I'm Rich!

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)

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

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

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!

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...

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

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

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

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

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.