the big sky looks like baby blanket blue, I marvel at the beauty that won my heart over thirty years ago and has caused it to live in longing all this time. And I feel like we have finally come home.

I guess I need to write another post about food and farmer's market and new friends and hikes and dog walking and hot springs and flash floods and Lost Mine Trail.

But in case I get distracted with real life, I have to tell you two very important things!

I knew we would probably be able to purchase raw goat's milk at the farmer's market, but imagine my delight to meet Mr. Roberts at our market who sells his daughter's Jersey cow milk, cream and butter. All raw. That discovery was one of the sweetest gifts I have received in a very long time. I was already thrilled about our new home and new town and all those other goodies, but to be able to get raw cow's milk? A few blocks from our home? I think I might have scared that poor farmer, I was probably crying with joy.

Second important thing: Electricians were here today, and should finish wiring in my bakery equipment tomorrow. New business cards have been made and I have been delivering them around the four little towns in our vicinity.

OK, third important thing, kids are doing great in school. Making friends. Maggie and Patrick are participating in Cross Country, Maggie, JV, Patrick varsity. They both placed in the meet in Pecos last week. Maggie, first place! I am proud of them.

And fourth, Brownie and Blackie and Tabby made the move here just fine and seem to have happily adapted to town life. They love to sleep on our Saltillo tile floors, nice and cool, and I enjoy walking them from our house up to the University campus and up the hills where I get a fabulous view of the sunset at evening.

Thank you everyone for your encouraging notes, prayers, kind words. I have missed you blogger friends a lot, but wondered if I would ever get back to writing, since I was so worn out from the last year and a half or so. But here I am, so I guess we are back in business. I have so many things to tell you. You are going to love Alpine and the amazing Big Bend region, here in the mountainous chihuahan desert. I have no idea how this farm blog is evolving, but I guess we will find out together.

PS coming up, the southwest version of stuffed patty pan squash.

New Home

2011-07-20T20:27:00.003-05:00

So Coco and Mary are now with the Gildays. Even as I sobbed, I was thankful, seeing the glee on the faces of two little children who have loved Coco for a very long time.

Little Chelsea hugged my sweaty self and told me that they would take good care of Coco for me.

Bea came over and brought me lunch and packed boxes of dishes. Rebecca came over and helped me pick some potatoes. It was so hot. I am glad to see most of the harvest put down in the basement. Maybe not a years' worth, but enough to enjoy many meals plus more to plant.

After the Gilday's took Coco and Mary home, they called and asked about lambs. So they returned and the kids each picked out a little ram lamb and a little ewe lamb and David and caught them and loaded them up. Maureen brought over some red wine and I paused to sit and eat cheese and share a glass. We shared stories and I can say that I am very happy and beyond satisfied, knowing where Coco and Mary are tonight.

I am inside in the cool this evening, avoiding the humidity and mosquitoes. Thunder threatened but but rain never reached the farm. Cabinets are empty. Pots and pans and dishes and spices and glasses and jars are packed. Clothes are in piles on the floor. I guess I should be packing, but I think I will go to bed and try again tomorrow.

PS When I checked the Alpine forecast and saw that once again the temperatures there are lower than here, it made me chuckle. We may be going to Texas, but at least the mountains and arid air will feel wonderful after this period of heat and humidity. Nonetheless, I am trying to soak up every bit of green while we have it.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

2011-07-19T18:59:00.003-05:00

So, as I just posted, my heart hurts for some really good reasons.

Another good reason my heart is hurting, in a good way, is that I was just realizing that we will be able to share birthdays with my parents, starting next week, with Rose, my dad and Nora, all in a matter of a very short time, God willing. And not only that, but we will also hope to be able to celebrate my Mom's birthday with her, before you know it.

I don't think I realized how very homesick I have been. It struck me when the electrician from Texas called about going to check out our new place. "I'm fixin' to head over to the house," he drawled, and my heart warmed as I heard my mother tongue.

But this afternoon I got another phone call that has just about broken my heart.

One of our milk share folks is purchasing Coco and Mary and they will be picking the girls up tomorrow afternoon.

There is nothing that pleases me more than knowing Coco will be going to this sweet, dear family. Their two children have sat and watched me squat and milk Coco for a couple of years. They haven't ever owned a cow before, but they are reading all the books and articles and have built fencing and a shelter and are willing to do the hard work of learning to milk a cow because they love her milk so much.

There are many people who would have been happy to purchase Coco, but there is a deep joy knowing she is going to this sweet family. It brings to mind my first days and months with Coco, getting to know her, being so afraid of this monster big animal, when all I had ever milked in my life was a tiny little goat.

I remember cold winter days, squatting in the barn, nervous as could be, terrified she would kick me, wondering if I would ever get the hang of it, singing every Spanish love song I remembered from back in the day, and countless choruses of "I've Been Working on the Railroad." I could have hobbled her or tied her up, but was desperate to develop a mutual understanding and respect.

Little by little we got to know each other and she patiently let me know when I got it right and when I got things all wrong. Well. Sometimes. And sometimes she instructed me with a kick in the knee and a knocked over bucket of milk.

Coco taught me that she didn't like being milked in a stanchion, no matter how nicely built by friends. She preferred a bucket of grain, by the backdoor or out in the grass. So I adjusted.

I learned a lot about relationships with Coco as we shared the seasons, the bitter 8 degree days of winter when I buried my nose in her hay-scented flank and steam rose from the bucket. The early days of spring as we watched the willows awaken and little lambs leap in celery green fields. We counted baby chicks and watched fireflies and peepers serenaded us in summertime, and I had to be careful as her fly-swatter tail switched back and forth.

Fall was especially sweet as we noticed the different arc of the setting and rising sun over hayfields, causing the changing colors on the ridge to glow like polished gold and bronze.

Because of Coco I learned about the path of the moon during different seasons. Before milking I had no need to be outside at the same time every morning and every evening. I noticed the smell of the wind was different when storms came in from the Arctic and when they came in from the Atlantic.

Because of Coco I learned greater endurance and responsibility than I had ever known in my life. Milking Coco forced me to be still and listen. Milking Coco forced me to get up when I thought I might stay in bed for the rest of my life.

Coco provided income for our family. She provided the best milk, butter, cream, cheese, and yogurt I have ever enjoyed in my whole life. She provided a commodity we were able to share when we had little else to give. She provided beautiful babies, future mamas and a steer who provided us with almost two years worth of meat for our family.

I have been trying to ignore Coco for the last few weeks. Sure, I speak to her, and say hello and occasionally toss her a carrot or a cabbage.

But I haven't been milking, and that is partially because I have been directing my energies into preparing the farm to sell.

But I think it is primarily because I have been trying to wean myself from her.

I sit here on the deck, listening to the cicadas and the crickets and type in the dusk as the blue haze rolls into our valley. Tears cloud my eyes and sobs rack my shoulders as I look over and see Coco sweetly lick her daughter Mary and nuzzle Ribeye, her pal, tail swishing elegantly. Brownie tries to comfort me, but how can I be comforted when I will have to say goodbye to my dear friend tomorrow?

Never will I forget Coco. Her beautiful face, her dear frame, her spunky spirit. I am a better person because of her. I am a healthier person because of her, and not just because of the nutritious elexir she gave us. My children are healthier because of her. She has given so many people the gift of herself, it is truly amazing.

I love her and will miss her greatly.

Dear Coco,
Thank you for sharing yourself with me. Thank you for letting me milk you. Thank you for teaching me to sit still. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of witnessing magic, seeing your milk and cream metamorphosis into butter and cups of coffee and yogurt with vanilla and maple syrup mozzarella, ice cream and hot chocolate and thousands of loaves of milk and honey bread.

Did you ever realize how many peoples' lives you touched, dear Coco? You gave little children confidence as they squatted beside me and learned how to squeeze out streams of milk. You gave us pleasure, just by watching you live out your "cowness".

Never have I witnessed anything more beautiful or grace-filled than when I have seen you frolic with freedom and joy in a fresh spring-green pasture after the long winter. Your udder has warmed my hands. You have been my personal fitness program. You have taught me how to make up after we have had our squabbles.

It pains me greatly to have to say goodbye, but you know that when Philip died, we had to adjust, and sending you to live with our friends is one of the biggest for me. I trust that as we grow to appreciate our new home and surroundings and new friends you will learn to love your new home and new friends.

Please be a kind teacher and be gentle on your new owners, as they have a very good heart and already love you dearly. Be quick to forgive them as they make their own sets of mistakes.

I love you, Coco. I hope that somehow, in your bovine way, you will fondly remember me and our times together. Hopefully our paths will cross again sometime, and if not on this earth, then in some spectacular pasture in heaven someday.

Your human friend forever,
Ginger

There Certainly Are a Lot of Good People in the World.

2011-07-19T18:29:00.002-05:00

My heart is hurting right now for so many reasons, it is hard to bear.

Some of the reasons are so sweet, I feel unworthy, thinking of the generosity of others. If I even attempted to recount the ways people have served us, I would never be able to finish. But recently, Nancy brought over a meal that fed us for two days, and she even brought fruit and cookies which blessed my children and even more myself, as we have been working so hard to prepare for our move.

I can't even begin to list all the things Larry has done to help me get our house ready to put on the market. And Tim and his dad have been my handymen, taking what seemed to me an overwhelmingly long punch list, turning it into a done list. Door knobs that were loose, linoleum patchwork that impressed us all, well, why bother even trying to list their good deeds either. The men from our church who spent several hours a few Saturdays ago tackling projects, the men from a church I don't even know who helped with other lists. Other friends have helped patch and paint and scrub and haul trash. This morning Jason's dad was out mowing by 7:30 and Serge and James shortly after, and what would have taken me over a day was finished before 11am.

It is hard on my pride to receive their help. But the task set before me is larger than one person and miraculously, we have seen teamwork come into place again and again. When I couldn't manage one more trip into town, Stewart came through with all the right ingredients I was missing. When my printer acted like it was posessed, she took care of the troubleshooting. Other friends shared garden veggies and meals and entertainment and rides.

How does one person receive such abundant grace, generosity and love?

I am so humbled and overwhelmed by it all that I don't quite know how to take it all in, except to weep and say, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, dear Lord for blessing us with so many relationships." I pray that somehow they will each find the generous hand of God extended to them through the generosity of others, and sooner rather than later.

Yes, there are many troubles in the world and they are big troubles and painful troubles. There are mean people and wicked people and downright horrid things happening in the world. But I just want to pause for a moment and think of all the people who have decided to intentionally do their part to make the world a better place. Even in the middle of my grief and loss and fears of the new, you bring me hope and joy and a peace that surpasses all understanding. I am so proud of you. And eternally grateful.

I Only Make Spelt Chocolate Baby Brioche for People I REALLY Love!

2011-07-16T18:39:00.004-05:00

Grains were milled. Floors were swept. Recipes taken from brain and put onto computer. Dough was started and sage was picked.

Our last bread baking class on the farm happened today. There were nine or ten of us around the table, stirring, watching gluten develop, kneading and forming loaves. "No, not that way, this way, gently."

I could barely get started, I got so emotional. Thankfully, working dough is a good rote exercise for me, and somehow I got kicked into teaching mode.

Yesterday the girls picked lovely flowers, Queen Anne's Lace, wild sweet pea, Blackeyed Susans. They decorated the kitchen window and made me feel at rest.

We discussed the benefits of freshly milled grains. Talked about spelt. The difference between tender breads made with milk, fat and eggs compared to chewy loaves made with yeast, wheat and water.

We probably added a little more chocolate than the recipe called for to the chocolate brioche, just because. We ate the bread in hunks right as it came out of the oven, even though you really ought to let it sit for a half hour to finish cooking. We laughed and hugged and shared stories, and then sat out on the deck in the late afternoon and ate way more bread than necesssary with a little glass of wine.

Someone said that as we broke open a loaf of hot bread and passed around bites it was a bit like taking communion in church.

I think that the essence that is shared by these folks who come out for cooking classes is indeed very much like that most deeply spiritual of rituals, communion. Is it any wonder that Christ chose bread and wine to represent himself and help us to remember?

As I contemplate all these folks, such dear ones to me, some friends from church, some friends from market, some previously strangers to me, but drawn in by love of food, all of it is so sweet to me. Some people talk about how they try to keep their faith separate and private, but to me, it is all so intertwined, I can't even begin to figure out how I could do that.

Breaking bread with those folks, Christians, non-christians, farmers, non farmers, mothers, dads, single folks, kids, sharing our lives together along with our stories gives me great joy and makes me thank God for the gift of food and the ability to create wonderful things.

I hate writing all this down, because I think it must sound kind of silly. Oh well. I guess if you hadn't figured out what a sentimental silly I am by now, you haven't been reading this blog for very long.

It is hard to believe that this chapter of our lives is drawing to an end so quickly. It hurts to think that after pouring out so much of ourselves into this farm and valley, and having so much of the valley poured into us, that we will move. Thankfully past experiences have proven to me that bonds forged over a hot stove last long term, and somehow manage to stretch over many states, right Holly? Or Lee? Remember all those early days of learning to bake freshly milled grains together back in Ft Worth?

So in a few days we will load up the bakery and other less important belongings and head to Texas where hopefully there will be other sweet folks who will share in the communion of our bread around the table. And I guess that opening ourselves up to love opens us up to pain of separation.

I feel so lucky that we have been blessed with such dear relationships. And I have been blessed with a livelihood that gives me such satisfaction. I love my job.

PS We are still in the middle of a nice cool spell. Heavy clouds hang overhead and at 8pm it is still bright outside. I am on the deck. Chicago is blaring inside and the evening birds are singing along. Crickets, too. Peepers, not so much. I just saw a goldfinch fly from the cherry tree to the willow. Coco, Mary and Ribeye are grazing up by the road. The sheep must be behind the barn. The air is still, not a breeze. I could almost use a sweater. Now I see two goldfinches, diving and swooping, playing in the branches of the tart cherry tree.

PPS Even in the middle of all my sentimentality, I sure do miss you, Mom and Daddy. I would be very homesick if I didn't know I was going to see you in a week. And that makes ALL of it worth the while.

