December Recap

My posts were rather sparse this past month. Thankfully, despite the busy month at work, visiting family members kept the mood festive.

Some bad news: Moto will be out of commission for at least six months. His bowed tendon doesn't seem to be noticeably visible or causing him any general discomfort. His current rehab schedule allows him only one five-minute hand walk per day, which means that he's confined to his 12x12 box stall for 23 hours and 55 minutes a day! Poor Moto! It is very troubling, but at least his prognosis is excellent and he's expected to fully heal.

With Moto out of commission, I've been lucky enough to get my horse fix at a nice local horse barn that is hosting the two rescue Thoroughbred yearlings, Winston and Stewie. It's just down the street, and the owner kindly allows me to come by a couple times a week to spend time with the boys. I'm getting pretty attached to Stewie, a gentle, mild-mannered fellow who stands quietly, almost sleeping, while I brush him. If I knew even a thing or two about training young horses, I would adopt him in a minute. But it will be a few years before he'll be old enough to carry a rider on his back--he has a lot of training ahead of him, and he needs an experienced horse owner. Winston is a good boy, but he's still a little skittish. He puts up a small fuss when I approach him with his halter, and he tries to nip me while I'm grooming him. While some gals like the challenge, I've never been attracted to bad boys. I end up spending most of my time with good ole steady Stewie.

The barn is a pleasant place, especially with its family of five pygmy goats. (That's a few of them in the picture above. Rusty, the little reddish guy, is my favorite.) Although I am a sheep person, pygmy goats are irresistible. I'm sure that the Wrangler would love to have some of his own...which is why I bought him two for Christmas! They'll be born in late January and ready to come home seven weeks after their birth. We stopped in on Christmas Day to meet the goat breeder and to see the expectant parents. They live just a few minutes away, so we'll get to see the babies almost immediately after they're born.

Yesterday, the Wrangler and I met with the owners of a local wholesale nursery to discuss an initial order of approximately 7400 lavender plugs. This will be a small order for them--they recently grew 600,000 lavender plugs for a large retailer. The nursery owners (who are the parents of my riding instructor) patiently shared with us a wealth of information on lavender varieties that do well in this climate, as well as watering and planting considerations unique to this area. I've read literally every single book available on growing lavender, but these books focus on growing lavender in other regions--Provence, the Pacific Northwest, Australia, South Africa. There is no substitute for speaking with someone who grows it just a few miles away.

Tonight we will see some friends from Laguna Beach and help prepare and serve the New Year's Eve dinner to the residents of the Friendship House. We're looking forward to catching up with the Laguna crew and, as always, picking up some new cooking tips from our master chef John.

Have a fun and safe New Year's Eve.

Horsing Around

I have some sad news and some happy news. First, the sad news: Moto will be "on vacation" for a while. He's suffering from a bowed tendon. He started limping last week after cantering on the lunge line. I'll hear more about his diagnosis and prognosis tomorrow.

Now, the happy news: today I paid a visit to a barn (just 10 minutes from home!) where my riding instructor keeps her two horses. The barn owner is fostering two rescue yearlings. These timid little guys are so sweet and fuzzy and fun. I helped to groom them and watched them play with a ball during their turn out. It's so wonderful to know that they've been rescued!

Ruined

The Wrangler has been picking oranges in the orchard every Saturday morning and kicking off the day with freshly squeezed juice. We're ruined for life. Store-bought juice now tastes like water. Our homemade OJ is atomic orange and packs a punch. Just a few sips scratch the itch. (I wonder if people ironically overeat when their store-bought food lacks flavor and thus is not very satisfying?)

Let There Be Light...Seriously

For three times the cost of standard Christmas lights, I decided to be a Friend of the Environment and purchased solar-powered outdoor Christmas lights. (This, despite the likely environmental damage associated with FedEx-ing in a Fraser Fir from Michigan. But if you know me even a little, then you know my stance on having a decent Christmas tree.) The Wrangler balked at the cost of said solar lights, but I remained resolute. I'm trying to get off the grid whenever doing so seems reasonable. (For example, composting toilet = unreasonable.) I enticed him by noting that he wouldn't have to mess around with extension cords.

He dutifully wrapped several strands around each lamppost along our driveway. I couldn't wait for darkness to fall. Three...two..one...I ran outside to view the spectacular light show.

Oh.

"I guess we should have gone with the regular lights," I admitted, crestfallen and coveting thy neighbors' blinding LED display. It's no exaggeration to say that it's hard to tell whether our lights are even on. I was especially irritated that we'd paid so much more for so much less.

Ever the optimist, the Wrangler wasn't daunted. "Well, if the power goes out, our lights will be the brightest in the neighborhood."

Flower Power

"I'm watching a guy movie," the Wrangler cautioned as I entered the family room, book in hand. "It's pretty violent. Don't watch. Read your book over there." He gestured to the armchair in the corner. Averting my eyes, I crossed the room and settled in with my book. But I couldn't help hearing the various slashing/splatting/moaning sounds. "The movie sounds very...stabby," I said, beelining it back to my office. So much for family time tonight.

The Wrangler gets a pass, though. The good man actually watched a 90-minute instructional DVD with me yesterday on making lavender wreaths and baskets. Our Hidcote lavender plants in the orchard have surprised us with a second bloom. A fall bloom, which is not as lush as a summer bloom, typically involves a variety that blooms earliest in the summer, such as Hidcote. When the plant is harvested at peak bloom (as the flowers begin to open), and the foliage is pruned around the same time, a fall bloom sometimes occurs. That we got this fall bloom despite doing absolutely nothing with our lavender last summer--no harvesting or pruning--is a testament to lavender's hardiness and tolerance for neglect. (Which makes it the perfect crop for me.)

Incidentally, Hidcote is favored for crafts because it dries nicely and the florets remain on the stem. I'm going to try my hand at some wreaths and baskets, which looked easy enough on the DVD. And since the Wrangler watched the instructions, I can put him to work as well. I can just see him wrapping delicate lavender bundles around a grapevine wreath while watching a guy movie. Slash, splat, and wrap!

Lavender Friday

Today the Wrangler and I took a lovely drive on a winding road through the orange, lemon, avocado, and persimmon groves of Valley Center. We were headed to the store at the Keys Creek Lavender Farm, which we thought might be a tranquil alternative to Black Friday traffic and crowds. We were right. Our trip to Keys Creek far exceeded our expectations.

Keys Creek is at the end of a rugged dirt road. Alicia, the charming owner of Keys Creek, told us that some visitors complain about the road, but I think it's just part of the farm experience. True, if you try to barrel through to your destination, you might hit some pot holes. But the road is fine if you just slow down and enjoy the country. Although Keys Creek generally is closed during the winter months while the lavender plants are dormant, Alicia had decided on a whim to open the store for a few hours today.

Alicia treated to a personal tour of the farm. We started at the pretty country store, where we sampled delicious lavender crunchies (a granola-like treat), lavender tisane, and lavender caramel sauce. I also was treated to a luscious lavender hand scrub. We walked past the hillside lavender field, up to the lavender labyrinth, and past the barn, which has been converted into a beautiful meeting space for bridal showers and other events. We saw the poolside outdoor pavilion, which has been the setting for weddings and farm-to-table dinner events, and strolled across a large patio that is used on occasional for a high tea service. On our way back down the gently sloping hill to the store, we peeked in the distillery room (where oil is extracted from lavender buds) and the snack counter (from which tea and scones are sold during the farm's busy season in May and June).

