Outstanding in the Field

Outstanding in the Field is a traveling farm dinner series or "restaurant without walls." For over 10 years, the people behind Outstanding in the Field have set long tables in places such as organic farms, mountain tops, ranches, or ocean coves. The goal is to help people reconnect with local farmers, chefs, and ingredients. The food for these dinners usually comes directly from the fields in which these events take place.

Founder Jim Denevan has a beautiful cookbook that includes profiles of regional farmers and recipes using seasonal ingredients. I just bought the hardcover book on sale as a Bargain Book for only $5 on the Barnes and Noble website--check to see if the deal still is being offered. It's well worth the five bucks.

Photo from Outstanding in the Field website.

Anniversary

Holy cow, I just realized that today is the one-year anniversary of my Rainy Day Ranch blog. Thanks for sticking around.

Over the past year, we've lost a best friend (beautiful Miss Como) and gained several new friends, including a certain scruffy monster from Texas. I started some projects that fizzled--playing the fiddle, vegetarianism, running, artisan chocolate-making--but I learned something from each failed endeavor. My dusty fiddle reminds me to concentrate on learning to play one instrument really well instead of struggling with three (the 10,000-hour rule!). I missed bacon too much to stick to my veggie diet, but I have a new awareness of what goes on my plate--and a new concern for how it gets there. Training for two marathons and failing to come close to running them made me realize that there's no point in taking up an activity that I dread; English-style horseback riding is proving to be a much more enjoyable way to satisfy my itch for a physical challenge and some mental discipline. My disastrous attempts involving artisan chocolates and, let's face it, candles, soaps, and jewelry too, helped me to better appreciate and admire the special talents of my friends who are much more proficient in these areas.

It's fair to say, though, that the bigger picture hasn't changed much. My visions of the Rainy Day Ranch become stronger and more focused each day--kind of like Harry Potter's visions of Lord Voldemort, but in a good way. I know we're getting very close. And I'm still determined to get me some chickens.

"Beets are a dish best served cold."--Dwight Schrute

A couple weeks ago we met some friends at Tanaka Farms for a cookout tour (during which we pick the veggies for the farm staff to grill for us). We caught the tail end of the winter crop season, which meant that we picked sweet Maui onions, celery, kale, bok choy, and beets. The veggies were diced, augmented with a few chunks of tofu, drizzled with olive oil and Lawry's seasoning, and nicely grilled. I had never eaten a beet and was pleasantly surprised. It actually tasted pretty good. (Although maybe that was because the rest of my meal consisted of such things as celery and kale....)

This weekend our friend John stopped by with some beets freshly plucked from his garden. Having just sampled my first beet two weeks ago, I'm not sure how to prepare beets in a way that will do them justice. The Wrangler told me to try boiling them, but boiled beets don't sound very sassy. Any ideas?

Loam Sweet Loam

I'm back...it's been a busy month here at the RDR. I guess I should start by revealing the results of my soil test. As I left off, the soil sample in my Mason jar settled into layers. The bottom layer is sandy and is about 4 cm high. The next layer is silt, which measures about .5 cm. The top layer is clay, which also is about .5 cm. The total height of all layers (not including the water) is 5 cm. I divided each layer by the total height of all layers and then multiplied by 100. So, my soil is 80% sand (4 cm divided by 5 cm, multiplied by 100), 10% silt (.5 cm divided by 5 cm, multiplied by 100), and 10% clay.

Using these percentages, I identified my soil as "loamy sand" on the USDA's soil texture triangle. Incidentally, the soil textures in the lower left corner (sandy loam and loamy sand, in particular) are ideal for growing lavender. This makes me roll my eyes, as I don't plan on growing lavender here at the cottage--I want to grow it on my ranch. And I'm sure that no matter where I end up buying my ranch, the soil on said ranch will be far from ideal for growing lavender.

So Here's the Dirt...

My lavender class assignment this week is to test my soil type. I learned in class that I don't need a fancy professional analysis; anyone can perform a simple soil test. I dug down about five inches and collected a few samples from various locations in my planting area. I put some dirt in a glass Mason canning jar, added dishwasher detergent to break up the dirt, filled the jar with water, and shook vigorously.

Over the next day, the soil will settle into distinct layers. I'll measure each layer and do a little math to determine the percentage of clay, silt, and sand. I'll take these numbers and find where my soil falls on the USDA textural triangle. I'll explain this in more detail when I figure out my percentages tomorrow.

A Prerequisite Pursuit

Back in college, I was this close to choosing a geology major (because geology rocks, hee hee). The only thing that came between me and my mineralogy was the prerequisite physics course. As I recall, the required physics class began at some ungodly hour, like 7AM, several days a week, for two full semesters. Even then, I had the good sense to know that a 7AM commitment was utterly unrealistic for me. It probably was more like 8AM, but even so. And this, my friend, is why I decided to pursue a career that did not require early morning physics labs.

But here I am years later embarking on a delightful new hobby, English horseback riding, only to be faced with another dreaded prerequisite: yoga. Well, concurrent requisite is more accurate. And it's not exactly required. It's merely recommended for flexibility, balance, and core strength--traits possessed by good riders.

Eghh. Yoga? Really?

I know everyone does yoga these days (if they're not doing pilates), especially here in California. I just personally hate it. Call me old-school, but there's something about a room full of strangers exhaling hot breath all over the place, bending into unattractive positions, and flashing their bare feet with dirty soles. I can't even think about bikram yoga, which is done in a room that's heated to a minimum of 105 degrees. I'm not at all a germaphobe but...ewww. I looked into private yoga lessons, but they cost about as much as the riding lessons. The Wrangler is so not one of those stereotypical husbands that throws fits when the wife spends a little dough, but when I casually mentioned adding private yoga lessons to the mix, I did get a lecture of sorts on not wasting money. Apparently, smelly group lessons are the, as the Wrangler says, "non-stupid" option for someone who may be a wife, and who may live in Orange County, but who is not one of the Real Housewives of Orange County.

But I can't let my fear of group yoga stand in the way of good horsemanship. Yoga isn't a physics lab, and group lessons won't be that bad. They can't be that bad. I just hope they aren't at 7AM.

The 10,000-Hour Rule

In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell posits that greatness in any field requires not necessarily an innate talent or genius but rather 10,000 hours of practice. We can all be concert pianists or pro golfers--or at least pretty darn awesome--by the time we've spent approximately 10,000 hours honing our craft. Clearly, I'm on my way to Olympic glory in the dressage ring. Only 9,990 hours to go.