The Fireflies are Almost Done With Their Dance

2011-07-14T20:08:00.003-05:00

After days of sultry heat, we were thrilled to awaken to chilly weather.

This evening the air feels moist and cool and makes me think I will need a blanket in bed tonight. The sunset was beautiful this evening and Maggie and I enjoyed a walk together up the driveway to place the real estate sign. We both had to pause in the middle of the walk up the lawn when the fragrance from some sweet flower snuck up on us.

Milkweed? They are in full bloom. Such a sweet weed. I wonder if they are to blame for the snuffly noses?

After we placed the sign, I felt a bit strange. We have been listed for a little bit, but it was hard for me to place the sign. Makes it ever so real.

So we soak up Virginia and our sweet life here on the farm, knowing that big adventures await for us to the west. And I try to grab every moment I can to smell the flowers, feel the breeze, and watch the few remaining fireflies as they dance.

Time is Flying

2011-07-12T22:13:00.002-05:00

High 90's on the farm today.

I weedeated this morning. Now I think I truly understand what people meant when I was a kid and they said we were growing like ragweed.

Thomas dug up some more potatoes for me and I am very thankful to see the pile growing. They will make quite a few meals for us in Texas hopefully.

I think if everyone grew potatoes we would live in world peace.

It is such a miracle, really.

You cut up a potato, stick it in the ground. Cover it up with lots of hay mulch, and before you know it, little teeny piece of potato grew into a big pot of mashed.

Of all the things we have grown in the garden, potatoes give me more pleasure than any of them.

The other day I had to celebrate something and grated up the very first ones and fried them extra crispy for me and Rachel.

It was a true celebration.

Made me feel good.

Tonight we didn't eat potatoes. But I certainly felt good after the feast we enjoyed. I had to look over some business and was too distracted to cook. Maggie roasted a chicken, sauteed green beans and baked eggplant for our dinner. It was divine. She and Thomas and I ate with our fingers out on the deck and talked about the hard parts of leaving our wonderful farm and the wonderful parts of moving into a sweet small town, ringed by our favorite mountains. We talked about all the work that has gone into making this house our home and how our family is suited for fixing up older homes and making them special.

After dinner, we all washed up, I said goodnights to the little girls and enjoyed the cool of the western breeze on the deck. The moon is waxing and almost full. Shrouded by clouds. Fireflies are almost gone. Here we are in mid-July. I think the damson plums are ripe. Maybe the kids will pick some tomorrow.

Be Still and Know

2011-07-10T18:29:00.004-05:00

Please, someone, don't let me go so many days in between blog posts.

I have so many thoughts and sights and sounds and smells built up, I feel like exploding and consequently don't know where to begin.

So, instead of trying to catch up on all the momentous "lasts" that are pounding us each and every day, I will tell you that this evening there is a haze across our valley. It is hot, in the mid-80's (don't mock me, Mom, it really did feel hot!). I have my window open in my upstairs bedroom, but downstairs, the a/c is on and I can hear it hum. Mr. Bill, the white duck is waddling through the west pasture, all by himself. Usually he is marching around the farm with the trio of Rouen ducks. I wonder why he is all by his lonesome? He is quacking softly.

The whirr of summer insects is the background noise to the conversation of various songbirds. Mr. Bill walks back toward the pond and quacks.

Where are those other ducks? Ribeye, the steer, and Coco and Mary munch on grass. A lamb baas for his mama. The faint sound of kid noise wafts in and I wonder if the two-legged ones are playing in the barn?

The willow tree by the pond doesn't look like a young sylvan teenager this evening. She is still. Sober. Green, but not the green of April.

Mr. Bill walks by the red bottom gate again, muttering. Heading west, up the duck path.

Where are those other ducks?

Okay, so I walked out to the deck with computer and saw the ducks, slowly trailing behind old Mr. Bill. He finally convinced them to move. They wander along, grazing the nice green grass. Directly in front of me is a 3/4 full moon, sliding along the ridge, heading to the west.

Makes me think that it is incomprehensible that in a couple of weeks we, too, will be sliding to the west.

How is that possible?

The little girls are playing in the creek with Enat and Emily and Yabsera, visiting from Waxhaw, NC. Rose and Emily, so tall this summer, have been friends since they were babies in strollers. Before Julie even dreamed of trips to Ethiopia. Before we even held Nora in our arms. Allen and Thomas are playing computer games in the dining room. Maggie chats with a friend on the phone and Patrick is at Boy Scout camp.

Julie is reading a book. I sit and type and watch the swallows dip and soar. And rejoice in the lovely blue of the graceful little birds and wonder at the way all creation gives praise to its Creator, simply by being itself.

What a concept. Makes me think of this morning's Psalms from the Daily Office, which I would share with you, if I cared to get up from my sweet little table out here on the deck. But I guess I will stay put and hope you open up the Psalms yourself occasionally. Even if you are not a believer, there are some amazing pieces of poetry in the book of Psalms that let you know that David spent some time sitting still outside, appreciating the world that surrounded him.

Kids return to the house, Rose has a tiny bowl of wineberries which she picked in our woods. We have only a few of the bushes on our property. There were quite a few along the road, but the other day the County used some of our tax money to send along a truck to spray them and all the wildflowers with poisons. Which is another blog post, I guess. Enough said about that. Children were glad to take their handful of berries from the organic woods inside to devour as an evening snack. Dogs came out here to sit near me on the deck and to pant, exhausted by their run by the creek.

I should be weedeating or mowing, but am happy to watch the moon and the swallows, feeling the moist evening air fall on my skin, as little girl piano music acccompanies crickets and tree frogs and the sound of kids and spoons and cereal bowls. ( They tell me that the sweet tart taste of the wineberries with Crispix is like a dream it is so good.)

Sundays are a good time to be still. I have a feeling that the weedeating and mowing will be waiting for us bright and early in the morning.

PS We have a contract on a house in Texas. A place to move. They will let us rent until we sell the farm, which we hope will happen before the contract runs out Jan. 31st. We have some friends coming to caretake the farm and they will have their own stories to share. I am so grateful things are lining up. Now, all we need is some way for the person who is dying to buy this farm to find out about it and come up with enough money! The days are running together just like the stripes of the tigers chasing their tails as they fought over little Sambo's birthday clothes. It is tempting to work around the clock. But I strive to remember that while there is a time for work, there is also a time to pause. Am glad, because if not, I wouldn't be sitting on my deck right now, looking at our dear little red-winged blackbird, sitting on the post by the edge of the pond.

PPS It is still hazy, but no longer hot. The cool of evening is upon us and the moon has slid along the ridge to the right of me. Sun is down and the perfume of our pansies makes it a very sweet place to sit.

This Is It

2011-07-05T20:37:00.006-05:00

We swept the house. Ran many loads of beach laundry. Prepared the leg of lamb and the chicken and picked the squash to roast and infused the mint and simmered the custards for the many homemade icecreams. Ground almonds for the wineberry tart. Kneaded the dough for bread. Mowed the grass and picked the wildflowers.

Friends drove up and the thunderstorm rolled in, chasing us off the deck and onto the living room furniture where we sprawled and I shared where we are on our journey to sell the farm and buy a new home in Texas and good friends listened. Skies cleared, more piles of food arrived. A dear one brought fennel from her garden and green beans. I didn't plant beans this year and had never eaten fennel, so was thoroughly delighted.

Another friend brought her decadent broccoli salad. And wine. The clan (McDermotts, not the Klan) brought brats and asparagus and dip and chips. And beer. Some other friends brought guacamole with herbs and tomatoes from their urban garden. Rachel brought hot dogs (hurray for the kids!). Others brought KFC and Rice Crispie treats (Double hurray for the kids!) Another brought homemade mac and cheese (tarragon is the secret) and a couple of varieties of homemade icecream. There was watermelon. And canteloupe. And bean dip. And cucumber salad. And pound cake. And coleslaw. And homemade bread.

What a lucky pot.

We stretched out over the deck and the porch and the lawn and ate and ate and ate. Myriads of conversations were had. Toddlers toddled. Soccer game took place on the lawn with little kids and teenagers and girlfriends and dads.

At one point I wanted to run away to my room and cry because I was overwhelmed with so many intense emotions.

Six years ago a bunch of interns from our church came out to help us when Philip was in the hospital in a coma. Afterwards, we invited them all out to the farm for a cookout to say thank you and to help them celebrate our Independence. That was when we met Sean. Which is the beginning of a very long and precious story, which you will already partly know if you have followed this blog from the beginning.

Back then the kids were all elementary age and younger. Nora was just two years old. Sean was a mere 19 years old.

This year Thomas is 18, Patrick is 15 and a half, Nora is seven, Sean is a sweet married young man, expecting his first baby before too long. I got to bless that sweet baby as I put my hands on Julie's belly.

Looking out on our dear friends, gathered about the tables, enjoying the bounty of early summertime food, part of it produced on our farm and friends' farms, mixed in with fun town food, church friends, farm friends, a variety of philosophies and political leanings, all savoring the sounds of the evening and the feel of the cool breeze on our skin, I thought, "This is it."

Relationships cultivated over the last several years, bonded together, literally and figuratively, with blood, sweat and tears.

This is it.

These lives, all mashed together with flavors and senses, explosions and sparkly dances, a little moonshine and bullfrogs.

This is it.

And the wonder that a couple of years ago Philip was in the middle of it all and now he isn't and now we are leaving and as I pushed back my red bandana and hugged a little neck, I realized, this is it. The end of a wonderful run of 4th of July celebrations.

We are saying goodbye to a chapter. A beautiful, amazing and horribly wonderful chapter that we would have never experienced had we never had to say goodbye to our dearest New Jersey friends back in 2005.

The kids asked me if we could fire off fireworks in Alpine.

I told them that this year there is a burn ban and that it was dangerous to light any sort of fires, but who knows what awaits us in 2012?

Today I wondered if it was healthy to have so many family traditions, since they are all having to be turned upside down after Philip's death and we try so hard to figure out our new family ways.

But deep inside, I love our many traditions, and am very thankful to remember Philip's sparkler ballet, and ever-increasingly outrageous antics each 4th of July. The joy he took in setting off the most amazing of firework displays. The way he would improvise a megaphone and play like he was auctioning off peoples' vehicles lining our driveway like a used car lot. I love that he loved the way I like to prepare a feast for our friends and he supported the stress and chaos that came with inviting everybody we knew and all their friends and friends' friends to join in the fun.

We miss him a lot.

And the thought of leaving all these dear ones here in Virginia hurts pretty much more than anything I ever dreamed I would ever feel.

But in the background of all the chaos, is a little note of excitement, hanging in the air like the fragrance I smelled as I went out to mow this evening. A new life, a new, updated version of all our family traditions as we evolve and shift. With Mom and Daddy near enough to be a part of things. In our favorite part of the state of Texas. With the smell of creosote and sage brush and the distant howl of a coyote, and who knows what kind of new flavors that will greet us.

Know anyone who wants to buy a beautiful farm here in the lovely Catawba valley?

We Dropped Off the Face of the Earth, Almost

2011-07-03T20:45:00.002-05:00

After we processed sixty-nine chickens, said farewell to the Woolleys and went about madly on the farm, trying to get the wash done and the shopping finished and the gear loaded up, we piled into the truck, dogs included, and headed to our second favorite national park: Cape Lookout National Seashore.

It seemed foolish and crazy to dash to the beach when we have so very much to do. And yet we were exhausted, emotionally done in, and needed a rest. So we gathered our bedding and pots and pans and food and icechests and sunscreen and drove through the night to take the ferry to Portsmouth Island and Long Point cabins. Rustic fishing cabins with bunkbeds, a sink and stove and shower and not much else.

What else does one need if you have a cooler full of farm food, the sound behind you and the roaring surf of the Atlantic Ocean in front of you?

Will try to post soon. Wish to write about our last chicken processing day, the Woolley visit, the beach, the sunrises and sunsets and the sand that sparkled in the starry night. But now we are home and washing bedding and getting ready for our 6th Fourth of July party and preparing for the Open House this weekend, and thinking about what to pack and take to Texas and what can stay here.

More later.
PS Our favorite National Park is Big Bend National Park. Funny, but the two have much in common...

It is officially summer.

2011-06-22T21:58:00.003-05:00

Kathryn and Max and Mary arrived this afternoon.

All is well.

She and I ran into town to Lowes to pick up house stuff, then to Krogers for the necessary rations. Kids built dams and played in the creek and threw mud.

We prepared a couple of Farmer Dayna's delicious chickens and made a big salad and while dinner cooked we walked three laps around the hay field. Patrick and Max worked on the creek sculpture. Fred ran and leaped in the field and splashed in the creek. Nora swung on the rope swing. Rose played with the fellows. Maggie and Mary told secrets on the bridge (well, I don't really know what they were talking about, but that sounds more poetic.) We all ate dinner together on the deck. Thomas washed the dishes. Kathryn and I sat out on the front porch with our glasses of wine to talk about important things like God and literature and family and imperfection and waited for the whipporwills while I rocked Nora and the rest of the kids set up their tents and pallets outside. The whipporwills never came, but we had a wonderful moment of peace and joy.

Isn't it wonderful how across the street neighbors from all those years ago in New Jersey are still some of our dearest friends? The children used to be toddlers. Now they are teenagers, getting ready to acquire their learner's permits. We have weathered many storms. Now we celebrate this last of summers on the farm and wonder about the new Texas adventures that await us.

All is well when Kathryn and the kids and Fred are here. I am glad.

My Very Favorite Thing

2011-06-21T20:39:00.003-05:00

Tonight we had the biggest thunderstorm I have seen in ages.

The ominous blue sky turned to black, the wind whipped the trees on the ridge. The willow tossed her hair in anger and the hot sticky afternoon metamorphosed into electrical evening.

Crack. Boom. Flash.

KABANG!

We opened the doors, rushed from the back deck to the front porch, all of a sudden little differences set aside as we looked on, astonished at lightening that seemed to strike all around us.

Hail was thrown down from heaven, like little candies and trinkets thrown in a parade. The children ran out and grabbed it and aimed for me and each other. They ran around shouting "Hail!" and I laughed and asked them to quit cussing.

We ate our dinner on the deck, getting pelted occasionally with the rain. The kids begged to take our dinner inside, but I refused, forcing us to enjoy the meteorological excitement.