Not only were we thrilled to meet the warm and welcoming Alicia--who originally is from South Africa and bought Keys Creek three years ago after living in Laguna Beach for 20 years--we also met a fellow customer who is starting a homesteading meet-up group in our area! As we drove away with a bag filled with lavender goodies and the email addresses of two new friends, I couldn't think of a nicer way to spend Black Friday.

Giving Thanks

As we all pause today to give thanks for our blessings, I can't help but feel especially thankful for the Wrangler. Fellow feminists, don't hate me for saying that marrying a genuinely nice guy is the smartest thing I've done. Don't worry--I can stand on my own two feet. But it's kinda nice knowing that I don't always have to.

Not a Must, Crust

Even before I jumped on the farm-fresh bandwagon, I was a pie crust purist. I've made lots of pies over the years, and I've never looked to a store-bought crust to do the honors. Making pie crust is easy. Everyone has the ingredients (all four of them) on hand, and it takes less effort and skill to roll a pie crust than to unwrap and thaw a frozen store-bought crust. My pie crusts are perfectly light and flaky, if I may say so myself. However, I have a deep, dark secret: I dislike pie crusts. I just don't think they add much value, especially considering the calories and lack of nutrition. I've been making apple crisps instead of apple pies for years. I'm a traditionalist and do roll a crust for my pumpkin pies, but I've decided to bake crustless pumpkin mousse in ramekins this year. I'm pleased to report that even the esteemed New York Times food columnist Mark Bittman agrees with me on this one. He recently wrote that, "pie crust adds little to a fruit dessert apart from heft or calories."

I'm carrying this philosophy from the dessert realm to the savory sector. I've been a making a lot of quiche lately--I'm trying to eat more green veggies like broccoli and asparagus, and burying them in eggs and cheese has been a decent way to stomach these vile weeds. But instead of whipping together a pie crust, I make a mushroom crust. I don't know if it's necessarily a healthier option, but it is delicious.

Mushroom crust:

Chop about 1/2 pound of mushrooms (any kind) and saute with garlic and a pat of butter. When the mushrooms are soft, add 1/2 cup of crushed saltines. Pat this mixture into a pie plate sprayed with non-stick spray.

That's it. You can add a variety of fillings. My staple is broccoli and cheese: saute bite-sized pieces of broccoli with either chopped sweet onions or green onions, until soft. Pour over the mushroom crust. Sprinkle with Swiss or cheddar cheese. Mix four eggs with 1 cup of cream or milk and pour on top. Salt and pepper to taste. Bake at 350 until firm--about 30 minutes.

Like Bees to Honey

A few weeks ago my sister-in-law sent me an email asking what brand of honey we buy. "Your brother keeps talking about the honey he had when we visited you guys." This came as no surprise. I don't buy honey at the grocery store anymore. Ever since visiting a beekeeper and getting a taste of warm honey that was in the hive literally 30 minutes prior to my visit, I've found that store-bought honey has almost no flavor. Last week a food safety report claimed that the pollen frequently is filtered out of products that are labeled as "honey" and sold in conventional stores. The study found no pollen in 75 to 100% of the samples tested from various supermarket and convenience store chains.

Removing pollen from honey is a safety concern (without the pollen, there is no way to trace the source of the "honey"), but I'm convinced that this practice also affects the taste. I buy raw, unfiltered honey from local hives, and I can practically taste the flower blossoms in every spoonful. This stuff could inspire poetry.

Last night as the Wrangler poured honey on his peanut butter sandwich (I do feed the man, but he likes to snack on peanut butter sandwiches), he looked from the jar of honey to the jars of homemade beeswax candles on the counter and declared his love for bees. "I will be in charge of the hive, the honey, and the candles, if you'd like," he announced. I like bees and beeswax, but I'm not one to hoard farm chores.

"Bee my guest."

Homemade Is Where the Heart Is

I spent a couple hours today making beeswax candles using widemouth 8 oz canning jars as molds. Of all the crafty things I attempt, beeswax candle-making is probably my favorite because of the easy factor. The kitchen smells nice, mistakes can be melted away, and it doesn't take long to have a tangible, practical product. The only step I struggle with a little is chiseling the two-pound block of raw beeswax into smaller pieces for melting.

I ordered some kraft boxes for packaging sets of votives and tea lights that I'll make for gifts. I'm glad to see that the stigma once associated with homemade gifts is fading. When I receive a homemade gift from a busy friend, I almost want to cry because I know that she is giving me something extra special--the gift of her time. It takes so little effort to send a gift card, but setting aside precious time to create a gift means a lot. It doesn't have to be fancy or even that time-consuming. A box of homemade rice krispie bars could make someone's day!

Wouldn't it be cool if, instead of feeding the grotesque Black Friday shopping tradition (which, by the way, is now encroaching into Thanksgiving Day--Walmart is opening at 10PM on Thursday, which is beyond gross), we stayed at home and made things to give for the holidays? Instead of strapping on running shoes and pepper-spraying old ladies in the name of "big savings," we could relax and recover from the Thanksgiving festivities and maybe invite a couple good friends over for, I don't know, a knitting bee or something? I realize that my Anti-Black Friday manifesto makes me sound old-fashioned. I can hear the protests: "Stay home and knit instead of scoring a cheap iPad? Surely you jest." I really should have been born 100 years ago.

Old Farmer, New Farmer

We're finally getting some cozy winterish weather--highs in the 60s, lows in the 40s, clouds. I'm thoroughly enjoying the shorter, post-Daylight Savings days, the sound of the furnace, plush down comforters, and chilly pets who want to snuggle on laps. As I write this now, it is pouring rain and I feel alive. With the monotonous summer weather finally out of the picture, I'm regaining my energy and motivation. I've been baking again (bread and cookies), crafting again (making cheese, candles, and hats), planning again (holiday activities and parties) and plotting again (working on the numbers for Snow Day Farm, my newly-christened farm business that I will be writing about in the coming days).

My dad just left after a wonderful week's visit. I took advantage of my status as a farmer's daughter and pored through farming books and data with my dad, who was raised on a 280-acre commercial farm, a smaller version of which is still in the family. In its heyday, the farm yielded large crops of soybeans, sugar beets, and corn, and kept at any given time 250 pigs, 500 chickens, and about 25 dairy cows (they sold only the cream; the milk was used by the family or fed to the pigs.) Dad's view of farming is pragmatic, whereas mine is admittedly more utopian. Dad farmed in an era in which pesticides were welcomed innovations, grain-fed cattle were considered to be superior to their grass-fed counterparts, and animals were products not pets (and certainly not family members!). He wasn't a back-to-the land hobby farmer, but he does understand what I'm trying to accomplish. Dad comes from a family of hardworking, self-sufficient entrepreneurs. He's shown us kids the value of being your own boss and relying on your own two hands whenever possible. I often wish that I'd listened to him more when I was growing up.

When I described my problems in making the numbers work for my envisioned hobby farm operation, Dad made things simple. "You have to remember that a hobby farm is just that: a hobby. You can have a few sheep, a couple goats, some chickens, and a horse or two for fun but not for profit. To make the numbers work, you have to think bigger. You want to sell fleece? You'll need at least 50 to 100 sheep."

The Wrangler tried not to look alarmed. "How many people does it take to care for 50 sheep?" he asked. Dad was matter-of-fact. "Just one. You put the sheep in a five-acre fenced pasture with a gate in the corner, and then rotate them into a second five-acre pasture as needed. Give 'em a three-sided shed for shelter. Sheep are easy. Goats, on the other hand..." We already were well-aware that Dad thinks Goats Are The Worst.

It sounded do-able. The only catch? His business model for my sheep farm would have me selling the older sheep for slaughter. "It's the only way to be profitable," he tried to explain. "You can't keep a bunch of old animals around. The expense of caring for them won't be recovered." Selling my little sheep for meat?? My eyes widened in horror. "No way! The animals get to stay on the farm forever and die peacefully in their sleep at ripe old ages," I proclaimed with benevolence.

"What are you really going to do with a herd of old animals?" Dad asked.

"Maybe the old sheep will naturally get thinned out...taken by predators when they're no longer quick enough to escape," I suggested, only semi-hopefully. Even the "nature conquers" scenario sounds pretty brutal.

"Wouldn't it be better to just spare them that misery, have them slaughtered for meat, and recoup some money?" Dad reasoned.

I see his point, but I just don't want to sell my farm animals for meat. There's got to be another way to make the numbers work. The only problem is that my dad is usually right about things.

Heritage Lawn Mowing

There was a great article in the New York Times today highlighting small agricultural businesses founded by people in their 20s and 30s who have found themselves frozen out of the traditional job market. In particular, I was very interested in the lawn mowing business that rents out sheep to graze on dandelions, grass, and weeds. Customers pay $1 per sheep per day, but the owner also accepts barter payments. These have included karate lessons and maple syrup. Hmmm...

No Ghosts

The Wrangler was out-of-town yesterday, his first time away since we moved out here to the sticks. I knew that my night alone on the farm was going to be either (a) a scary fright night filled with strange creaks, weird shadows, and a pair of strange eyes (human or not) glowing in the darkness outside my window, or (b) a typical cozy night in the country. It was the latter. The sunset over the canyon was breathtakingly beautiful as usual, and the familiar ocean breeze (which rolls in each day at 5PM, like clockwork) blew away the tensions of the workday. As darkness fell, the serenity of the country enveloped the farm, and I felt peaceful and safe. Although the pets and I missed the Wrangler, we were not lonely. We slept soundly.

Back in the cottage in Laguna Beach, I hated nights when the Wrangler was out-of-town. The neighbors seemed louder than normal, the cottage felt stiflingly small, and the pets and I locked ourselves inside after dark. It was hard to sleep. The pets, missing their alpha, were on high alert and barked at any noise.

I guess we are at home in the country.

Missing New England

And so many weeks passed away. Heidi did not know if it was winter or summer, for the walls and windows she looked out upon showed no change....[T]hey generally only saw more fine streets and large houses and crowds of people; they seldom got anywhere beyond them, and grass and flowers, fir trees and mountains, were still far away. Heidi's longing for the old familiar and beautiful things grew daily stronger, so that now only to read a word that recalled them to her remembrance brought her to the verge of tears, which with difficulty she suppressed. So the autumn and winter passed, and again the sun came shining down on the white walls of the opposite houses, and Heidi would think to herself that now the time had come for Peter to go out again with the goats....Heidi would go and sit in a corner of her lonely room and put her hands up to her eyes that she might not see the sun shining on the opposite wall.

--from Heidi, by Johanna Spyri

Built Fjord Tough

While channel surfing I stumbled upon a show on RFDTV ("Rural America's Most Important Network") on the Norwegian Fjord Horse. As the spouse of a proud Norwegian, I paused to learn more about this small but strong breed that was domesticated in western Norway 4,000 years ago.

The Fjord horse is one of the world's oldest and purest breeds. Although ranging in height from only 13.1 to 14.3 hands, the Fjord is strong enough for heavy work loads, such as pulling timber or a plow. At the same time, the Fjord is light and agile enough for competitive riding. It is surefooted on rough terrain and considered to be an excellent driving horse. Its reputation makes it a good choice for riding schools and therapeutic programs. Fjords are good flock guardians and even can be taught to herd sheep. I can see why Fjords have been used for hundreds of years as farm horses in Norway!

The Fjord's distinguishing features include its light draft horse build and a thick mane with a full-length dorsal stripe. The mane usually is clipped to stand erect. I watched the footage of Fjords and their riders with interest. I suspect that, at approximately five hands shorter than Moto, Fjords offer their riders a much softer landing if they fall off--about two feet closer to the ground!

Fjords: they're good-natured, they can be safely ridden, driven, or used for hauling loads, and they work well with sheep...I'm sold.

Counting Sheep

When does the proverbial counting of sheep keep you wide awake instead putting you to sleep? When you've been working on a farm business plan before bed and can't stop going over the numbers in your head. (I did down a highly caffeinated chai latte around 11PM, which admittedly didn't help things.) In addition to the adorable little babydoll Southdown sheep, I've been dreaming of a larger fiber flock of Romneys and Merinos.

I'm a spreadsheet and numbers-oriented kind of gal, and I'm struggling with the figures for a hobby fiber farm. There's the costs for basic animal care (acquiring the sheep, food, fencing, shelter, and veterinary expenses), yearly shearing (to minimize nicks and cuts, this is a task best left to skilled professionals who shear regularly), fiber processing (sorting, washing, fiber cleaning/dehairing, carding, rovings, drafting, spinning, plying, steaming, conewinding, and skeining, not to mention dyeing), marketing (labels), and selling (expenses associated with selling online or at stores and markets). And I'm probably overlooking some major costs.

The numbers indicate that it's possible to eke out a meager profit, but only if I have a fairly large flock. I love the idea of, say, six sheep, but I'm not sure how I feel about 30. The good news is that the Wrangler recently told me, "You can get any animals you'd like." I knew he'd come around.

Common Ground and Common Sense

Saturday afternoon activities at Antlerstock included a discussion of heritage chicken breeds, a home wool processing workshop, and a horse skidding demonstration (using horses to move large logs). Around 5pm we adjourned for a couple hours and would reconvene later for a bonfire. I ventured into town--a blink-and-you'll-miss-it but quaint New England town, complete with the charming country church-and-steeple. Despite having only one coffee shop (which was closed for the day) and no other apparent restaurants, save for the one in the town's hotel, Main Street was home to a fabulous local bookstore. As I browsed the shelves designated for local authors, I was stunned to see that I owned many of the books. I guess authors living in Vermont really speak to me!

Finding not much else to do in town, I returned to the farm to help get ready for the bonfire. A pumpkin carving assembly line was in full swing--the Jack O'Lanterns lined the path to the bonfire. It was BYOHB--bring your own hay bale. We carried hay bales from the barn to the campsite, sat two to a bale around the crackling fire, and enjoyed ice cold local craft beer. Instruments were played, stories were shared. We eventually got rained out and fled to the cozy farmhouse for freshly-pressed cider, hot this time.

I called it a night around 10pm and drove back to my hotel in Manchester (another town with a fabulous local bookstore). I'm a nervous driver and the roads were narrow, winding, and dark. Heavy rain pelted the windshield. The speed limit was 55 but I was afraid to do more than 45. I wondered what I'd do if a car got behind me but, incredibly, not a single car followed me during the 40-minute drive!

Sunday was clear and crisp--a perfect autumn day. Back at Antlerstock I conquered my fear of botulism at the canning workshop! If nothing else the skills I acquired over the weekend will keep me from accidentally (1) burning down the house while soapmaking with lye, (2) poisoning the family with improperly canned vegetables, and (3) felling a tree onto the roof.