The storm subsided about the time I picked up tonight's chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird. It was so good, we had to read just one more. Now the peepers peep, the tree frogs whir, the bullfrog sends out his invitation and it is time to go to bed.

I don't know what I like more than an extended early summer thunderstorm.

What a nice treat.

Well, maybe a nice summer thunderstorm and dinner with all my children, sitting around the table, reading a good book together.

I think that is my very favorite thing in all the whole world.

Some Days Are Harder Than Others, But We Will Get Through Them Together

2011-06-19T15:58:00.002-05:00

I didn't know how we would manage today, being Father's Day.

When we move to Texas, it will be a bit easier, maybe, because we will go celebrate it with my dad.

But now, it still feels wobbly for us, as we don't quite know what to do with ourselves and all the emotions. Even almost a year and a half past the day of Philip's death.

So today we slept in, with plans of going in the church late. It is kind of hard to think about going to church and seeing all the other kids and dads celebrating, but we were going to go anyway. But then we drove out the driveway and found Diamond, Rose's kitty, dead by the side of the road.

So we turned around. Patrick retrieved her body. Thomas and he set to work, digging a hole underneath the willow tree. The girls got a baby doll blanket to wrap her in.

We wept greatly.

Nora and Maggie picked flowers for the grave. We said a prayer together. We buried Rose's little kitty. We wept greatly, as those of you who have ever grieved before know, little griefs can get all tangled up with bigger griefs.

Diamond was a beautiful barn cat. Rose wanted to bring Diamond with us to Texas. I suggested that if she could domesticate her kitty to house living, I would be happy for Diamond to join us. Diamond was glossy black with a white diamond on her forehead.

As the children took turns gently tossing dirt and rose petals onto the stilled form, I asked them to share their favorite memories. Patrick remembered when Diamond caught and killed a rabbit larger than herself and consumed it ravenously. Rose remembered when she saw Diamond leaf from a fence post and catch a bird in midair. I thanked God for all the mice and moles she caught, protecting our animals' feed supply.

It was completely unexpected.

Strange, but that impromptu funeral gave us a safe place to express our grief over Father's Day, here at home, all together. I prayed that God would especially comfort Rose in the loss of her pet, and her dream of taking Diamond with us to Texas. And that God would comfort each of us, as we learn to navigate things like moves and another Father's Day without a daddy in our home.

I prayed that God would let the kids know how loved they are today, and how He can be their loving father, even though it really isn't the same as having a flesh and blood daddy who can read to you and play with you and teach you and take you places and give you a great big hug.

Then Rose decorated the grave with flowers and Patrick hoisted a big stone for the marker. And we climbed into the Suburban and all the kids went to see a movie and Rose and I went out to lunch and had Thai food.

I will miss seeing glossy Diamond hunt up on the hill behind the stream. And seeing the girls bathe her, and put silly collars on her attempting to train her like in "My Fair Lady."

I Love My Dad

2011-06-19T15:40:00.002-05:00

I do love my dad so much. He taught us really important lessons, like "If you run out of money, it doesn't matter, just go make some more." And "If you want to see if a goat can get through a fence, just throw a bucket of water on it. If the water can get through, so can the goat."

He taught me how to sharpen a knife. Even though I'm still not very good at it. And he taught me how to butcher. He taught me that even in hard times, if we all work together, we'll get through. He and mom taught me that standing around the piano singing with friends was one of my favorite things. He taught me that watering the garden in the cool of the evening is good therapy, no matter what all the gardening books say about watering in the morning.

Daddy taught me how to make Tacos Chihuahua. He taught me how to milk goats. He taught me that raising a majority of our own food was a very satisfying thing.

Daddy is generous with hugs. Generous with homegrown stories. Especially "Flunky the Monkey and Tarzan the Hairy-Legged Apeman."

Lots of other things too.

I am thankful for you, Daddy. So glad you are my dad. Glad we are going to be moving to Texas to be near you, so you can teach my kids other kinds of things, like fishing and hunting and how to hunt deer and make the best fried fish and pico de gallo in the world. I look forward to singing a special with you in church and sharing a few Sunday dinners with you and Mom and the kids and having the kids mow and weed eat for you every once in awhile.

Love you so much, Daddy. Happy Father's Day.

All In a Day's Work

2011-06-16T21:10:00.002-05:00

We are working daily towards marketing our farm. Cleaning. Packing. Organizing. Carrying stuff to Goodwill. Craigslisting items and animals that need to move on.

In the middle of it all, Patrick brought in a basket of peaches. While hanging out clothes on the line, I picked a bunch of rhubarb. In between weed-eating, I picked some yellow squash. We are right in the early stages of good summertime eating.

Today we had several calls on goats, thank the Lord! A nice couple of gentlemen came over to purchase a couple of "weedeaters" this afternoon. They wanted females, but ours were already spoken for. I recommended they get a couple of the bucklings and castrate them. They thought that was a great idea, if I performed the operation.

Since I didn't have ANYTHING else to do, and since I really wanted Maggie to sell those goats, I ran to the house to get the elastrator and scalpel. Kids caught kids. One of them (the buckling)was small enough to band. The other was not. Nora ran out of the house, reminding me that it was 4:25 and time to head to Pinkerton's to pick up my car from the shop. Patrick and Maggie held the little fellow and in a matter of seconds, the procedure was fait accompli. Only teeny drops of blood were shed. Goats were loaded and after a quick scrub we headed to town.

As supper cooked, another couple of folks came over to pick up a goat. They are down the road neighbors and already purchased Angel and her baby. They wanted to buy Portia from Maggie.

Portia was our first real animal on the farm. We learned so much with her. We watched her give birth. We drank her milk and made pounds and pounds of cheese and yogurt from her creamy gift. Maggie and Rose learned to milk on her. We learned much about society and pecking order, watching her become the empress of our goat herd.

I couldn't watch her go.

I stayed inside, took care of our dinner and cried.

What a gift that she and her sweet Little Daylight doeling are going to such a wonderful home. It definitely sweetens the pot.

PS We enjoyed a marvelous dinner on the deck in the cool of the evening. Roasted eggplant, sweet potatoes, sauteed yellow squash and a roasted Mike Guzo hen. Pineapple for dessert. Laughter. Just the six of us. Yesterday we scarfed down lasagna from Laura, and it was so good. But tonight, I was thankful to cook a meal. And to hear at least part of the kids quite happy to devour eggplant and squash!

Sunday Evening

2011-06-12T19:31:00.002-05:00

Earlier this evening Rose and I went down the bottom field to fetch Coco, Ribeye and Mary. We enjoyed seeing the wild daylilies and hovering dragon flies. The dragon flies are glossy black with almost glow in the dark cobalt blue accents. The sound of gurgling brook was music to our ears. We laughed as Coco, Ribeye and Mary kicked up their heels and frolicked back to the barn. They ran along the bank of the stream, crushing wild mint beneath their hooves, perfuming our path back home.

Rose and I talked about how thankful we are for our time here on the farm. We wondered what sights and sounds and smells await us in Southwest Texas. What an adventure we have ahead of us!

Crack, Boom

2011-06-11T19:39:00.002-05:00

Crack, boom, the thunderstorm rolls into the valley, giving brief, urgent warning that fat raindrops are headed our way.

Which is a very nice thing for our fields and garden.

Blackie runs to the bathroom to hide in the tub.

I run to the front porch to catch the show.

Whipporwills Sing My Favorite Song.

2011-06-10T19:29:00.002-05:00

After pondering the Psalms and my cup of coffee on the front porch I put Rose and her friend Anita in charge of making pancakes for breakfast and I took care of some tasks on the computer. I decided I just couldn't work inside all day long so I got Patrick to open up gates and I headed out to the lower field to bush hog.

In my pajamas, since I forgot to get around to getting dressed. And they were much cooler than regular clothes, anyway.

I thought I might take the tractor around the field a time or two, then get back to the house to work on the inside.

But I got sucked in.

There is nothing like the satisfaction of cutting a big field of grass. Whisk, whisk, whisk, the thigh high grasses fall down in symmetry.

The noise of the diesel drowned out most other noises, so I was left alone with my thoughts. Clouds of dragon flies and damsel flies darted around the creek bank. Birds darted hither and yonder in the ever widening path of exposed seeds and bugs. I saw several varieties of butterflies enjoying their mid-morning snack. Wild day lilies decorate the verdant steam.

These fields are filled with so many memories.

I remember the time we cut part of the field with the bush hog, then raked up hay like russian peasants, just for the experience. It was wonderful. So peaceful and quiet, as we worked in unison, all the family lined up with rakes in the cool evening air, Nora and Rose laughing and playing in the creek. That hay was the best quality of hay we ever harvested, but oh, how hard to figure out how to get it up into the loft!

I remember many times we were loading bales of hay with friends, working by moonlight, trying to beat the rain. The mingled smell of sweat and clover and fescue, the taste of dust and salt.

I suppose some of you must get exasperated with my sentimental dribble, but here I am, a sentimental dribble!

I was having a great time, mowing that field when all of a sudden I was gripped with sobs. Sad that I probably won't be mowing that field ever again. It wasn't a desperate sad. I am getting quite excited about the big move and our new life. But the grief and the loss of all of this life, here, our friends, our dreams and visions, is a very real thing, so I try to allow myself the freedom to sob for a minute or two if necessary.

Then Patrick came out to the pasture wondering if I would like to trade places with him, taking over his job of painting the deck.

Nope.

I smirked indulgently to myself, enjoying my seniority on the tractor, knowing that Patrick would get his turn soon enough, as we have MANY more acres to be mowed.

I guess I should have let him have his turn because a few minutes later, dear friend Lynne and her mom (visiting from Florida) drove up the driveway. I sheepishly greeted them, sweaty off the tractor, still clad in pajamas at noon! But they didn't mind, since I gave them fresh cherries and goat cheese and green tea.

The rest of the day I spent indoors packing up boxes of photos. Talk about sentimental... I was glad to be able to smile at many of the memories, camping out with Philip during our dating years. Our wedding and honeymoon, newborn babies, time in Japan, trips to many other states and countries. So much. I threw out the 50 pounds of negatives we will never ever need. The envelopes which encased so many memories. I thought I might place those photos in albums, but I didn't. I stuck them in liquor boxes, taped them up and didn't cry once. But I sort of wanted to. Taping up many other chapters of our life as I worked on wrapping up the current one.

The kids enjoyed their summer day. They played volleyball, they played in the garden hose, they played games and ate watermelon and baked cookies and folded clothes and carried boxes and washed dishes and gathered eggs and played in the barn and chased goats. It was terribly hot, but they found ways to manage. And Patrick got his turn on the tractor and finished up that bottom field. It smells so sweet!

I didn't have it in me to cook a real meal, so I took one of Mike Guzo's freedom ranger chickens (a special breed of chicken) and seasoned it up, put it in a 475 degree oven and pulled it out when golden brown. We got out paper plates, carrots, fresh red pepper and ranch dressing, and ate our dinner standing up around the kitchen.

Oh, how I wish everyone of my readers had a chance to eat a real, home grown, free-range, happy chicken. There is not much in life more satisfying, when you are hungry, anyway.

Oh!

I am sitting outside on my front porch, listening to the peepers and other evening sounds. The first whipporwill is singing down the road! Crickets are chirping, the tree frogs are twirring. Evening birds are calling. A car in the distance heads home. Ribeye munches grass and occasionally snorts. Ducks waddle up, continuing their quacky conversation. Nora turns the pages of her book as she reads in the dying light, sitting near me on the porch. Portia calls to her kids, time for bed. Guineas settle down. Ewe baas.

And the whipporwill calls out. And I feel loved.

Alchemy

2011-06-08T18:56:00.003-05:00

These days I am spending more time readying the house and farm for sale instead of farming.

Mary is doing most of the cow milking (that would be Coco's baby.) The goat babies are doing most of the goat milking. I milk Coco once or twice a week to get enough milk for our family to drink.

Back in the day, I would make cheese weekly. It is one of my favorite things to do. But these days we are mostly buying from the store or from other farmers. A lot of life is about letting go, and so I have been letting go of things that used to work for us and now do not.

At times I allow myself to grieve those things. On the good days I remind myself that life is all about seasons and constant change and evolution and growth and I tell myself it is good to take a break. Cheese making was one of those things I had to let go. I just couldn't keep up with the different tasks of dairying on top of other daily chores.

But today we finally managed to fit in a class for some friends who had been trying to get together for some time. I pulled out the recipes that fellow farmer and blogger from Brambleberry Farm had collaborated on a few years ago. Got out the ingredients and pure white goat's milk and creamy ivory cow's milk, pulled out the thermometers and sterilized the stainless steel pans.

We milled wheat to make flour for the homemade pizza crusts. We added the rennet and watched liquid milk turn into curd. It truly is magical. We compared the mozzarella made with Coco's raw, full cream milk to the mozz made from pasteurized milk from the store. We heated whey. We minced garlic and thyme and zested lemons for the chevre. Bea picked cherries from the tree and we pitted them and added them to the fromage blanc to make a sweet dessert cheese good for tarts. Everyone got to take a turn rolling out the pizza dough.

The house was filled with sounds of laughter as a group of individuals found their place on the farm. Outdoors was hot and humid, but we enjoyed the a/c and the magic of different personalities working together to create something. Herbs from the garden. Onions and peppers. A smidgen of capers and who knows what else turned into platters of crispy pizza, and plates of olives and goat cheese and crackers. We gave thanks for the magic of cheese making, for Coco and Portia, LauraLee and the other goat whose name I have forgotten. Those wonderful dairy animals give us such amazing milk.

Tonight I sit on the front porch in the hazy humid evening air. The sheep are enjoying the newly bushhogged west field (thanks, Patrick!). Meat chickens and goats graze in the middle little field. Dishes are washed. Big kids play on their Ipods and Nora and Rose play ball on the front lawn in between moments of severe sisterly negotiation. Rose asked me how I could type while not looking. Who wants to look at a keyboard when I can watch sheep and kids and goats and chickens and smoky blue hills?