The weekend concluded with a field trip to the Common Sense Farm, an organic farm and commercial soap-making enterprise run by a somewhat controversial religious community. The folks have that Amish-look--stoic-looking men with beards and glasses, women and little girls in long dresses with kerchiefs around their heads, long-haired little boys with pony tails. I had some pre-conceived notion that they would be serious and quiet, but it turns out that--shocker--they are just regular people with a normal sense of humor. They didn't proselytize; they talked animatedly about farming, not religion. They were gracious hosts and served us delicious tea made from herbs from their 6-acre herb garden, sweetened with honey from their hives, on their rolling 100-acre farm. The family herbalist introduced us to the various herbs that she grows to address health issues in their community. (It was unclear whether they completely eschew western medicine--my impression was that they prefer natural cures but don't prohibit modern medical treatment.) We toured their immaculate barn to see their chickens, goats, and sheep.

We also toured their soap shop, which is in a beautifully converted barn. The lovely--and very modern--offices were formerly horse stalls. As the story goes, when their community decided to set up shop (literally) in this barn, Estee Lauder/Origins provided the financial backing. The relationship ended in 2001 after the Labor Department found a 15-year-old changing a lightbulb in the soap shop. Origins, although sympathetic, didn't want any controversy. While community living with a factional religious group isn't really my thing, I enjoyed this glimpse into their farming and soap business. I don't know enough about the group to judge whether their tenets are untenable. All is I know is that, despite vastly different backgrounds and beliefs, we found some common ground. Perhaps family farming is the great equalizer, several of us mused.

I had to depart for the airport after the field trip. Jenna, the amazing host of Antlerstock, refused to let me go without a small Mason jar of homemade chili "for the road." I said my goodbyes and might have shed a tear or two in the car as I thought of leaving this lush and pastoral paradise with wonderfully unpredictable weather to return to dry, dusty, monotonously sunny southern California.

What Do You Do at Antlerstock?

What goes on at Antlerstock? Well, the easier question to answer might be, "What doesn't go on at Antlerstock?" The first workshop on Saturday was woodlot management/lumberjacking. I had planned to attend the concurrent cheesemaking class, but I decided to step out my comfort zone and try something completely new. I'm so glad that I did! We started with some good old-fashioned competitive axe throwing. The axe was quite a bit heavier than I expected. After multiple throws, I still couldn't hit the target. The guys seemed to get the hang of it after just one throw. Our instructor hit the bullseye every time. We learned how to use an axe, bow saw, and chain saw. We learned about general safety, notching (replacing the 45-degree notch with a 90-degree notch, based on Swedish forestry methods, has reduced injuries by 30%), back cuts, and escape routes. We felled two large trees. Guess what? Lumberjacks wear chaps.

Next up was Chickens 101. We learned how to construct a brooder and care for chicks, pullets, hens, and roosters. I was fascinated by how easy it is to immobilize a squawking, flapping, frantic chicken: just hold her upside down and she'll fall into a zen-like trance immediately.

Lunch was social affair. I was still full from the quiche (farmstead eggs, broccoli, Vermont cheddar, and of course homemade crust) that was served before the first workshop, but I managed to scarf down the BBQ pork from Flying Pig Farm (the BBQ sauce was made from farmstead honey and maple syrup harvested by Antlerstock attendees), potato soup from Firecracker Farm, and a piece of homemade apple pie...okay, if I'm being honest, two pieces of apple pie! We shook apples from the trees into a sheet and dumped them into the cider press. I held my mug under the spout while someone else cranked away. About 15 of us sat in front of the cozy woodstove and chatted like old friends while others stayed outside and carved pumpkins. The weather was delightfully fall-like: a comfortable 60 degrees with occasional sprinkles.

After lunch I headed to the soapmaking workshop where I finally overcame my fear of lye. I've avoided lye by making glycerine soaps, but let's face it. Glycerine soaps are lame. The big kids make real soap from lye. We donned safety goggles and masks, and by the time the workshop was over, I felt confident that working with lye requires only basic safety precautions--you just avoid inhaling it or splashing it in your eyes.

Sheep 101 was a treat and reaffirmed my hopes and dreams of having sheep of my own very soon. They're gentle and a manageable size and have a calming effect. Unsurprisingly, bottle-raised lambs are extraordinarily affectionate as adults. Although most busy farmers feel some dismay when forced to bottle-feed a lamb who was rejected by its mother, I secretly wouldn't mind the time drain one bit. (And I just know that the Wrangler would let me bottle-feed the lamb in the house, although probably in the mud room.)

There's still loads more to tell, but I suppose that this has been enough for now. I'll write about the Saturday evening and Sunday activities tomorrow. Teaser: we took a field trip to a commune for the herbalism workshop.

Who Goes to Anterstock?

The road to Antlerstock. Literally.

Forgive me if this is just the first in a series of Anterstock posts, but there is so much to tell. What a fantastic weekend in Vermont/New York! Before I describe the activities, sights, and food, I'll clue you in on the kind of people who end up at a small farm workshop in New England hosted by a young farm writer with a devoted blog following. We came from far and wide--a school teacher in Arizona who dreams of having some land in northern Minnesota some day, a Canadian who makes the most of her quarter-acre in the city, a farmstead goat's milk soapmaker from Texas, a forestry professor from upstate New York, a candymaker from Boston, an engineer and speech pathologist couple starting a sheep's milk cheese business, snowboard shop owners from Maine, New York City slickers with container gardens on their balconies, organic farmers living on a commune. All told, there were about 40 of us: maybe a few more women than men but a good mix, and about evenly split between couples and singletons.

You know the person who can easily befriend strangers in the checkout line at the grocery store and who shines in a group setting? That person is not me. The Wrangler usually has to drag me kicking and screaming to a party. I was prepared to be a little uncomfortable and perhaps even quietly duck out early and head back to my hotel. But I had so much in common with everyone that conversation flowed naturally. There was not so much small talk as there was exchanging of ideas. The time flew by. I arrived for the first workshop on Saturday at 10AM and didn't leave until 10PM.

We all have day jobs and farm dreams. Some people have just taken the plunge and had lots to share. Usually when I get one of my more radical ideas, well-meaning friends are quick to tell me why it won't work. At Antlerstock there was no naysaying. "We used our entire life savings to start our business," one attendee told me. "Money that we'd saved for years and years for retirement. Of course it's a little scary. But you know what? What's the worst thing that can happen? We lose all our money and our house. Yeah? So what? No one dies. But what's more likely is that we will succeed because we didn't cut corners. We think it's well worth the risk." (I described this atmosphere of encouragement to one of the Six-Button Cowgirls, which garnered the dry response, "Sounds like a support group for crazies; everyone egging each other on.") No one talked politics but I suspect we covered the full spectrum. Yet we all got along just fine.

When the Wrangler picked me up at the airport, I talked non-stop during the one-hour drive home. He pointed out that many of us at Antlerstock probably are left-brainers--lawyers, engineers, accountants, IT techs--but everyone has some creative juices. Some of us knit, most of us have blogs, and many of us are musical. As we sat on hay bales around the bonfire on Saturday night, various people brought out their guitars, bongo drum, flute, mandolin, and fiddle. We truly were a bunch of urban cowgirls (and urban cowboys) enjoying a bucolic October weekend among new friends.

Next up: the workshops.

Antlerstock

I'm off to Vermont for a long weekend of fun, foliage, farming, and new friends. I'm taking a redeye flight, which I firmly believe is the most efficient way to fly east. I hope I'm not being too ambitious; my itinerary doesn't leave me much time to sleep.

The weekend begins with a lecture and book-signing by acclaimed New York Times bestselling author Jon Katz of Bedlam Farm, an author whose books I've read and enjoyed for years. Then it's off to Antlerstock at Cold Antler Farm. There are too many classes for one person to attend, so I've "narrowed" down my selection to cheese-making, soap-making, basic sheep care, basic chicken care, home wool processing, knitting, canning, intro to mountain music, herbalism, and sheep herding. The meals sound amazing--BBQ pork from nearby Flying Pig Farm (I avoid factory-farmed meat, but the pigs at Flying Pig Farm are humanely-raised in the woods and fields), hand-pressed apple cider, free-range egg quiches, and pizzas made with local cheeses. Although I usually shy away from crowds, this time I'm excited to meet the other 30 attendees who obviously must share my interest in hobby farming.

When asked what he'd do if I didn't make it back to California, the Wrangler promptly said that he'd send me a picture of my sad, lonely puppies every day. So, I guess I will do my best to catch the return flight on Sunday after all.

Let There Bee Light

What was in this giant box that arrived today all the way from the Brushy Mountain Bee Farm in North Carolina? None of your beeswax. Literally. It's my beeswax!

I was inspired to place an order after the Wrangler bought a small beeswax candle for $14.95 at Sprouts last week! I can make five candles that size from one pound of beeswax, which costs about $5.00. I'm no math wizard but even I could see that the $14.95 candle can be replicated for roughly a $1.00. Sure, there's the labor factor to consider but, especially when compared to most of the other crafty things I've attempted, making candles is a breeze.

And I'm sure the candles will come in handy during the next power outage.

Ashokan Farewell

Tonight a huge moon--not quite full, but seemingly brighter than usual--lit up the night sky. It may sound like I'm about to wax poetic again about the farm. But before you roll your eyes, let me add that I'm only pointing out that the moonlight was appreciated because...the freakin' power went out again. Ugh. I'm all for the simple life, but come on. Reliable electricity would be nice, especially around dinner time.

Obviously, the power has been restored. I've been sitting here at the computer researching cold-hardy lavender varieties. The Wrangler is somewhere in the house playing the most beautiful music on his guitar: The "Ashokan Farewell" is a goodnight waltz that begins with a solo violin that later is accompanied by a guitar. It was used in two Civil War films and, thus, is often mistaken for a Civil War-era tune.

I'm signing off now to follow the music down the hall and, yes, probably wax poetic about the farm, power outages and all.

Gratitude

Since I'm always looking ahead and thinking about what's next, it's easy for me to forget to be grateful for what I do have, right here and right now. Today I consciously stopped and counted my blessings.

We slept until 10--late enough so it feels luxurious yet not sloth-like. The morning sun was bright, but the air felt crisp and autumn-y. We let the pets out into the freshly-mowed courtyard, which smelled like a dream. The doggies happily rolled around in the short grass, and the Wrangler played a few chords on the guitar. We all headed inside to the kitchen where I mixed up a coffee cake and Joni Mitchell sang in the background.

This afternoon I went to the barn to ride Moto. I couldn't help sneaking in a few hugs while I brushed his shiny coat. Mmmm. Animals soothe my soul. Meanwhile, the Wrangler hit golf balls at the driving range. We reconvened and had dinner in our small town (population 1800). The restaurant isn't particularly upscale or worthy of a Michelin star, but the ambiance is pleasant, the service is friendly, and the food is tasty. We're lucky to have any place at all in a town of this size. We got home just in time to see the sunset over the ocean, which looked like a thin, sparkly silver ribbon in the distance. The sky glowed with an ostentatious palette of oranges, pinks, and reds. For five minutes I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be. For once I had no complaints at all.

There was no morning at the spa, afternoon of shopping, or dinner at a fancy restaurant. And yet today simply was the loveliest of days.

Pilgrimage

I just finalized the travel plans for what has become an annual fall foliage trip to Vermont. Next weekend, not only will I enjoy scenic drives on winding roads through the Green Mountains ablaze with peak autumn colors, I'll also be attending a small farming workshop. I'll learn about everything from sheep care to lumberjacking. Of course, the danger here is not my solo travels along country roads. The real risk is that the Wrangler will get a text message instructing him to pack up our things, put the pets in the car, and meet me in Vermont. I honestly can't guarantee that I'll ever catch that flight back to Cali.

Smells Like Rain

Storm clouds over the farm

I almost don't want to say it, for fear I'll jinx it. But I'm too excited to hold it in. And, since it's pretty much a sure thing, I might as well just blurt it out...we're getting a storm tomorrow! Yes, for three glorious days this week, the weather will be decidedly winter-like. October is usually the hottest, driest, sunniest month 'round these parts, but it looks like I'm getting a belated birthday gift! Temps are supposed to dip down to the unseasonably cool low 60s. I can curl up in a cozy blanket by the fire, cup of hot cider in hand, veggie chili simmering in the crock pot, apple pie in the oven--without having to turn on the A/C.

Even though my lesson with Moto probably will be rained out tomorrow, it's hard to feel disappointed. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!

Art & Soul

I recently read that if you take all the art in your home and put it in a pile, you will discern a common theme. I mentally walked through each room in the house, taking note of each print, painting, and decorative piece. Aha! The common theme for me is trees! I'm fascinated by this revelation because I certainly didn't plan this on any conscious level. But there it is: an abstract print of autumn leaves here, an impressionist painting of a tree-lined meadow there. Even my decorations are tree-themed--pinecones, wreaths, wood baskets. The focal point of the family room is two stunningly beautiful wood walking sticks, handmade by the Wrangler's father, which are displayed on the fireplace mantle. Every guest has immediately gravitated to them and inquired of their origin.

My fixation on trees makes a lot of sense. I'm not super outdoorsy, so I guess I bring the great outdoors inside. The breathtaking view of the tree-filled canyon was a significant factor in our decision to lease the farm. Every day I say aloud how much I prefer the views here to the city skylines and ocean views we enjoyed in our past houses. This makes perfect sense now.

Of course, most of us decorate with a particular style in mind--country, Tuscan, contemporary, etc. Test the art theory by looking for a theme beyond the decorating style. Maybe this theory doesn't always ring true. Some houses are pleasant but more generic; the place could belong to anyone. But the next time I'm in a home like this, I'm going to take a closer look.

Chickening Out

Bad news on the coop front. We just heard from the owners of the farm we're leasing that we can't have chickens. I'm a little bummed, but their explanation was reasonable. Apparently some of the neighbors (who, like us, are on the hill that backs up to the wildlife canyon) tried keeping chickens. The coyotes went absolutely crazy. They came up from the canyon in multiple packs and swarmed the yards at all hours. We already have quite a coyote presence; I can only imagine what would happen if we got chickens. Even though the coop area is well-fenced, it probably wouldn't be the best thing to have several packs of coyotes stalking the property in broad daylight and howling all night.

It's disappointing, but that's the good thing about only leasing the farm. We're learning as we go, and we're not stuck with any of the mistakes. When I buy a farm or ranch, I now know to really assess the predator situation. Lesson No. 1: Don't assume that fencing can solve the problem. I do see the irony here, though. We escaped the confines of cramped and crowded Laguna Beach...where urban chicken coops are allowed. (Don't worry--I'm not pining to move back.)

Owl in the Family

We have some new pets! A family of beautiful owls made their nest atop the chimney of the fireplace in the master bedroom. Despite the downturn in the housing market, this particular perch is highly sought-after. When we first moved in, the chimney was home to a graceful red-tailed hawk. Alas, a gang of crows foreclosed on the nest and sent the hawk packing. The crows bickered loudly among themselves, clanked around in the morning, and squawked into the night.

One night about a month ago, while I was trying to read and wind down before bed, the noisy racket on the roof seemed exceptionally loud. "That's it! I've had it with these crows!" I slammed my book shut, arose from the bed, and pointed to the fireplace. "Turn it on and crank up the gas," I directed the Wrangler, my voice low, slow, and evil, enunciating each syllable.