The sun is down but it is still light outside. I smell sweet mown grass. Evening birds sing their goodnight song. Blackie reclines on the porch, keeping an ever vigilant eye open for predators. A very subtle breeze carries the echo of the snort of grazing cattle across the road. I think I heard one burp! The ducks waddle up from the pond and the new lambs frisk and frolic one last time before bedtime.

It has been a long day. The last day of school for the kids. A year completed. Not only did they survive, but the kids thrived. I guess we could have gone out to celebrate but we were too tired. It is nice to be still and quiet. Perhaps tomorrow we will go to town to buy an ice cream and rejoice. Lots of awards. So many it would take paragraphs to list them! Math, science, history and reading. Each child with his or her unique strengths. I am proud of their independent spirits and ability to self-start and be motivated to study, read, learn and do their homework. I think that they each made the most out of the lot they were dealt this year and I am very proud of them.

So now the swallows are coming in to the eaves of the house and the barn to go to bed. I can almost feel the dew fall upon me. A ewe cries out for her lamb. Ducks are mumbling about something in the front yard. I keep hoping to hear a whipporwill, but not yet. The little May lamb tries to confront a February lamb. The giant February lamb put the little fellow in his place, firmly, but gently.

All common things, but transformed into something magical. Milk, rennet, friends, school, kids, farm animals, green grass, blue mountains, loud peepers.

I hope you would pause in the middle of your hustle and bustle and impossibly busy schedule to be still and look and listen and smell and feel and taste. It is a pretty magical world in which we live. And one that beckons us to join in the creativity.

Good night.

Tuesday Morning

2011-06-07T06:25:00.002-05:00

Silvery silken mist rolled into our valley this morning.

Cool, damp air compelled me to wrap up in a fuzzy throw for my morning ritual on the front porch. If I were a birder, I would be able to identify and name the dozens of songs in my ear. Since I am not, I chose to enjoy them as a symphony orchestra.

When I read this morning's Psalms, I felt a bit distracted. Psalm 97 and 99 were part of the morning's reading. I scurried through them, then rather petulantly told the Lord that those particular psalms by David were alright. They were good, speaking of the heavens and the earth and God's glory and justice and all that good stuff. But what I really wanted was something that spoke to me. That let me know God was thinking about me. Right now. On my front porch. In my exhausted state.

I felt a little bit like a brat, being so demanding. But deep down, I sensed God giving me a hug. An understanding one. Not a "Would you please think of someone else besides yourself this morning," one.

I went ahead and read the evening's Psalm since I knew I wouldn't get to it later.

Psalm 94.

Many times in the past I have asked God to remind me he loves me. I know that sounds rather presumptuous, but I do it anyway. Most every time something comes along, right in my language, that makes me feel loved. But I figured that the God of the Universe is certainly not bound to my childish requests, so I began to read the Psalm almost apathetically.

Then I got to verse 11. "The LORD knows our human thoughts, how like a puff of wind they are."

I laughed. Yep. He's joking with me.

Then v. 14 came along. "For the LORD will not abandon his people, nor will he forsake his own."

No matter how tired or overwhelmed, he will not abandon me in mid-project. I felt like he was sitting down beside me, letting me know he knows it is hard to be a single mom, working on trying to sell the farm, to take care of the kids, to make lots of hard decisions.

Then v. 17 and 18 came along. "If the LORD had not come to my help, I should soon have dwelt in the land of silence. As often as I said, "My foot has slipped," your love, O LORD, upheld me."

I thought about the last year and a half. How well taken care of we have been. I remembered the countless times I cried out in pain and he lifted me up. I thought about the moments of joy and hope and life that have been born out of God's wonderful love for us, and then thought about how my petulant little request was so speedily answered in the reading of this Psalm

THEN, I got to verse 19. "When many cares fill my mind, your consolations cheer my soul." Here's the NIV version: "When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul." And the Living Bible paraphrase: "When doubts filled my mind, your comfort gave me renewed hope and cheer."

Right exactly where I am. Today. On my front porch, on my farm, in Virginia. Those verses were all about me. And I did feel renewed hope and cheer. Verse 22 summed it up for me, and I was thankful for David writing it down all those years ago, maybe on his front porch? In his kingdom? In Jerusalem? "But the LORD has become my stronghold, and my God the rock of my trust."

Now to work. Coco is waiting for me. I need to go milk so we will have milk for tomorrow's coffee and for the cheesemaking class. Many tasks wait for my attentions, and I feel better getting to them, after such a sweet start to the day.

Life's a Bowl of Cherries

2011-06-05T23:08:00.004-05:00

Early this morning I sat outside on the front porch with the Daily Office and the ubiquitous coffee. The bird song made for a lovely chorus to accompany my worship here at home. I received the sermon preached to me in a little devotional given me by my dear friend, Dixie. Jesus Calling, by Sarah Young. This morning the little paragraph was challenging me to look toward God for perfection, and not myself.

What a relief, when I thought about the ideals I set for myself in parenting and farming and home preparation. Part of me wanted to be frantic about my to-do list. The painting! The packing! The scrubbing!

Then I looked out and saw the cherry tree, brilliant jewels hanging ripe, ready to be consumed.

I have no time to pick cherries.

After drinking my coffee and saying my prayers, I knew we needed to pause and pick some cherries.

It was an act of worship and trust.

I drove the suburban underneath the ancient tree and Christine and I climbed up, buckets in hand. We made certain to eat as many as possible, then plunked handfuls of the precious commodity into our stainless steel buckets, cool breeze blowing in our hair, carrying to our ears the occasional bleat of a lamb looking for her mama.

At some point, I began to weep. I knew this was probably the last cherry picking we would experience on this farm.

I felt such grief and loss. Most of the time Philip didn't help us pick cherries, but he got out there occasionally. Mostly it would be me and my gal pals and all the kids, scrambling about, cherry-stained lips, knees and fingers and toes. He sure did enjoy the cherry tarts and the cherry brandy and the cherry pies.

Isn't it interesting that picking cherries would stir such sensory feelings of grief?

After gathering three gallons or so, we got back to more "responsible" work. I put on my crying music (Eva Cassidy) and cried a little and smiled a little, and we got much done.

I hope to make a giant jar of cherry brandy to take down to Texas for winter enjoyment. (Using last year's damson plum brandy recipe, see post sometime late July, 2010.) And we plan to pit the rest and put them in the freezer for future cherry almond tarts, our very favorite, better than any other dessert in the whole wide world. If I forget, someone out there, remind me to post that recipe. It really is the best thing we have ever tasted. Unless you happen to have some wineberries and then we would have to concur that wineberry almond tart is the best dessert in the whole world.

Life on this precious farm has been so good for me. We did put in many hours of long and productive labor. But in the middle of it all we found cherries! And even the tears were sweet.

Tomorrow Christine has to return to Texas. Argh. I miss her already. But how thankful I am for her help. And for the shining trim. And clean bathroom. And all the other tasks that would otherwise have never gotten accomplished. We are a great team. Too bad Terri couldn't make it. Boy, Mom and Daddy, you sure did train us up to work hard together!

Speaking of work hard together, later I will have to write about the brilliant job the kids have done on painting the deck. They are amazing. More on them later. But now, to bed. To dream of painting and other fun things. Like cherry tart.

I hope you find your sweet cherry tree in the middle of life's circumstances.

Treats

2011-06-02T20:48:00.002-05:00

It is hard to believe how hot it has been when the evenings are so fresh and cool. On evenings like tonight I think we will eat outside forevermore.

We did enjoy eating our dinner on the deck this evening. Stir-fried chinese cabbage with mushrooms, onions, garlic, miso paste and soy sauce. Oh, and bacon.

The biggest treat was having Christine here from Austin. Baby sister come to lend a hand as we continue working on preparing the farm to sell and preparing our stuff to move.

She oohed and aahed as the frog symphony orchestra tuned up to perform our dinner music.

She exclaimed in delight at the fireflies that decorated our ridge and driveway and willow tree.

She swept out Rachel's cabin and we put fresh sheets on the bed.

I am so thankful to have sisters. Miss them both. Glad to have one of them here for a long weekend.

Heat Wave

2011-06-01T20:04:00.001-05:00

We are in the middle of a heat wave. Shimmering haze rises and threatens to choke the life out of unsuspecting humans. Animals know what to do in this weather. They find a shady spot and lie down.

More of the Same Economy

2011-05-31T21:14:00.002-05:00

Rose is sick with a fever and was up through the night last night.

Thomas is still recuperating for his surgery last week.

After a big day yesterday of packing up books and winter clothes and doing loads and loads of laundry, I woke up tired and weepy.

Larry came over this afternoon to help finish up the deck construction. What a woman is my dearest friend Lynne who doesn't hold it against her husband to be over here working on my chore list instead of her own...

Mike showed up again.!.

They grabbed Patrick and before you know it, the deck project was completed. At least until we get it pressure washed and painted. Thomas was well enough to haul household trash and Goodwill bags out for me, then he began a pot of mashed potatoes. Extra big pot of mashed potatoes. I pulled out thawed out pork chops from the fridge for our supper. I figured that the kids have been working so hard, I wanted to fix them a nice meal, and we were blessed by a gift of the chops from the Depret-G's the other day. I grabbed a jar of green beans from the basement, a gift from another farmer friend that we canned last summer.

I turned around, and there was the Wilborne family, here to finish up a chore in the upstairs bathroom. Giant hugs were shared and a chicken was pulled out of the fridge. A chicken gifted to us by Mike on Saturday. A Freedom-ranger, raised and processed by him and some other friends.

Before you know it, the trim was up in the hallway, the bathroom shower was finished and we were all eating a delicious meal out on the deck in the cool evening air.

This morning I felt so empty, it seemed I had absolutely nothing to give, not to my family, to my friends, to God or to myself.

I prayed with a couple of friends for some encouragement and light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes it feels like that crucial moment in natural childbirth called transition. The pain of labor is so hard, I remember feeling like I couldn't endure another moment. The midwife told me that no matter how I felt like couldn't do it, the truth was that I was doing it, and there was a baby being born, and sure enough, the pain was productive and about the time I realized I couldn't go on, there was a baby in my arms.

This evening, as I looked at the beautiful new deck railing and the lovely new ceiling and trim and the working shower, I felt encouraged. And then, as the food was ready to set out on the table, I realized I had something to give. Ironically, it was something that was given to me!

Pork chops from Stewart, raised by another farmer in the area. Chicken raised and processed by Mike, an amazingly generous gift, if you have ever raised a chick into a several pound bird and put it into kitchen-ready state! Potatoes cooked by Thomas. Green beans seeded and grown and picked by another farmer friend last summer. Cool air, replacing the stagnant, oppressive heat of the afternoon.

Just for a moment, I think I caught a glimpse of something rather magical. Something out of nothing. A miracle? Tired friends, tired kids, tired me, all sitting around the table, way later than dinner time. But it was good.

And I am grateful.

God's Economy

2011-05-31T20:48:00.003-05:00

Saturday we had a workday.

As I look around the farm, all I see are things that have been neglected the last couple of years. When I began to make the bakery a full-time job, certain things had to be set aside. Even before Philip died. When Philip died, even more things had to be set aside. The chicken fencing that worked well for a couple of seasons ceased to work.

With eyes fixed on the goal of taking care of kids and working to provide sufficient income for our family, I turned my eyes away from non-working chicken fence.

Same with goat fencing.

And big garden.

And weed maintenance.

And house maintenance.

Don't get me wrong. We have had countless people help with endless tasks. But a farm and an old farmhouse require constant maintenance and I have been very frustrated by my inability to take care of it all.

At times I berate myself for not managing things more efficiently. Then I ask myself which thing should I give up to get those tasks done? Reading to the children? Sitting down to an occasional family dinner? Having a few moments in the morning and the evening to be still and listen?

So Saturday morning, Larry and the Lee's came over and we set our mind to the task. The kids and I gathered trash and accumulated junk from all over the farm. Old tires that we inherited with the farm. Blown about bits of this and that. Detritus that maybe at some point in time had a purpose, but no longer serves. We loaded it all up and Patrick and Larry took it to the dump. Paul tackled alcatraz. I mean the old fence that was long ago set up to be temporary and kind of became permanently ugly. It never really served its purpose of keeping the chickens kept in their yard. Well, maybe it did for a few weeks. But like many other things in life, we had to let it go, to tend to other more pressing matters, and the weeds grew around it, the wire tangled up, and whew, it looked terrible.

By twelve-thirty, trash was hauled, fence was down and we sat ourselves down to sandwiches and cold drinks.

By one, the next crew arrived, the Depret-G's, Kari, the other Patrick and former milk customer Mike and his friend.

We put Larry and Paul's monster weedeaters to good use. Kari painted the intern cabin and the living room ceiling. Not only did Maggie D. contribute a homemade from scratch chocolate cake, she joined our Maggie and Rose and Nora in painting cabin door and fence and lots of other little tasks. Rose and Serge and Larry took down the old, not to code part of the deck. With Patrick on tractor, the young men loaded up the metal fencing to the metal pile and the wood stuff to the giant bonfire. We mulched. Larry did some work on the driveway and cleared off part of the old manure pile with the skid steer (my new favorite tool!, wish I had one!!!) Mike and Rick moved some manure, and helped with repurposing boards into a new life as deck pickets.

It was a long hard day. We sat down to eat homemade beans, pico de gallo and tacos chihuahua (thanks to the Depret-G's for the happy pork!) very late that evening, cool air embracing our sweet chat on the deck.

At times I felt embarrassed to have people helping us with tasks that show how behind I am. It is humiliating at times to need help. But not a soul made me feel judged or condemned.

They made me feel loved. At least it appeared that they were having a good time getting to work together alongside our family, readying our farm for another owner.

Have you ever noticed how occasionally life makes you feel like a total failure when you can't meet your own expectations? There is so much more to be done.

And yet, in surrendering my pride, receiving the gift of friendship, love and generous help from friends, there is satisfaction and joy, which somehow compensates for all the unfinished, impossible, larger than life goals I set for myself in the past few years.

It was a very good day.

Day of Rest

2011-05-29T20:20:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow I will have to tell you about yesterday.

But now, I will tell you about today. After so much work the last few days, we needed an adventure. After church, the truck headed south towards Floyd. Rhododendrons decorated the side of the winding mountain roads. We landed at a Mexican restaurant and enjoyed a feast. Afterwards we strolled down the street, looking for a cup of coffee. My cell phone rang. It was Lynne!

We opted to head back for the truck and enjoy coffee at Chez Florin.

What a treat. Tired, lazy people lounged around in the screened in porch on their part of Bent Mountain, listening to Spott the hound bay after some kind of critters down by the stream. We visited our former chickens, now living in what they probably think is paradise: the world's most beautiful chicken coop, designed by Larry.

There is not much I like better than hanging with my friends on a Sunday afternoon, shoes off, sprawled with kids hanging on one side of me or the other.

At some point, the afternoon disappeared and turned into early evening and they invited us in to dine at Tai Pei. Kids and I followed Florins over the mountain and back into town. We rolled down the windows and cranked up the radio. The children didn't even cringe when I sang aloud to 80's music. Heady perfume of honeysuckle thickly scented our drive.

After supper we drove home, up and over our mountain, with the windows still down. The moist green air was so filled with honeysuckle I could almost drink it. So sweet. When we turned onto our road, we met with freshly mown hay fields. The cut grass was like men's cologne. Fireflies floated in the thick, fragrant evening air and I thought about how lucky we are to get to experience all these sensations.

Now I hear hundreds of frogs, singing in the night. Cool still air is like a shawl, with only a slight breeze stirring. How can such a quiet evening be so musical? There are two bullfrogs, one on the east side of the pond, the other a bit up the creek. The females are not far off. I can hear their twang, like a rubber band strung across a cardboard shoe box. Peepers echo all around me. There are some kind of twirring frogs, and a chirruping one. Several other notes I cannot identify. Fireflies light up the ridge in a magical display, like something out of a fairy story. The smell of honeysuckle occasionally drifts over to me, like a gift. Black velvet sky is not as dark as the ridge, with a scattering of stars. No thunder tonight. No lightening at the moment. Just thick and heady late May evening, redolent with life. Kids in bed reading, thankful to have a day off tomorrow. Blackie and Brownie are at my feet, wondering what I am doing, sitting out here on the deck with the computer.

So tomorrow I will have to tell you about yesterday. But as for now, I think I will enjoy today. I hope you get a chance to enjoy your today, today. Good night!

Life

2011-05-26T20:19:00.003-05:00

They are coming!

After working on some chores, the girls and I headed out to check on Mama Duck. She was hissing in a different tone this evening.

Sure enough, we heard faint sounds of "Peep! Peep! Peep!"

One little duckling was hatched out. It looked nearly dead, but I think it was just traumatized from the exertion of getting out of the shell. Another duckling had beak sticking out of the shell, peeping like mad. Yet another was tap, tap, tapping on its shell, making it rock back and forth. Just like real human babies, they look a lot better some time after the birthing process.

We wanted to stick around and watch the whole show. Maggie ran to the house and grabbed Patrick to join us. But after several minutes of absolutely no change, we got tired and headed back to our chores. Mama Duck was thankful for our boredom.

Due to the extreme amounts of rain, the bottom part of our big garden has been flooded for some time. Since I haven't planted much, the weeds have taken over. I was about to send Patrick for the weedeater when the light bulb went off in my head.

We have living weedeaters!

All of a sudden, I saw the value of those goats. Maggie herded them over to the garden, and she, Rose, Patrick and I fenced in our garlic and onions. Nobody touched the potatoes so we put on some more hay mulch and left them alone.

I wish you could have seen the herd attack the yellow dock! They were amazing!

As I watched, I wondered how long it would take for the crew to clean up the plot.

Then I heard the baaa of one of the lambs.

I grabbed Patrick and we went to herd the flock over to the garden, with the help of a couple of friends who dropped by (thanks, Mike and Lex!).

So now we are wagering on how many days it takes for those guys to weed the garden. Isn't organic living wonderful? ( just so they don't figure out how to knock down our fence and eat up all that beautiful garlic and the onions!)

Late May in Virginia is a lovely time. All is sweet and moist and green and lush. I think if you stuck a lamp post into the soil it would grow.

Fresh

2011-05-24T18:38:00.002-05:00

The air is fresh this evening.

My to-do list is very long, but an old friend came in from out of state, so after pushing very hard this morning, we took a picnic up the Andy Lane trail down the road. What a gift to stride through woods, alongside rushing creeks, wildflowers and greenery everywhere.

We caught up, prayed together, ate our Subway sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies, and inhaled and exhaled.

It was good.

We were sprinkled upon, but not poured upon.

Some Bhutanese guys were waiting at the top of the driveway for me, looking to buy a goat (they didn't, the babies were two months too small.) We walked out to see animals, and in limited English, had a great chat.

The kids got home and my internal list was screaming to work inside.

The outdoors won.

Fresh air, nice and cool, gentle breeze, compelled every single one of our family to head outside to work on chores. We mowed, planted, mulched, took care of animals, weed-eated.

I heated up leftover pizza for the kids and now they are playing ball on the front lawn. I am due to milk Coco in a few minutes.

The air is so fresh I think I might not be able to stand it. When outside I see the cherries on the tree, beginning to blush. The peaches are like 10 year olds, not quite there yet, but growing so very much every day, you know you will turn around and they will be ready to fulfill their destiny (A lawyer, I wonder, as I think of one particular 10 yr old girl I know? A pie, as I survey our little tree on the backside of the milking parlor?) The weeds. Well. Do we have to talk about the weeds?

I was wondering, as I weed eated (or would that be weed-ate?) if I wished I were like a weed. They are so hardy. They require very little to survive. Even in the harshest conditions they thrive. A few even produce pretty little blossoms.

But as I whacked, and later yanked a few by hand, I decided that I didn't really want to be like a weed. They don't have many friends. I would like to have more people like me, sad to say!!!

Well, the voices outdoors are happy, kids, guineas, peepers, hens. I had better go now, and start readying kids for bath before they turn into howling coyotes!

PS mama duck is still sitting behind the old antique window, leaning against the tractor shed. I guess this is rather morbid thinking, but the thought did cross my mind as I squatted and milked this morning, and saw the male ducks but not the mama, that it sure has been a long time since I had a nice meal of duck. One of my favorite foods. I wonder if we can raise the ducklings up quickly enough to make a meal or two???

Storm

2011-05-22T20:24:00.002-05:00

Sultry afternoon made me feel lazy. Hot and sticky, I laid around and read a novel. Nora and I hung out in the peaceful quiet.

As the kids returned home in the evening, I watched a thundercloud form on the top of our ridge. It boiled up like a pot of oatmeal, ready to spill over.

And sure enough, as the dark descended, lightening began to flash. I had to run out to the deck to watch. Lightening bugs flickered all through the woods. Soft thunder boomed in the distance and then a subtle breeze kicked up. All of a sudden the sticky sultry was gone and electric energy pulsed through the valley. Lightening and thunder rolled and bounced from every side and raindrops chased me to the front porch.

Have I ever mentioned that lightening storms are one of my favorite things?

Wind transformed from gentle breeze to slamming freight train. Raindrops grew into a downpour, slashing my window panes.

Lightening continues to decorate the farm, but the wind in the trees is louder than the thunder. I had better disconnect the computer and settle in for the evening. But I just had to mention how lovely our ridge is at the beginning of a storm. And how electrifying storms are a gift. Nora and I said a prayer for the hikers up above us on the Appalachian trail, hoping that they are safely tucked in a nice shelter during this storm. May they be granted safety and rest and a dry place to place their heads this stormy night.

Satisfaction-or Maybe Rod Stewart Should Hang Out On Our Farm Someday...

2011-05-21T19:35:00.003-05:00

Today we went to the farmer's market. I got up predawn to make up some of our cornbread, pancake and brownie mixes so that customers could taste and see that freshly milled whole grain mixes really are a wonderful thing.

As per normal, we scurried and hurried and gathered and rushed, heading out the door. Patrick milked as I showered. Thomas loaded. Maggie baked her freshly milled whole wheat chocolate chip cookies and Nora and Rose followed instructions.

We were on the road by 7 am.

We sold breads and granola and lamb, along with Maggie's cookies. Maggie gave Nora part of the proceeds to pay her for services rendered. The rest of her money she used to buy some very stylish aviator sunglasses at the Urban Gyspy.

Going to market requires hours of preparation, but there is something quite satisfying we receive in the social arena.

Kids walk around town and hang with friends. Thomas walks to the library. Patrick tends another market and has his own set of pals. We chat and sell, educate and barter. Then we head to the bank, very grateful to have money we can use to pay bills.

Sometimes I get home so tired I collapse in bed. Today I swept the downstairs and washed up the morning dishes. Answered a couple of phone calls while the kids enjoyed their library finds. A market farmer bartered me some organic herbs for bread. In the bundle was a nice bunch of thyme.

I discovered that a package of lamb chops had gotten thawed out. Not enough for the whole family. I gave the kids smoked trout (from Big Pine) and our freshly milled whole wheat peasant bread. With a side of Aah Organics quinoa banana bread. I pulled out the remaining three parsnips from Patchwork Farm from the veggie bin of my fridge. And a big ziploc bag of Randy Deel's shiitake mushrooms. Hmm.

What to go with that bottle of Malbec from Kimberly Eakin's Wine Gourmet? (Cheap, but good) The thyme inspired me to go french. After cooking for HOW many hours the last three days, you might assume that I would be happy to go to bed with a slice of bread. But all those friendly ingredients called out my name and as the kids enjoyed their movie, I enjoyed bruising the thyme between my fingers and rubbing it onto the lamb chops. Then smeared them with dijon mustard and garlic. I cut the parsnips into sticks and drizzled them with olive oil and placed them in a baking dish headed toward a 400 degree oven. I know that shiitake mushrooms aren't exactly french fare, but I had no chanterelles so they were a wonderful substitute. Sliced, they went into another baking dish, were laced with more bruised thyme leaves, some garlic, plenty of sea salt and olive oil and they joined the parsnips.

I heated a skillet, added more olive oil and seared the chops until brown and crusty, rare in the middle. Then deglazed the pan with red wine, added more mustard and thyme leaves and cooked down quickly. Poured the sauce over everything, poured myself a glass of wine and went to the deck.

Two books accompanied me. Dante's Divine Comedy, because I bought it at the library for 10 cents and I wanted to become smarter. And Tender to the Bone by Ruth Reichl because I had a feeling I would enjoy it.

Ribeye munched grass on his side of the fence. The male rouen ducks had a swim on the pond. Which poured over the dam and gurgled. Brownie and Blackie placed themselves a respectful distance from the table, anticipating their treat. A perfect picture of hope? Or faith in the goodness of their mistress?

I ate with my fingers, savoring the earthy flavor of thyme and garlic. The meaty mushrooms. Sweet roots and succulent lamb. After 10 pages of introduction to Dante, I headed over to Reichl and got sucked in.

Evening is bright here in early May. Peepers sing and all smells of cropped clover. Bright and green, not the musky smell of September and toasted fescue.

I was quite pleased with my solitary meal on the deck, serenaded by early summer on the farm. All the food on my plate connected to some sweet person in my life, the sweet young mama of Hazel who grew the parsnips that are now only a memory. Randy, the amazing farmer over in Fincastle who not only grows shiitakes, but also many many other delicious veggies and even makes sorghum molasses and alfalfa hay. The thyme from the slim tall farmer woman with a delightful accent who has no idea she inspired my meal, and lamb that used to frolic and cavort and eat our grass. Bread baked from flour milled on my mill which was built by some really cool fellows down at Meadow Mills in Wilkesboro, NC.

Cool moist air wrapped around my shoulders and the dark chased me indoors. Now the kids head to their beds, well-tired, with books to read. And I will read more recipes and stories by Ruth, savoring the flavors of my life.

Satisfied.

PS The other day I discovered the nesting/brooding spot of our mama rouen duck. She is settled under an old antique window, resting against the wall of the old milking parlor. Her nest is warm and dry. 10 eggs? I wonder when the little things will hatch?

PPS The kids noticed the first fireflies a few days ago. I exclaimed with joy when one lit up in front of my face last night.

PPPS I can distinguish at least 4 varieties of frogs singing outside my window. Wonder if there are more?

Friday Night and the Farm Smells Like a Bakery

2011-05-20T20:00:00.004-05:00

PS I just have to mention that I love Eva Cassidy's music. As I baked today her album came up on the ITunes rotation. Almost a year ago I posted a blog about a little tiff between me and Coco and the new milking stanchion. The song Time is a Healer always makes me think about that late spring day and Coco making me so mad!

I had to smile as I remembered that day with Coco, and isn't it funny that even painful moments and memories can bring to mind a smile. (Actually the tiff with Coco wasn't nearly as painful as my bucket of grief, but that is another story.)

PPS Thank you Patrick for milking so I can have cream in my coffee tomorrow morning.

Change of Pace

2011-05-20T11:50:00.001-05:00

Welcome back, sunshine! We missed you. Of course we are grateful for all the rain, but it is nice to have a change of pace.

And I am busy with the bakery and projects readying the farm to be put on the market. More blogging soon!

Showers of Blessing

2011-05-17T18:30:00.003-05:00

The rain is raining all around

It falls on fields and streams.

It rains on the umbrellas here

And on the ships at sea.

RL Stevenson

(At least I think that is how it goes!)

The rain came for a visit and decided to hang around for awhile.

We have had thunder booms and torrential downpour all night and most of the day. The sun peaks out for a few minutes, and then the storm swirls back around.

Larry and a friend were here this afternoon to help me put sheetrock up to repair the hallway ceiling. The coffee flowed and the work happened and kids busily went to find this tool or that. At some point I looked out the front to see if so and so were on his way back to the house when I noticed one of the ewes standing out in the pouring rain, right outside the barn door. Next to her was a little dark lump.

This was the adorable Jacob ewe, one year old, with the sweetest set of horns and cute little personality.

I had never named her because I knew we had to sell her. But every time I would see her I had to smile. Since I was in the middle of helping with the ceiling project, I sent Maggie out to the barn to investigate. Sure enough! The sweet young thing had just delivered a precious little ram lamb. Maggie picked up the fellow and mama followed into the barn, to join Sissy and her little fellows in the nursery.