Wondering what had possessed his animal-loving wife, the same gal who gets upset upon receiving ASPCA mailings with photos of sad puppies, the Wrangler had no intention of toasting any crows. "Hold on, I'll go outside and see what's up."

After about 10 minutes, the Wrangler came storming back. "They're owls! Owls! The crows are gone. The owls are huge and amazing and beautiful! They're flying back and forth from the chimney to the trees and have enormous wingspans! And you were going to turn on the fireplace!" As if on cue, the rooftop racked stopped and we heard a gentle, "Hoot, hoot." I guess everyone is a little noisy on moving day.

I was sheepish indeed. "I really wasn't going to turn on the fireplace."

We love the soft hoot of the owls and watching them dart back and forth in the night sky. We're happy to have them as our upstairs neighbors, although sometimes the hooting does make it a little hard to sleep. I turn on the TV, and they quiet down immediately. They must be like me and enjoy falling asleep to old episodes of Seinfeld.

Born To Pin

I'm always behind the times when it comes to technology or cyberspace. (Do people even use the word "cyberspace" anymore? See what I mean?) For this, I'm unapologetic. My average monthly cell phone usage rarely exceeds 20 minutes--long live the landline! We have one or maybe even two iPads now that I think of it, but it's/they're gathering dust somewhere in a closet. It takes me a couple minutes to send a one-line text and I NEED COMPLETE SILENCE while I do so. I'll never Twitter. And GPS? Seems sneaky. So you get the point. I really should have been born in the 19th century.

Accordingly, please excuse me if I'm a bit late to the game here, but one of the Six-Button Cowgirls just introduced me to Pinterest, and I'm officially hooked. If you're like me and not in the know, there was a good article in the San Francisco Chronicle today that will give you the gist. In short, Pinterest lets us create online idea boards and share our additions. It's a great way to get inspired or simply catalog your own thoughts. I'm so excited to step into the now! I can stop keeping the huge binders of ideas that I've been compiling since the '80s. Yes, the '80s. Binder No. 1, completed at the tender age of nine, is filled with tips from Teen magazine for decorating your locker and bedroom, as well as photos torn from Town & Country magazine depicting glamourous equestrians at their country homes. (I did indeed subscribe to the patrician Town & Country as a middle-class fourth grader living in a banal suburb in the Midwest.)

I'm also a big fan of mood boards, a staple from the Wrangler's ad agency days. He stills brings home black foam core boards for me. I tend to jump from one big idea to another, so to keep me on track, he'll help me find photos to make a mood board about a particular idea, e.g., farms. (I do realize that such pastime is popular with both (a) creative genius ad execs and (b) five-year-olds.) At any rate, I now can create these boards online with just the click of my mouse--no glue, scissors, or magazines required. I don't even have to upload photos. When I see something I like on the web, I just click a "pin" button.

Can't. Stop. Pinning.

No Scrooges Allowed

It's no secret around here that I love Christmas an abnormal amount. I once founded a Christmas Club for ladies who love Christmas, but no one else wanted to meet in the "off season" of January through October. I've been known to unabashedly set up the Christmas village as early as October 1st, and I bake Christmas cookies well into February. And, yes, I've been lobbying for an 18-foot artificial Christmas tree this year.

So what if an 18-foot artificial tree is impractical, cumbersome, and a decorating nightmare? None of these arguments take into account the hours, days, weeks, and even years of sheer Christmas bliss that such a tree surely would bring. I'd curl up in front of the massive tree and doze off on a cozy Sunday afternoon. I'd watch the thousands of white lights twinkle as twilight set in on a chilly December evening. I'd stack festively wrapped packages with enormous bows under the lowest branches. In the spirit of frugality, I'd even forego any Christmas presents for myself. ("Nothing's stopping you from doing any of these things with a 10-foot tree," the Wrangler has noted wryly.) I'm not being profligate; I'd use the tree for years to come. It would be, as they say, an investment piece.

I usually can get the Wrangler on board with some of my more whimsical ideas. Once in a while, though, I can tell that he isn't going to budge. That's when a modern cowgirl has to take matters into her own hands. I figure there's about a 50/50 chance that, should the 18 feet of Christmas glory just happen to show up on our doorstep (a Christmas miracle!), the Wrangler--much like Ebenezer or, say, the Grinch--will see the errors of his ways. Far from grumbling over the logistics of assembling and decorating an 18-foot tree, he'll take a vacation day to string the lights. ("I'm sooo glad you went ahead and got this magical, majestic tree of cheer, tra la," he'll murmur appreciatively.)

But just in case...I suppose I better read that return policy.

Moo!

I've been threatening to get a cow for a while. Goats are fun, and I have no doubt that I'll love having a couple around the farm once I figure out the fencing situation, but I still haven't acquired a taste for goat's milk. I'm currently engrossed in Philip Hasheider's Family Cow Handbook, which has affirmed my belief that this family needs a beautiful, docile, Jersey cow.

Speaking of cows...out here in the country, we stumble upon interesting things all the time. On our way home from lunch today, the Wrangler and I just happened to see a cattle roping competition taking place at one of the many nearby riding stables. I'd never seen a roping event. In Montana we gathered cattle and did some team penning, but neither gathering nor penning involves roping. It was hard to not feel the excitement today, as each pair of riders burst out of the gate and tried to lasso the cow within a matter of seconds. But the sport quickly became difficult to watch because I felt so bad for the poor cows! It also made me wonder about team penning. Even though there are no ropes involved, I'm sure the cows don't like it.

Powerless

Oh sure, it was mildly fun to roast marshmallows by the campfire during the big power outage in San Diego county last week. If I'm being honest, though, the 12 hours without electricity were pretty dull. Now that I'm on the farm, I'm probably slightly more prepared than the average person for a natural disaster. The family could make it a couple weeks without electricity or access to town. But would we want to? Heck no. When the power was out last Thursday night, we were so bored without internet, computers, and lighting sufficient for reading that we went to bed about four hours earlier than usual. Yes, four hours. You can only strum the guitar by the campfire for so long.

As soon as we had power I ran to my computer, went directly to the Lehman's website, and snapped up anything that is powered by solar or hand-crank. In reflecting on some of the more impulsive purchases, I have to admit that I really didn't need a hand-operated cider press. But just think how productive I'll be during the next blackout!

Getting Moto Moving

I'm riding more often now that I'm leasing Moto again. It's wonderful to have something to look forward to several times a week. I don't even mind the commute to the barn, which has tripled since I moved to the farm.

Ah, Moto. Despite his size, I feel safe riding him because he is lazy. Although it's hard to get him going, I'll take a lazy horse over a touchy, spunky horse any day. Of course, his laziness necessitates the discussion of riding aids used to communicate with horses. Natural aids include leg pressure, voice, and hand and seat position. Artificial aids include spurs, whips, and crops (a very short and stiff variation of the whip). Although they sound severe, spurs, whips, and crops are commonly used as corrective tools. On the one hand, I know that it's important, for safety reasons, for the horse to obey and know who is (more or less) in charge. On the other hand, I can't help but think that only exceptional circumstances--such as needed medical attention--justify inflicting even minor pain on an animal. I have a hard enough time thinking about the bit and bridle and the fact that a horse has to tote me around on his poor back!

I don't wear spurs, and I don't use a whip. At my instructor's suggestion, I do carry a crop. Despite squeezing my calves against Moto's sides with all my might, I was having a hard time getting Moto moving. I've found that, even though I don't use it, just carrying the crop helps. Moto can see it out of the corner of his eye.