As I pondered that sweet little ewe with the precious swirly horns, I decided I had to name her.

Annabelle.

The only name that came to mind that brought me images of cuteness and precious delightfulness.

I suppose I will post a picture of her on Facebook as soon as I get around to it, for those of you who wish I put pictures on the blog. Sorry. Not going to do it. But Facebook is out there and you are welcome to check it out!

Annabelle. What a fun surprise on a terribly rainy day. It certainly is a good thing that most of the time sheep, cows, goats and other mammals know what to do when it is birthing time and rarely need our intervention.

Anyone out there want to buy the most adorable little mother on the farm?

PS Patrick gathered up a dozen of the hens who went with Larry over our mountain and then up and over theirs (Bent Mtn). Larry has built the most fabulous of hen resorts on their property and these girls have no idea the upgrade they are about to experience. Well, actually, they are probably getting settled in and are wondering if they died and went to hen heaven. I hope they lay many delicious free-range eggs over there on Bent Mountain and that many omelets are enjoyed. Wonder if I can figure out a way to send a few sheep and goats that way??? I just know Larry could figure out a way to fence in goats. But could he convince Lynne and Emma to milk them? Hmmm.

More Favorite Things, or Continuing to Count My Blessings

2011-05-16T18:27:00.003-05:00

Roasted parsnips.

From Patchwork Farm in Copper Hill, Va. Some of our farmer's market friends raise the most delicious parsnips and carrots I have ever tasted.

I peeled them and cut them into wedges, tossed with olive oil and put them in a hot oven. When they were almost brown around the edges, I tossed in some fresh asparagus from another farmer's market friend. A sprinkling of sea salt and a few more minutes and they were so good I had to control myself to keep from eating the whole lot, right off the pan.

PLEASE, find some sweet parsnips from a local farmer and roast them with olive oil and sea salt. I like chocolate well enough, but not as much as those roasted parsnips. Weird, huh???

We also ate some organic broccoli, sauteed in a huge fry pan with olive oil, garlic and just enough water to hasten along the cooking.

And a nice fresh salad, picked by Maggie minutes before we ate it.

The kids ate some of Big Pine's smoked trout and baguette leftover from the market. I just ate some more parsnips. And broccoli.

Isn't it wonderful to be eating truly fresh food again? And such a gift to know most of the hands who helped get that food from the earth and to our table.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

Speaking of fresh food, I had better go milk. Coco tells me it is time!

Another of My Favorite Things

2011-05-16T08:31:00.002-05:00

I love sitting on the front porch with my coffee in the early morning hours. Sometimes it is still chilly enough for a little blanket. I take out my Bible, Book of Common Prayer and journal. These past few mornings have been lovely. Moist and drizzly. The fog hugs the mountains like a shawl. The farm wakes up and I hear song of cackling hens, waking rooster, snuffling dogs and George, the turkey. These days there are more birds than I can count. This morning I swear I heard a mockingbird calling just like a baby goat! I know it was a bird and not a kid because of the location. "Maaa! Maaa!" Made me remember a mockingbird who learned how to copy the sound of our house alarm going off in our historical home in Fort Worth. Seemed like that system was forever being set off by kids, cats or winds jostling old doors and windows. That bird would go off and I would leap, wondering what set off the alarm this time, and could I get it turned off before the police officer arrived!

Those are amazing birds. I could be mistaken. All those songs are coming from here there and everywhere. Swallows dip and swoop over the damp morning lawn and I wonder how many pounds of bugs have they consumed over the last couple of weeks? Reading David's poetry in the Psalms is especially sweet when served with hot coffee and lovely May morning on my front porch.

Grass is Greener

2011-05-15T18:43:00.003-05:00

So everybody knows how hard it is to fence in goats. At least anyone who has raised goats for very long.

I remember as a girl coming home from somewhere, every once in awhile, and all of my mom's rose bushes would have been consumed by our little herd of escapee goats. Once, if I remember correctly, one of the goats climbed up on my uncle's soft top convertible. Oops. Those soft tops are not great for climbing and little hoofs.

For the last few weeks we have been having serious goat fencing issues. I was wondering why we are having so many troubles this spring. I guess as the troubles would come up last spring, the kids were here at home and we could work on fixing fence as need would arise. This year, the kids are in school. We work on trying to patch one spot and then two days later the goats find another one. They are master magicians. For some reason, they prefer the neighbor's building site, next to the open road much more than the 35 legal acres they have available to them.

Sometimes we will put them in a new field, they will seem perfectly content, and then as soon as we drive away from the property, I guess they whisper to each other,"Come on, girls, they're gone. Let's go eat that really green grass up on the neighbor's hill and the kids can play on the big pile of dirt next to their foundation hole!"

The goats are for sale, but not all of them have gone yet. It is hard to sell them, as they are not just milk goats, but they are Maggie's pets. She loves each one and hopes to sell them to sweet homes instead of to the butcher market. Especially as they are useful and valuable dairy animals.

For anybody out there who has been wanting to get goats, I should say that they are a wonderful animal. We have loved them dearly. They are valuable producers of milk and meat and out of all of our animals, they are probably the fastest to return a profit. If you don't count the chasing and the fixing and the hole searching.

A few days ago I was in tears, leading them back to the barn, thinking about how sad I was and how different everything was since Philip died. I thought about how grief clouded over a lot of our motivation, and that made me sad, too. But then I looked over the hills and as I paused to let the mamas chomp on the absolutely beyond amazingly wonderful greener grass right on our property line, I was appreciative of the fresh air, the exercise and wondered how in the world was I going to keep in shape if we move off the farm!

(Guess I might go back to hiking???)

This afternoon the kids fixed one of the fences in a little field and the goats seem to be happy and contained for the moment. At least until I have to go somewhere tomorrow, and then you can guess the conversation they will be having...

Faith, Hope and Love

2011-05-15T18:23:00.003-05:00

You know, it is a problem when I go too many days between blog postings. Images and smells, essences and spiritual insights turn into a maelstrom and I don't know where to begin.

We started back up with Farmer's Markets this week. Thursday I baked for Catawba market, and Friday for Ikenberry's and Grandin. Frankly, it was pretty tough, but the muscle memory knew what to do and somehow or another, the bread got baked and it was wonderful to get back to our friends. Stunning, really. Stunning to see how appreciated we are and how our loyal customers are more than just customers. This local food movement is a huge thing. I hate to use the overused word spiritual, but that was how it felt, as we greeted one another, shared hugs, stories, and I recounted to many the steps that led to my decision to move back to Texas. Simple, really. My parents are alive. I want to share our life with them.

You know, as I sold bread and lamb and chatted with old friends and made some new, it felt right and good explaining to folks the benefits of freshly milled grains. The difference in grass-finished meats. And as sad as I was to think of saying our goodbyes, there was also a confidence that our story is not finished. I told someone that when I went down to Texas to look at properties, I discovered that there was no one in the area milling grains and making the types of breads I do. Who knows how long it will take to get things up and running? But I have hope that the amazing, no, stunning, community that is developing here is available for us all over the world. I felt hopeful that as we move to a completely different climate and culture, we would find our niche in this lovely, organic thing called neighborhood, that extends beyond the few blocks of a zoned community.

Yeah, yeah, sounds sappy, maybe. But if you don't believe me, just come on out to one of our markets and check out the vibe. It isn't just me being sentimental. It really is there. If you haven't seen it or felt it, just give it a shot. Wherever you live, make the effort to head out to a little farmer's market and start up a conversation with someone. You might be surprised. You might just make a friend. Or two or three or more.

May 10th

2011-05-10T19:34:00.003-05:00

Lightening streaks the dark velvet sky. Rain falls softly. The wind must be playing elsewhere this evening for all is still. Peepers sing. One teenager talks on the phone. Another studies her history homework. Three other kids are tucked into their rooms reading. My windows are open and the smell of May is gently carried in on a breath of breeze.

We celebrated Philip's birthday today. I felt miserable for a good bit of the day. But as we ate our cheeseburgers (Philip's favorite treat food) and the storm rolled toward Salem over the mountains, we began to laugh and remember. We ran around the cemetery, relishing the electric energy of the storm. The raindrops chased us to the suburban and then we drove around Philip's alma mater, Roanoke College. We told the stories he would tell us of his college antics and we imagined his skinny young college self, hanging out with dear Lynne and other friends. We marveled that if he hadn't been born, none of us would be hanging out in the suburban tonight. And if he hadn't come to Roanoke College and met Lynne and Larry, we would never know our many friends here, and would have never lived on our farm.

Everyone was pooped when we got home. But we did several silly little trivial things that only Philip would have done, in honor of him. And we asked God to tell him happy birthday for us and to let him know how happy we are that he was born. And the kids wondered if there were birthday cake in heaven and we all decided that we had no idea, but if there were, it would be good.

I don't feel so bad this evening. Tired, coming down with a cold, or allergies or something. Stopped up ears. But the heart that was bleeding earlier today feels comforted at the moment.

I may have to tuck myself in with a book, too. The sound of peepers and rain are great background music. At least the sound that I can hear through my dulled, stopped up ears.

OH!

I almost forgot! Right when we were driving out to the cemetery this evening, Maggie jumped in the suburban from doing her chores. She told me that one of the ewes had two new lambs with her! New, but dry and nursing. What a sneaky little thing! A couple of days ago I thought she looked pregnant, but it was so late, I thought I must have been imagining things. So she is tucked into the upper part of the barn. Two new little jacob lambs. What a treat.

Cool, Still Air of Evening Equals Calm for the moment

2011-05-09T18:28:00.003-05:00

Whew.

Mondays always start slowly for me. I don't know why it is hard for me to jump up running on Mondays, but it is.

I drank coffee, made the little girls a bite of breakfast, drank some more coffee, let the big kids make their own breakfast, took care of a couple of phone calls and business emails, milked Coco, made a big jar of green tea and then headed to West Virginia to pick up the lamb chops, leg of lamb and lamb stew meat. Well. At least that was my plan until I had to encourage the goats to come back to our property and then work on a gate. Then I headed over the mountain to West Virginia.

Working on the farm is satisfying when I get to bring back a delicious harvest. I made a delivery of part of the lamb, then headed on home to put the rest in our freezer. The weed eater grabbed me. Then the pile of hay by the potato patch lured me in. I mulched potatoes, weeded the garlic and mowed down several rows of weeds.

The cool of the evening felt great on my skin and the hard work made my muscles feel useful. I threw a package of frozen chopped up rooster in a pot with some water and whole wheat macaroni. Rose added some salsa and cheese when the macaroni was cooked so at least we had a fairly easy fast food option for supper. Beats Hamburger Helper! I wanted salad with it, but the salad needs at least one more week to grow. Thomas worked on whacking down some brush in the gulch and Patrick moved many more loads of manure and hay from the barnyard to the garden. Nora and Rose gathered eggs and Maggie washed clothes and gathered goats.

Everything is green and lush. Especially the weeds! Seeing all the new life springing forth made me think of one of my many favorite Andrew Peterson songs, Invisible God. The trees on the mountain road to Lewisburg are fully leafed out and the mountain laurel decorates the side of the road. Up high the dogwood still blooms and all of it points me to the lovely, wonderful creator of that art.

"I give you praise, Oh great, invisible God.

For the moon in the space of a dark night,

for the smile on a face in the sunlight,

I give you praise oh great, invisible God.

...

And oh, I long to see your face, invisible, invisible God.

All the works that you have made are clearly seen and plain as day

So mighty, and tender

O Lord let me remember, that I see you everywhere,

invisible God

...

Your power eternal, your nature divine

All creation tells the tale that love is real and so alive

I feel you, I hear you,

Great God, unseen I see you in the long cold death that the winter brings

and the sweet resurrection

Spring."

You will have to look up the song and hear the whole thing if you are interested. It is lovely, as per the norm for Mr. Peterson. Something in his lyrics and music touches me deeply, and makes me thankful that he captures so much of what I feel in his songs.

Life. Somehow the bigness and wonder of it all makes me thankful. Even for the weeds! At least for today. But I say that with a chuckle, knowing that in a few weeks I probably won't be nearly so enthused about warmth and weeds and mowing and weed eating!!!

PS Our Laying Mash Ingredient List, FYI

2011-05-09T06:00:00.002-05:00

It appears that our layers ration has no fish meal, but our broiler ration does. Must be due to the fact that the meat birds require a higher protein ration than the layers.

Anyway, today's random trivia:

Corn (non-gmo), Roasted soybeans, Oats, calcium carbonate, dehydrated alfalfa, dicalcium phosphate, dehydrated seaweed meal, salt, sodium selenite, vitamins a, d3, and E supplements, DL Methionine, Wheat Midds, Choline chloride and Citrate, Manadione sodium Bi-dulfite complex, d-Pantothenic Acid, Niacin, Riboflavin, Pyrodoxine, Thiamin, Vitamin B12, Biotin, Folic Acid, Polysaccharide Complexes of Iron, Manganese, Zinc, Copper and Cobalt, Yeast Culture, Lactobacillus Acidophilus Fermentation Product, Bacillus Lichenformis, Bacillus Subtilus, Lactobacillus Lactic, streptococcus Faecium, Protease Enzyme (dried Aspergillus Oryzae Fermentation Extract.

BTW, I love to go pick up feed on soybean roasting day. It smells soooo very good. I asked the fellows once if they ever snacked on those roasting soybeans. They assured me that they did and that they tasted delicious.

We Love Visitors

2011-05-09T05:28:00.002-05:00

The beautiful canadian geese are bathing in our pond this morning. Seems like they always pop over in early May. They are graceful. Elegant. Daisy and Lily, our white geese, are squawking. I don't know if it is in pleasure or protest of the visit.

The rouen ducks keep to their side of the pond. I am happy to see mama duck getting a long drink and a bath. She has been missing for a couple of weeks, so that must mean ducklings are on the way.

I Love My Mom.

2011-05-08T19:46:00.002-05:00

Our dear friends, Julie and Brian, adopted two kids from Ethiopia last winter. What with work and colds and school responsibilities, etc, etc, we still had yet to meet Enat and Yabsera. After non-stop work on the farm I decided we were due to head down to the Charlotte, NC area so we could get to see our friends and meet the rest of their family.

Leaving the farm is a task. Trying to make sure all animals are contained, with sufficient food and water seems like no big deal, but for us, it always is! We headed out late, drove onto their property late, and were blessed with the greeting of heady honeysuckle as we got out of the Suburban. Their frogs made a completely different song than our peepers. I breathed in the warm, moist southern air, so happy to have created the margin to be with our friends.

Julie and I stayed up way too late, catching up, sharing stories. I felt a bit irresponsible, not selling at our own farmer's market yet, but it was good to be able to go shopping at Julie's farmer's market. We bought beets and turnips and swiss chard and broccoli. And some goat's milk soap. For supper we cooked up some of our lamb from the farm, brushed with a homemade teriyaki sauce, roasted the roots and sauteed the chard with sesame seeds, sesame oil and rice vinegar. Kids swam in the pool, played Xbox or Connex, or whatever you call those games, watched movies, ate pizza and other fun foods. We laid around and read books, visited, and basically just hung out for a day and a half. It seemed like we had always known Enat and Yabsera, which is logical since we have been praying for them almost every day for months and months.

We were spoiled rotten, especially as Brian bought Julie and me boxes of lovely chocolate covered strawberries and bananas, and gigantic mochas from Starbucks, not to mention the cognac!

It felt great to be with friends and feel their warmth and love. Holidays are still hard. Grief still hurts as we are STILL trying to find our new normal as we STILL are trying to figure out how to live without Philip. He was so sweet to me, blessing me for being the mom. The kids are a bit discombobulated, trying to know what to do without him. They are doing a terrific job. We are all a bit rough around the edges sometimes, but these kids love me, and I feel blessed. They pamper me. They make me so happy to be a mom, even when our grief and hormones and fears and exhaustion and hunger all collide.

Makes me think of my own mom, and how she modeled for me love. She and Daddy both shared their affections with us physically, with hugs and hairstroking. I think of how she would get up early to read the Bible, drink her tea and journal, praying for us girls, seeking guidance. She would let us make messes in the kitchen. She modeled for us the example of independent womanhood, pursuing a career in art, spending time traveling to take photos and to go work in her studio. She sought education, going to art workshops. Listening to tapes and videos. She modeled to me the example of a woman who knew when to take a breather, when she would leave us home with Daddy and go visit her family or friends. She also gave the example of a woman who knew how to work hard, going the extra mile when necessary and it had to be done.

When I am ready to pull out my hair because my extroverted introvert self has reached her limits, Mom tells me to give myself permission to be still and find a quiet spot. I am so glad my mom expressed her many emotions so we girls could learn to do the same. Even the slammed cabinet doors and "fiddlesticks!" helped us to learn that it was okay to feel. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Sometimes a little ugly around the edges, but always with love as the undercurrent.

I needed to get away from the farm and from work for a couple of days. It is hard to do it, when tasks are looming. When I think of how much needs to be done. But my dear mom encourages me to take care of myself and the kids, and sometimes that means a break. Especially during hard patches, like holidays. Philip's birthday is coming up on Tuesday and we are all feeling raw. Thanks, Mom, for your example. For your love and prayers. For your encouragement to stop when it is time to stop. I miss you so much, and wish we were there with you today, and wish that card I bought for you last week were in the mail already! But I guess that is why we are going to all this trouble of selling the farm and moving to Texas. I love you and Daddy and am really looking forward to spending sweet holidays with you guys, sitting around the table, drinking iced tea and passing around the Sunday dinner.

Funny, but I really do think all that is related to our sweet visit with the Webb's this weekend. And now, home. With our peepers. And escapee goats. And dear Coco. And a waxing crescent moon, hanging on the horizon. And wonderful memories and a fast, fast trip that will last a long time.

Speaking of Chickens, or You Are What You Eat

2011-05-05T19:36:00.002-05:00

The other day I was speaking to Larry about farm projects when he told me that he thought he had gotten sick from eating farm eggs from another farmer. I suggested that it was unlikely that he had contracted salmonella, since it is rare for free-range chicken eggs to get it. Dear friend, Lynne, says these eggs are some of the most delicious eggs ever. We wondered what caused the uncomfortable reaction. They are from a terrific local farm, known for their good eggs.

A couple of days later, Larry told me that next time he tried to eat eggs, his throat got itchy and he started having allergic reactions.

"Pause!" I exclaimed. "Let me guess!"

Fish meal. Larry is deathly allergic to fish. Guess what is one of the ingredients in many of the healthier chicken foods? Fish meal. Mostly organic. A terrific source of protein, for chickens are omnivores, after all.

Fish meal.

But what person selling eggs at the farmer's market would think to list his or her chicken feed ingredients on the label on the egg carton? Besides, who cares what the chicken eats, right? Same with the cow and her milk or the hog and the sausage.

I was horrified to think what might happen to Larry if he ate a few more of those eggs. Or anyone else who had severe fish allergies. In a few days, Larry and Lynne are coming over to pick up a dozen of our chickens to raise their own omelets and you can bet that they will be reading the chicken feed label before they buy any old bag.

I don't think it is wrong to feed chickens fish meal. It is great for boosting omega-3 fatty acids. But I went out right away to check our feed bag, and sure enough, it has fish meal as the primary source of protein. You can bet that I will be asking our customers in the future if they have fish allergies before selling them our eggs. I will make a new label or print one out that tells exactly what is in our feed, since I am pretty proud of those healthy ingredients, anyway, but just because they are healthy doesn't mean they aren't potential allergens for someone out there.

Made me wonder if all these folks who are now allergic to milk or to eggs or other things might not be allergic to the actual eggs or whatever, but to the particular feeds the animals are consuming. If that were the case, different types of specialty feeds could be developed that would allow folks like Larry to eat those delicious and healthy foods that might otherwise be off limits. Hmm. Anyone know of any cool research going on dealing with these issues? Sounds like a great project for someone at Virginia Tech!

Springtime Means Meat Chickens

2011-05-04T19:51:00.004-05:00

Night air is cloudy and calm. Peeper song is almost eclipsed by guinea screeches as they settle in to bed. I do declare that those guineas are louder than my own children when they try to settle in. But at least they have been busy knocking out the tick population. What a marvelous form of organic pest control!

Today we had a pleasantly cool day. Not bitter, but pleasant. These are the days of wiffle ball, soccer and bicycle races up and down the driveway. I guess I am not a very good mom. Instead of telling the kids to hit their homework the moment they get off the bus, I tell them to hit the big outdoors. The air has been too delicious to waste.

We drove over to the Thomas's this afternoon to pick up half of our meat chicks. They and the Depret-Guillaume's did the dirty work of brooding the chicks for the first 3 weeks of their lives. What great pals! I couldn't resist the annual urge to raise a bunch of delicious free-range poultry for the freezer. So here we go for one last batch. The chicks are no longer cute little yellow balls of fluff. They are kind of ugly, in an uncomfortable sort of adolescent way. But in a couple of months they will be just right to transform into future Sunday dinners. Seems harsh, but it is real. Will keep you posted. Hope they survive their transition out to the little field.

For some reason it seems logical to continue raising food for our family, even as we transition. The thought of roasting a delicious chicken from our farm in our new house and new life brings me joy. Makes me think that it might just make the transition a little easier. Definitely more tasty and nutritious.

Gardening Always Makes Me Feel Better

2011-05-03T19:50:00.003-05:00

After writing my sad post earlier today I prayed for guidance.

What to do today? The list was too long, so I took a nap. I know that sounds counter-intuitive. Even lazy. But I was so tired, weary, I decided to listen to my body, trusting that I really am a hard-working person, no matter what the little voice inside my head shouted.

Chance of thunderstorms was 75% for the day. But somehow the storms held off. I grabbed Nora from school, we ran into town to Target to get a phone to replace the one that got broken in our deconstruction project. And a few other odds and ends. Ran into my dear one (what a gift, Lynne!) and shared smiles, hugs and even a couple of tears. I asked Nora if there were anything else we should do before heading into town.

"Flowers, Mom. We should buy some flowers," she suggested.

I thought about it and headed straight to Lowe's. I know. It would be better to go to our local nursery, but that was miles away and Lowe's was 1/2 a mile away and handy. So we compromised, knowing time was limited. I bought some geraniums and more salvia, since some I planted last year had started to come back and I wanted some more pretty color. We toured through the garden zone and vegetables started leaping into the cart. I know. We should probably have planted them by seeds, but for some reason, my energies are otherwise directed and I was happy to compromise even more.

The rains didn't come, so I headed out to the garden. A smile came to my face as one by one kids joined me out in the yard. Patrick brought composted soil out to the beds with the tractor. Then waste hay for mulch. We didn't get everything planted, but we got a nice start.

It was the perfect medicine. The sky grew dark. The wind picked up. Rose put a couple of frozen chicken pies into the oven while we continued. (Thanks, Pie Lady!) The air was too delicious to go in and do homework. Old cardboard and newspaper from the recycling box went out and onto the garden beds, piled high with old hay, Ruth Stout style. (Please check out any of her books or old magazine articles, she is my hero!) All of a sudden I felt better. I wondered if one of my girlfriends was praying for me and the kids?

I finished up the milking as the rain drops began to fall. Breeze blew in positive energy and kids were happy to wash up and sit around the table, gobbling down Lisa's Cheezy Chickn and Cordon Bleu pies with a plain salad on the side. I pulled out our book, To Kill a Mockingbird. Patrick brushed my hair and rubbed my back and Rose rubbed my feet and gave me a pedicure. Thomas listened and laughed. Nora cuddled with me. Maggie drew a picture. Thunder rolled and Blackie ran to his post in the bathtub. Rain came to soak in the new plantings and I felt grateful. Didn't even pay attention to the baskets of laundry sitting on the edge of the dining room. Maybe we will finish them tomorrow. Especially if the rain keeps on coming down.

Post Holiday Blues

2011-05-03T08:14:00.003-05:00

Folks are tired on the farm, post Spring Break. We tackled multiple projects, had dear friend Holly and our cousin Ned come for farm visits. We put them to work. Other friends came over and helped with barn clean out, bathroom fix, doorknob fix and various other odds and ends.

I have lots I wish I could share, but no energy to do it. I think I tried to pretend that Holly and I would have many more visits here on the farm, when I know deep down that this past weekend might very well be our last. Of course I know we will see each other in Texas and Asheville. We have chopped too many vegetables together and composed too many meals, not to mention all the heart to hearts, stories, poems and tears to not keep this friendship going.

But our time on the farm together has been unique and special. It hurts too much to think about. As she finishes up her first year at Culinary school, I am so proud I want to burst.

Same goes with Ned, different flavor. Ned was Philip's second cousin and godson. He is my age and we share love of story and music and movies. He and his mother, Judith are our family. Being with him without Philip is painful. And wonderful. He jumped in and helped play with kids, moderating sibling fights, played wiffle ball on the front lawn, helped shovel manure, fix fence, wash dishes and tear out a ceiling. While Holly and I watched Julia Child with the little girls it was great to hear him and Thomas laugh and wash dishes. We remembered Philip and cried. We remembered Philip and laughed.

So Spring Break on the farm was good. We went to eat Chinese food at CL Asia in Daleville one night. Saw a movie in town another night. Leonardo's Pizza in Fincastle provided a treat another evening. Blue Collar Joe's for extravagance on Saturday morning.

Everyone worked hard and can see the fruit of their labor. Maybe I will think about goodbyes on another day. And maybe I will get some energy back soon to return to blogging, instead of falling into bed, done for the day.

Things I Like

2011-04-27T14:41:00.003-05:00

Aahh. Spring break. Family taking care of projects together.

The kids mowed the grass today. What a beautiful sight! Fresh, green carpet. Perfect for Rose's cartwheels and flips. Just so long as she washes her green feet before entering the house!

PS I got an email from Farmer's Almanac warning about Dogwood Winter. I spose that means that we should all watch out, there is a chance of one more cold bite, but then it is time to get that corn planted.

PPS Can you believe it? Our black heart cherry tree is covered with little green cherries. My mouth is watering in anticipation. After the success with damson plum brandy last summer, we will have to try black heart cherry brandy, to go along with the pies and jam. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, Ginger. One day at a time.

Cloudy with a pretty good chance of tear fall.

2011-04-26T17:05:00.003-05:00

Heavy air blanketed the farm. Dark clouds rolled in, thunder boomed, raindrops fell, but intermittently. The green of the fields and the green on the ridge seem neon-like this thunderstormy afternoon.

Mr. Hill picked up Priscilla today. She is going to live on their farm, next door to Rachel and Jason. It kind of makes me feel better knowing that Sophie, Boone and Mec (and Sam) will get to be right over the fence from her. Sort of like keeping her in the family.

But even so, as I look out my window at the most lovely of valleys, graced with clouds, I feel pain. I remember when she came as a teeny baby to our farm, glued to Coco's side. I remember when she birthed Dulce, and how Philip and I were by her side, and how he had to give a pull on that baby when she took just a little too long. He was so happy to be a farmer. That was just a few weeks or so before he died.

I remember when she got mastitis and we had to spend hours for days massaging and milking her, and how Patrick got to be an amazing milker on her.

I know that most beef farmers or even large, mechanical dairy farmers would probably scoff at my sentimentality. But there is a unique relationship that develops with a person and their hand-milked cow. Every morning and every evening, you squat by their flank, smell their sweet smell, pause and be still while white gold steams into the bucket. The seasons come and go. You learn the personality of that milk cow, her idiosyncracies, and she learns yours.

For some reason, seeing Priscilla leave, more than about any other animal on this farm, makes me want Philip back. I miss him. I wish he didn't have to die. I wish we could go back to how it was a year, two months and two days ago. Funny how different kinds of grief get all tangled up, isn't it?

Velvet

2011-04-25T21:54:00.002-05:00

PS I had to sit out on the deck for a few minutes by myself tonight. The air feels like velvet. How many different varieties of frogs are singing their songs, accompanied by gurgling stream? Moon is dark, at least for the moment. Stars are bright, as they intermittently peak out shyly behind veils of cloud.

A creaking chicken house door sounds. A couple of guineas murmur in the night. Children breathe quietly. So do dogs.