But the crop probably motivates me more than Moto. I've been told that a little tap of the crop on his shoulder feels like nothing more than a light smack on your bottom--it just lets the horse know that you mean business. Nonetheless, I don't want to use it. But if I can't get Moto moving with my legs, my instructor directs me to give him a tap with the crop. Thus, I put literally all I've got into making him move off my legs alone.

I end each session drenched in sweat and go home to soak my aching ab, thigh, and calf muscles in the tub. It's quite a workout, riding a lazy horse.

Weird Week

It was sort of a weird week on the farm. It began on Sunday night when we awoke to a flash (lightning) and a crash (thunder). First, I've never heard thunder like that in Southern California. Second, the lightning struck something in our grove. It was so close we could feel the energy in the air. Third, we haven't had rain in months, and we don't expect any until November. We're in the middle of wildfire season; I was convinced that the lightning would spark a brush fire in our canyon. I envisioned us running from the flames, with pets and boxes of family photos in tow.

On Monday night, even though it wasn't raining, we were treated to the largest rainbow I've seen. It arched directly over our house, a beacon. The sky turned purple and gold, and the air felt both magical and eerie. I thought we'd have an earthquake for sure.

Tuesday and Wednesday temperatures soared to the triple-digits with Houston-like humidity. This, again, highly unusual for our region.

And then on Thursday afternoon, the lights went out...in all of San Diego county and parts of Orange County and Riverside County and Arizona and Mexico. For a while cell phone towers were down as well. Traffic signals didn't work, turning the Wrangler's usual 40-minute commute into a three-hour nightmare. We scrounged up a campfire dinner of s'mores, brushed our teeth by candlelight, and headed to bed around 9PM--about four hours early. Power was restored at 3AM.

We're almost through Friday and, so far, nothing magical or strange.

Back to the Start

Pop Over

I have a dark secret: I haven't baked much bread since moving to the farm. Every time I walk into the kitchen, I am shamed by the idle bags of flour, jars of yeast, and spacious countertops perfect for kneading dough. I don't bake as much during the summer, so perhaps I'll throw on an apron and get serious in a couple of months. In the mean time, I've been appeasing our guests with popovers.

Ah, the popover, a staple of my childhood. My mom made popovers--perfectly light and fluffy on the inside and a crisp golden brown on the outside--in the mornings and served them piping hot from the oven with butter and jam. Many supper clubs serve them with dinner. (I could write a separate blog entry on midwestern supper clubs, which I adore.)

I don't think that the popover, which purportedly is the American version of Yorkshire pudding, is a midwestern thing. But for some reason, I've never seen them served in restaurants on the east or west coasts. And so far, none of my guests have been familiar with popovers. One friend who is a very skilled bread baker was amazed that popovers aren't a yeast bread. "No yeast," I told him. "Just flour, eggs, milk and a pinch of salt." I could tell he didn't believe me.

My point here is that everyone who comes to the farm sort of expects to be greeted by the smell of freshly baked bread. I can't seem to set aside a few hours for bread baking, but popovers are doing the trick quite nicely. They're delicious, festive, easy to make, inexpensive, and low-cal/low-fat. I guarantee that you have the ingredients on hand.

I use my mom's recipe, which is adapted from the Betty Crocker cookbook:

4 eggs

2 cups flour

2 cups milk

1 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Grease a popover or muffin pan.

Beat the eggs by hand just until mixed (don't overdo).

Add the flour, milk, and salt. Mix just until smooth.

Fill the popover cups 2/3 full. If using a muffin pan fill the cups 1/2 full.

Bake at 450 for about 20-25 minutes. Lower temp to 350 and bake another 15-20 minutes until golden brown and puffy.

Serve with homemade honey butter and jam for a sweet popover in the morning. For a savory popover with dinner, serve with meat, au jus, or gravy.

Evening on the Farm

A Gouda Day

The Winchester Cheese Company is located just 10 minutes northeast of Temecula, but in a scorched valley. The thermometer in the car read 94 degrees. (It was only 80 degrees back home on the farm.) As we turned off the main road onto the dusty dirt road, I saw lots of cows grazing not on grass but just dry, brown earth. "These are the Happy Cows?" I asked the Wrangler rhetorically, referring to the California dairy advertisements that depict California cows as being much happier than their blizzard-prone midwestern counterparts. "I think the Wisconsin cows with their green pastures have a leg up on this sorry lot."

The Wrangler, a fellow former midwesterner who has long since transferred his loyalties to California (with the exception of his affinity for the Minnesota Vikings), was less disparaging. "What are you talking about? These cows are having a blast. They're hanging out in the sun--not cooped up in some factory farm." Good point. As we continued up the road, I embraced the Wrangler's optimism...which quickly faded as we turned into the parking lot of the Winchester Cheese Company.

Scanning the three trailer homes strung together in front of us, I couldn't help announcing, "Well, we're not in Vermont." We made our way to the trailer with the neon "Open" sign. Things didn't look much better inside.

We did sample five delicious goudas--from a crumbly, sharp gouda aged five years down to their best-selling 60-day aged cheese (a mild but flavorful, smooth and somewhat creamy gouda). The cheese store trailer houses the table of cheese samples, a refrigerator filled with cheese for purchase, and a few shelves of tacky cow knick-knacks. The 70s decor is relic, not even throwback. But the sales staff is friendly and knowledgeable. After asking a few questions about the cheese operation, the Wrangler and I suddenly found ourselves on a fascinating, impromptu private tour of the "factory."

Donning hair nets, we headed to the cheese cave where the cheese is aged. It's not so much a cave as it is a carefully climate-controlled (66 degrees), sterile room in what I presume is a double-wide trailer. Rows and rows of cheese wheels in all sizes are aging on racks. Some are aged not for sale but for research; a few wheels of cheese date back to 2003. We were shown the immaculate but surprisingly small room where the cheese is made. With the exception of the giant tub in which the milk is stirred, none of the equipment is automated. The cheese truly is handmade. We saw the brine tubs that are never emptied, and the edible vegetable-based solution that is painted on each wheel (instead of wax). The solution allows the cheese to breathe and continue its aging process until the moment the cheese is eaten.

In its heyday, the Winchester Cheese Company had a working dairy operation and produced award-winning farmstead cheese featured in a Wolfgang Puck special (which we watched on a video in the office trailer). Today, the cows are gone and it buys its milk from dairies. The sales staff hinted at management problems--the founder passed away last year--and acknowledged that cheese isn't being made on schedule.

After watching the video of Wolfgang Puck's visit to the Winchester Cheese Company and his subsequent preparation of a gouda and prosciutto panini made with Winchester Cheese Company gouda, the Wrangler and I felt faint with hunger. We remembered that the Temecula Valley Cheese Company sells Winchester Cheese Company gouda. As we said our goodbyes and departed for Old Town Temecula, I noticed that the three trailers comprising the cheese store, office, and factory no longer looked so forlorn. They're not quaint and picturesque like the pastoral Vermont cheese farms. But there's a lot of heart and soul in those trailers.

P.S. We did get our gouda and prosciutto panini made with Winchester Cheese Company gouda at the charming Temecula Valley Cheese Company. While we were eating, a customer marched up to the cheese case, chanting "gouda! gouda!" My thoughts exactly.

This Isn't Your Mother's Front Yard

How rad is this? On a drive through town, we spotted someone eschewing the manicured lawn ideal by growing pumpkins in his front yard. Nice!