Sheep are amazing alchemists

2011-04-25T20:00:00.002-05:00

Sheep are amazing alchemists. If not alchemists, then wonderful machines. They convert grass into wool and meat. Amazing. Those little lambs, so fragile and tiny, so quickly turn into stocky fellas, able to leap manure piles in a single bound.

You remember my story, was it last week? getting rammed by a couple of the little ones when we cornered them in the barn.

Well, several of the little guys have gone to live on other farms, mostly to be 4H projects for young ones.

Today was the day that last year's little baby lambs, now great big ram lambs, were slated to go on that long journey to West Virginia.

We have been going to West Virginia to a butcher shop for several years now. A family owned place, about an hour and a half more or less. We have had a hard time finding a USDA certified butcher, but these guys are friendly, competent, and have always done a great job for us. And I kinda enjoy the drive. Sometimes I go by myself and listen to music, and fret and pray. At times I listen to a book on cd or chat with a friend. Today Nora accompanied me since kids are on spring break.

But first, let me tell you about getting ready to head to West Virginia. Patrick and I made sure NOT to shower first. We rounded up the sheep, moved them into the barn, and separated the big ram lambs, the yearlings, into a stall. I remembered our early days on the farm when we didn't know how to round up sheep and move them easily into the barn.

Maggie opened and closed the gate as we separated the ewes and this years' little lambs. For a few seconds Patrick and I looked at the rams, their horns swept back, their eyes glaring. These guys are a mischievous bunch, akin to Peter Pan's lost boys. Mostly wild. Full of spunk and glee. Quite possibly the perfect metaphor for a full dose of testosterone. After having been taken down a time or two, during shearing or sorting, one might go into this sort of job with a small bit of trepidation.

We did.

Yet, after a few years, I have noticed that both Patrick and I have gained significantly more confidence in the sheep grabbing department. And it helps that Patrick has gained a great deal more muscle mass, too. Perhaps there are a few big guys out there (you probably are NOT reading this blog) who have no trouble plucking 175 lb rams up and throwing them in the back of the truck. But for us, it is a stretch. Patrick grabbed horns and moved the fellows toward the barn door. I grabbed the wool on the backside and the two of us maneuvered them toward the waiting truck. One of us would throw open the tailgate, heave, ho and get the dead weight up and into the hold with his comrades.

In our early days of farm animal maneuvering we would typically have at least one or two breakouts. But not this morning.

I was pretty proud of ourselves.

So Nora and I said our farewells and we headed west.

She played with her dolls and I listened to a murder mystery. The redbuds were so pretty as we entered into West Virginia. I remembered all the joy I got from watching the six comrades leap and run and eat grass out in our pastures. The picture of healthy, humanely raised animals.

We pulled into the parking lot, I waited my turn, then backed up to the chute. I remembered the first couple of times I delivered animals, I had to ask the nice man to back the trailer up for me because I just couldn't do it. I would freeze and then jack knife, and then blush, then try again, then give up. Now it isn't quite so hard.

We got situated. The fellow from the slaughterhouse came around, with tags and notebook, I opened up the camper top and tailgate, and waited.

Those lambs, so darn eager to avoid the truck, would not budge to get out. I asked them nicely. I prodded them gently.

No go.

Never mind that I had already changed out of my sheep wrestling clothes and into my go to town clothes. And shoes. Never mind that the back of our truck was now a not so pretty sight after six non-potty trained lambs made that trip through the mountains.

The nice fellow with the notebook seemed a little afraid of the rolling eyes and the swept back horns.

He lit up a cigarette.

Nora stood off to the side, watching to make sure no fellows broke loose.

No one seemed too terribly interested in breaking loose.

After a few minutes I realized I was going to have to get them the hard way. I climbed up into the dirty back of the truck, grabbed a set of horns and pulled. And pulled. And jumped down and dragged the stubborn thing off the truck. Hoping that the rest of the fellows would follow.

Not so.

By the time I had reached the fourth lamb, I had a few streaks of manure on my clean clothes and shoes, but that was okay. Then he decided to make a break for it.

Thank goodness for horns. I grabbed him, threw myself into a slide and got dragged pretty much under the truck. Now thoroughly scraped and covered in manure and sheep grease from top to bottom.

Oh well.

At least he didn't get away! The other two followed, with only minimal dragging, I put in our cutting order and then Nora asked where we would have lunch for our special date.

We went to Hardees, I sheepishly headed to the bathroom to wash the hands and arms, hoping the smell of the french fries covered up the smell of the sheep debacle.

I guess it seems weird, but I think I will miss the physical aspect of farming. The feeling of satisfaction that comes with doing hard things, making my own body work like a machine. A sheep wrestling machine. The feeling of muscles, sore, and a bit bruised here and there, but at least alive.

Glad to have been a part of the process of bringing healthy, delicious food to the table for quite a few families. Those lambs got to live their albeit short lives, fully expressing their personality, enjoying green pastures, fellowship, spunkiness. We got to be a part of the whole process, from the day of their birth to the end.

PS Today was a hot day. Pretty sticky, threatening thunderstorms that never came. When I milked Coco this evening, the breeze was so sweet. Felt like summertime. Leaves are lush. All is green.

Easter on the Farm

2011-04-25T06:55:00.002-05:00

Little girls in pretty dresses.

Boys in brand-new khaki pants and handsome shirts. All of us gathered around the table in the dining room since the wind was too blustery.

Lilac bouquets offered beautiful resurrection incense.

We read the scriptures. We sang. We prayed.

We went outside to take pictures before all the clothes got dirty.

One young seven year old friend climbed up the willow tree. "Boone, get down from the tree and come here for the picture!" We ate our hair as the wind blew and all smiled.

Then Rachel and I raced back into the kitchen to finish up our Easter dinner. Freshly milled spelt rolls rose up nicely. The huge ham warmed. We mashed potatoes, warmed up last year's green beans. Carmelized carrots. Chopped up broccoli for our yummy salad. And for the most exotic portion of our meal, Rachel stripped the nettle leaves off their stems (ouch!) and I simmered them with garlic and balsamic vinegar. And we creamed the most delicious leeks ever eaten. That Rachel had just picked out of their garden.

We all crammed around the dining room table, along with some of Jason and Rachel's family who joined us for the occasion, and ate and ate and ate.

How was there room for dessert? I guess we sat around the table long enough. Maggie's spelt Queen of Sheba cake was a hit. And Patrick's spelt pound cake, in the traditional lamb mold, was too. Not to mention all the other desserts brought by the Thomas' family grandma's!

Boiled eggs were hunted several times by kids. Wiffle ball games were played. Lots of dishes were washed. Grownups visited. And Serge even came over to shoot target practice with the boys.

Trivia

2011-04-22T06:27:00.004-05:00

On April 22, 1889, folks lined up to race for their new home. The Oklahoma Land Rush.

Just read that bit of trivia in the online New York Times. So much bad news in the rest of the paper. I had to skim through the majority, because reading too much bad news makes me depressed about things I cannot change. So I pray for those horrible situations across the world, then see the little line at the bottom of the headlines, What happened today, 122 years ago?

Reading that little bit of trivia brought back a flood of childhood memories. When I was an elementary student in Prague, Oklahoma, we would have pioneer days. And on April 22, we girls would wear our bonnets (special-made for the occasion by better moms than me!) and who knows what the little boys would wear. The teachers would tell the story, then we would line up on the playground to reenact the land-staking.

I don't know why that activity pleased me so. Perhaps a little country girl would like any school activity that involved being out on the playground during school hours, given permission to imagine and run and compete. Perhaps the springtime air was so intoxicating, it made the teachers eager to go outside themselves and the positive vibes of sunshine and happy kids made for great attitudes.

Perhaps even then I was attracted to story. Racing on the hard red clay playground with wind rushing through my bonnet made me feel connected to another group of children, long, long ago. I was attracted to the thought of adventure, fresh starts, and the ability to endure to overcome hardship.

The Oklahoma Land Rush. That simple little line in the New York Times headline brought me many pleasant memories. I can just see my little sisters and me, with our bonnets and little braids, imagining ourselves to be something like Laura Ingalls (since the TV show depicted her with bonnet askew and similar braids and freckles, just like us.) Racing to find the perfect little home site, next to a sweet stream, with some oak trees offering shade.

But enough reminiscing. I look out the front window and see sheep grazing in our front yard. Appears they had their own land rush this morning!

PS As a child, I really had no idea or at least any understanding about the story behind the story. The Trail of Tears hadn't yet impacted me. I couldn't comprehend that the land rush came about because all of a sudden the white folk realized that the land they gave (or rather, forced the Native Americans to live on while they took over other valuable property) was desirable. Isn't life crazy like that? Stories, behind stories, behind stories. But for this eight year old, back in the early 70's, it was all about the adventure. Later on came compassionate tears shed for the folks who were driven off that land.

Signs of the Times.

2011-04-21T18:50:00.002-05:00

A fellow farmer came over today at noon to take a look at this year's lamb crop. She bought one of Ophelia's little girls. It was funny when my friend put the lamb in the crate to carry her home. The little thing stomped her foot, just like her mama. It made me laugh.

Another farmer acquaintance came over with his wife to take a look at Priscilla. They are going to buy her. As they looked up at the ridge, they wondered if we had lots of mushrooms. I said I have looked every year to no avail.

It is time for morels. Should we look again? What I would give to have a nice big mess of morels, fried up in butter with some garlic. And an omelet with fiddlehead ferns and goat cheese on the side.

Spring is here. So warm.

Goodbye Boaz, We Will Miss You.

2011-04-19T20:29:00.002-05:00

Today was kind of hot and sticky. The girls played wiffle ball in the yard after school. They sat in the hammock and read books. They chased after goats.

Patrick and I got the trailer hitched up to the truck. For the first time, all by ourselves. Before moving to the farm I couldn't back up a trailer. We loaded it up with a bunch of junk that will be headed to the scrap yard.

Yesterday we said goodbye to Philip's old 77 Dodge truck. And the Mercedes. Neither of them could start up after sitting out for over a year. I sold the "junk" vehicles to a young man. He came over several days to work on the autos and I was thrilled to see him and his dad start them up and drive them down the road. Philip would be so pleased.

Today we sold some lambs to a young lady. And Panda and Tenderloin and Boaz, the ram to a gentleman. I know it seems silly, but I will miss them. Especially Boaz; his distinctive horns and personality, not to mention all the beautiful lambs he has given us.

After we loaded up the calves and Boaz, the fellows who came to buy them wanted to take a look at the flock of sheep. The sun went down. Pink tinged the sky. The moist air felt like an embrace. I was glad to have to be outside this evening.

A little worried when I came in the house at 8:30 and realized we hadn't had our supper yet.

Thank goodness, we had some jars of homemade chicken stock (from the roosters) hanging out in the fridge. It was thick as jello, but melted right down when I put it into the pot. After it came to a boil, I added a generous splash of soy sauce, four raw eggs, scrambled, toasted sesame oil, a tablespoon or so, and several handfuls of spinach.

I didn't feel like cooking. But that soup was so easy it really didn't feel much like cooking. We scooted the piles of laundry to the side of the table, joined Nora with her homework and slurped our soup, Japanese style. I thanked God for those roosters and eggs. And spinach someone else grew. And for warm air. And for customers who buy our animals.

And now I thank Him for my bed. And children sleepily tucked into theirs.

Just Smell It

2011-04-19T06:43:00.002-05:00

Breakfast tacos are made. The little girls are already at school and big kids getting ready to get on the bus. Coco is mooing. Time to go milk.

Just had to mention that it smelled like spring when the girls got on the bus. Made me think of my own early childhood days, rushing out the door, running to the bus. Having to stop and pause to smell greening earth.

Thank God for the invention of the nose. Even if I couldn't see the green grass and chartreuse leaves and pink redbuds and white dogwood, I could still sense the changing of the season.

Land Of Milk And Honey

Babies

Visitors

Roosters

Big Bend Ultra Nice

Monday, snow in the forecast, but they lied according to Nora.

I Wonder as I Wander

We Are Trying, but what I really want is a great big piece of coconut pound cake.

One Foot In Front of the Other

Looking for Rocks

Happy New Year

Still in the Middle of Christmas Holidays, yeah

rosemary focaccia

emmanuel

I Love Sunday

Holes

Trying to Figure it out

Friday Night

Compare and Contrast

Tuesday Evening

More stories to come

Tomorrow is my Birthday! 11/11/11 Am I lucky or what?

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

Saturday, What a Day

So Thankful to Have Lights on My Bike Now

Sweet Stuff

Another Friday Night

Winter Blew in for a Little Visit

Seedy Crackers

Good Magic, or My Farmer's Market Finds

Friday Nights Aren't Really a Party for Me, but that's OK

A Quest?

Moving On

Brrr!

Sacred Space

Fall

I'm Rich!

Feelings, Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, Feelings (Don't be scared of Barry Manilow, people)

Seasons are changing, the earth is tilting

Grains

Happy New Year!

The Chicken Juice and Crispy Skin is the Best Part. If it is a grass-fed, non-chemical laden bird, that is...

Showers of Blessing

Wednesday Morning

Bakery-Still Trying to Find Our New Normal

Stuffed Patty Pan Squash

Anybody Out There?

New Home

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

There Certainly Are a Lot of Good People in the World.

I Only Make Spelt Chocolate Baby Brioche for People I REALLY Love!

The Fireflies are Almost Done With Their Dance

Time is Flying

Be Still and Know

This Is It

We Dropped Off the Face of the Earth, Almost

It is officially summer.

My Very Favorite Thing

Some Days Are Harder Than Others, But We Will Get Through Them Together

I Love My Dad

All In a Day's Work

Sunday Evening

Crack, Boom

Whipporwills Sing My Favorite Song.

Alchemy

Tuesday Morning

Life's a Bowl of Cherries

Treats

Heat Wave

More of the Same Economy

God's Economy

Day of Rest

Life

Fresh

Storm

Satisfaction-or Maybe Rod Stewart Should Hang Out On Our Farm Someday...

Friday Night and the Farm Smells Like a Bakery

Change of Pace

Showers of Blessing

More Favorite Things, or Continuing to Count My Blessings