"Just follow your heart...that's what I do." --Napoleon Dynamite

When I'm on the fence about something and can't reach a decision, I, like many people, make a list of pros and cons. (Of course, my fastidious self takes this a bit further by categorizing and assigning weights to each pro and con before tabulating the results...on an Excel spreadsheet...yeesh...I know.) But sometimes the right choice defies logic and reason; sometimes it's a mistake to choose what looks best on paper. I supposes that a lot of people learn this the hard way in choosing careers or even spouses!

After my fall from the magnificent Miki Moto, riding sweet Francie seemed to be the safest and most logical decision. Francie is older and a little smaller, with a smoother gait, than Moto. Gentle Francie is beloved among beginners, and a great partner for a newly-timid, slightly gimpy, accident-prone, inexperienced rider like myself. Francie and I were to be quite the team.

But of this, a despair. It was a good match only on paper. I made zero progress over the past nine months. Francie knew I wasn't in charge. In June, I took a break from riding--partly because my awesome instructor was on vacation, but equally because I wasn't enjoying riding. It's hard to enjoy riding when you're scared off your you-know-what.

Two weeks ago, I decided to throw reason to the wind. It wasn't doing me any good anyway. I started riding again, but this time on Moto. So what if he's a giant with a rocking horse gait? He's the horse I loved to ride. And guess what? He still is!

Go Nuts

The Wrangler and I had to make a Big Box Store run to the 'burbs on Saturday to pick up various supplies, which got me feeling a little down. I love our farm and the small towns nearby, but I'm not too keen on some of the large surrounding cities: traffic, crowds, scrappy strip malls. I do realize that I'm starting to sound OLD. Perhaps tranquility, peace, and quiet age us faster than noise and chaos?!

Today the Wrangler and I got our country groove back by taking a scenic 15-minute drive down Old Castle Road to the Bates Nut Farm. The 100-acre ranch and general store is probably the closest you can come to something like my beloved Vermont Country Store here in Southern California. The drive was incredible. Winding roads lined with coniferous trees (reminiscent of my native Minnesota), with "peeks of peaks" in the distance. As much as I'd like to bemoan the dusty, dry ranches of northern San Diego county that are so unlike the lush green rolling hills I dream of, I'm struck by the beauty in this desert landscape.

The Bates Nut Farm has spacious--and dog-friendly--picnic areas under shady trees, and hospitable ducks, geese, sheep, llamas, and goats. The ostriches and miniature donkeys are, perhaps, of the grumpy sort, as they are kept a bit beyond reach. The pumpkin patch opens in late September, so I know where I'll be getting my pumpkins this year. But next year, I'll be getting them from my own patch.

Farm Fresh

We're hosting a house guest this weekend, and it's fun to plan menus that take advantage of the fresh food grown right here on the farm or just a few miles down the way: lemonade made with lemons from our orchard and garnished with mint from our garden; caprese salad made with local farmstand tomatoes, basil from the garden, mozzarella from the Rainy Day Ranch creamery, of course, and drizzled with the Temecula Olive Oil Company's finest; home-baked bread with homemade honey butter (featuring local honey, of course); the Wrangler's signature guacamole dip with avocados plucked from the trees literally minutes before mashing; lots of oranges and tangerines; and maybe some fresh pomegranate juice if I can scrounge up a basketful of pomegranates. They're not in season until September, but we do have a few.

I'm acting country cool, but I have to admit that all of these things could be made with ingredients from container gardens in the city. We did all of this stuff back in the cottage. I guess the real excitement starts when I'm growing things like pumpkins, or getting eggs and milk from my own animals. (I'm not sure about the idea of eating meat from animals raised on my own farm--my pesky anthropomorphism gets in the way.)

But in the mean time, I will try to be present in the moment as I sit back and relax with some freshly squeezed lemonade and a warm slice of bread right out of the oven.

New Hobby

The First Month

We've been on the farm for exactly one month now. One month down, eight to go, in this experiment of ours.

I love: the open spaces, astounding views, abundant wildlife, absence of city noises, seeing things every day that remind me I'm not in the city anymore--like the guy (albeit illegally and disturbingly) selling wolf puppies in the grocery store parking lot.

I don't mind too much: having to drive about 30 minutes for big box store shopping, commuting an hour to work, the slower pace of people in town.

I wish that: this "gentleman's farm" were a bit less genteel and a bit more "farm." Granted, test-driving a fancy little farm was the right thing to do. This urban cowgirl has always been more urban than cowgirl. I might have been overwhelmed and high-tailed it right back to the city if I'd been abruptly thrown into rustic living conditions.

I'm starting to suspect, however, that our neighborhood (which consists of 20 small avocado farms) is for posers like me with day jobs in the city. We're all probably more of a motley crew of misanthropes seeking solitude than homesteaders looking to connect with the land. From what I can tell, everyone's grove (including ours) is managed by a third-party service. The service takes care of all the avocado maintenance, harvesting, shipping, and sales, and sends the property owner a check. In other words, there ain't no one really farmin' 'round here.

Only one neighbor has horses and chickens. It's hard to tell what goes on behind all the grand gates, but from the road I see an awful lot of well-manicured lawns; acres of useless green lawns in a desert climate. Some people do have small vineyards. But, with the exception of our one equine-friendly neighbor, I haven't seen any barns. No goats, no sheep, no llamas. I just learned that the community once had beautiful horse trails, but the property owners voted to merge the land for trails back into individual lots.

I do love it here of course. Complaining about anything these days is, yes, like complaining that gold coins falling from the sky hurt my head. And just down the road, right outside our neighborhood of avocado farms, there are true hobby farms with horses, goats, and bees galore.

I'm always looking ahead. On the one hand, this attitude drives me to accomplish things. On the other hand, I guess it's a major personality flaw--the exact opposite of being present in the moment. Regardless, right now I'm looking ahead to having a BARN.

More Moto

I just learned that, beginning this week, I'll be back on Moto! I haven't ridden him since I fell last July, but I'm not too concerned. After all, my fall wasn't in any way Moto's fault. I'm telling myself that Moto's size doesn't mean much. Really, does falling from a small horse versus a tall horse make that much of a difference? I'll probably get hurt either way.

I never was that comfortable riding Francie. She's a good girl, but more often than not, I felt frustrated and scared. This largely was due to my own lack of confidence, skill, and strength--I'm not the same rider that I was before the accident. But it also was because Francie and I didn't have a great partnership. I didn't trust her, and she didn't trust me.

And so I need to see whether I'm also frustrated and scared on Moto. If so, then I'll step away from riding regularly. Horseback riding will become something I do only when I'm on vacation. But if I feel comfortable back on Moto, then it's game on.

Summer Nights

The rest of the country is suffering through a heat wave, but here on the farm we get cool breezes every day starting around 5PM. Some of the trees in the avocado grove recently were trimmed, and we have lots of great firewood for our evening campfires. Avocado wood seems to burn clean--no smoke and no sparks. We're stocking Jiffy-Pop popcorn, ingredients for s'mores, and pie fillings and Wonder bread. (The Wrangler makes a special campfire pie by spraying the inside of a campfire sandwich press with non-stick spray, pouring some canned pie filling between two slices of Wonder bread--I don't know why it has to be Wonder brand, but it just does--and toasting the concoction over the fire until golden brown. Apple pie filling is my favorite; the Wrangler prefers cherry or blueberry. You would never guess it's Wonder bread and not delicious pie crust.)

The quiet, the breeze, and the starry night sky erase the tension from the day's work in the city. But amid the romance, reality rears its head. While I was busy waxing poetic by the fire, Fenway quite literally reveled in the good smells of the country (in other words, rolled in some animal poop outside) and then beelined it for the house and called it a night. Let's just say it took us a little too long to learn of his transgression.