Big News

With all the logistics more or less in place, I finally can announce that we are moving to New England at the end of the month! After five years of moaning about missing rainy days, waxing poetic about fall colors, and envying our east coast friends sleeping in on snow days, I suppose I can shut up. A 10-acre farm with a cozy country house and a proper 4-stall barn amid apple orchards, country stores, and equestrian farms awaits us and the animals.

California has been an excellent host these past five years. Even though cramped and crowded Laguna Beach wasn't my cup of tea, it's stupid to complain about living just blocks from the Pacific ocean. We had a marvelous year here on the avocado farm, which gave us a solid introduction to country living. Best of all, we've met lots of dynamic and interesting friends--people with big ideas and loads of talent. And, yes, I'll admit that it's possible I will miss the weather out here when I'm shoveling a path to the barn next January in sub-zero weather. (I like winter, but I'm not a complete weirdo. Temps below zero are not ideal.)

Nonetheless, we're not getting any younger, and there's still so much more to see and do.

"What's next?" I asked the Wrangler, as we started sorting through our closets.

The Wrangler paused to consider. "Well, our priority is getting those paddocks ready for the goats and sheep, because the current horse fencing won't keep them in. I still have to call the cable company. I'm not sure how the oil heating system works..."

"No, I mean what are we going to do after we've done the New England farm thing?' I asked, dreamily. "Maybe a ranch in Montana? A cabin in Alaska? I've always wanted to live in Seattle. What about a sheep farm in the Irish countryside? I would love all the green hills." I stopped when I saw the Wrangler's face. "Never mind! I suppose we should get through this move first, huh?"

We've finished this west coast chapter--but the book isn't closed. Who knows what the future holds?

More

Don't adjust your screen....
Elmo is standing on the photographer's back 

If you can bear with yet more goat news, I will tell you that 3.5 goats are litter box trained now. I say 3.5 because Oscar only sort of gets it. He puts his front hooves in the litter box, but fails to scoot the back (and most important) half of his body into the box. Come on, Oscar! Even baby Neko gets it.

Each goat got a bath in the mudroom sink today. I think they enjoyed the nice warm water even though they didn't want to admit it. I was expecting loud meltdowns, but only Oscar cried--and it really was just one or two half-hearted m-e-h-h-h-h-hs. I used all-natural lavender shampoo and conditioner for pets. Lavender is a natural insect repellant, so I'm hoping this will be enough. I hate the thought of chemical pet shampoos.

Believe it or not, goats are not the only thing on our minds around here. We visited Moto, who seems to be warming up to the Wrangler. The Wrangler knows the ropes now and can handle the grooming and hand-walking with ease. Moto just received his routine quarterly vaccinations and is scheduled for his annual teeth floating next Monday. It's remarkable to see how much his mood has improved since he was cleared to resume trotting. Moto's trainer says she can tell that he's glad to be "back to work," and I sure can tell the difference, too. He's less impatient and seems more relaxed. His winter weight is coming off, and he is as handsome as ever.

And so things are happy here. I did, however, halt our quest to buy a farm in this area. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it's truly beautiful 'round these parts. The climate is pleasant for animals, and I've met some wonderful people in this little town, people I now call friends. But I can't shake my vision of a charming country cape surrounded by acres and acres of green grass on rolling hills and trees that explode with color in the fall. I see an old barn and spacious fenced paddocks for content goats and sheep and horses and chickens. I smell an approaching thunderstorm, and I hear raindrops falling. I see fireflies light up a summer night. I feel the change in the air as summer fades. I revel in the mere possibility of a snow day. I breath in the crisp air when I throw open all the windows on the first day of spring. In the past year, I've made some real progress toward my dream that is the Rainy Day Ranch....I might as well keep going until I get there.

Rainy Day

It was a wonderful, refreshing, cozy rainy day here on the farm. This kind of weather makes me forget New England for a moment. The drizzle let up by early evening, so I met my riding instructor at the nearby barn where she keeps her own two horses. She splits her time teaching riding lessons at Moto's barn in Orange County and working for her family's nursery. She also tends to her horses for an hour or two every single day.

I'm trying to learn everything and anything about horse care, so I tagged along as she turned out and fed her horses. I was like a four-year-old kid who asks too many questions: "Why...?" "How...?" "What...?" My nonstop chatter disrupted the otherwise tranquil twilight, but my saintly instructor's patience never wore thin.

It was raining again by the time I got home. It would have been a perfect night for chili or stew, but I was so engrossed in horsey stuff that I forgot to pick up ingredients for dinner. I did stir up a batch of my homemade granola, so the house smells delightful if nothing else.

As I write this I hear raindrops on the roof, soft sighs from the pets, and the Wrangler's guitar. Life is good when it rains.

Pick Your Poison

The Bonsall Landfill

As much as the Wrangler and I love it here on the avocado farm--or, actually, because of how much we love it here on the avocado farm--we've started shopping for a farm of our own. Our time here always was intended to be part of a brief, nine-month experiment in country living. We've learned a lot about what we want: a place for animals (all kinds of animals) is our top priority, with views, quiet, and lots of open space coming in second, third, and fourth. Planned "equestrian communities" are out. Before moving in here we thought that a nice, not-too-rural planned equestrian community would be perfect for us, but it turns out that it's just a little too planned for our tastes. Bring on the rural!

But even a good hour out of expensive Orange County, it's hard to find acreage at a reasonable price. There are so many of us Southern Californians, and very little desirable land. I'm particularly dismayed to discover the lack of farmhouse-style dwellings. There are plenty of 1990s-style two-stories ('80s and '90-era builders sure loved their prominently featured garages), Spanish-style, Mediterranean-style, and eyesore no-style houses. All new construction is ranch-style ("all one level for our aging population"). It's clear that compromises must be made, and we're searching far and wide. If nothing satisfactory turns up nearby, we'll consider buying a farm or ranch somewhere else for use as a vacation property.

Our search has in fact revealed a few properties that seem to be exactly what we're looking for--acreage, a barn, fenced pastures, beautiful views, semi-charming farmhouse (reasonably updated with potential), and priced to sell! We couldn't believe our luck. But my lawyer-side always is looking for the "catch" and, so far, there has been one--and a real doozy, at that--every time.

Case number one: the Little Farm in the Valley. Priced so low that it initially fell outside my search parameters, this house seemed to be made for us. We drove about 10 minutes from our current house and turned down a lovely, winding road. On the right were gentle hills dotted with chaparral. On the left was a large open space--acres and acres (122 acres to be exact). Oddly, it was mowed and had an extensive irrigation system. "Must be growing something there," the Wrangler remarked. I didn't agree. "I don't see anything growing, the irrigation system seems to be diverting water away from the land, and what's with the massive fence?" Strands of electrical fencing ran along the top of a 12-ft. high chain-linked fence. "Whatever is going on in there, someone sure wants to keep people out." We continued down the road about a quarter of a mile, entering a valley of storybook beauty. When we stopped the car in front of the farmhouse, we were delighted to see a small stream running through the property.

Fast-forward. I needed to know more about that strange parcel of fenced grass. Literally an hour prior to meeting our realtor to sign our offer, I found the catch. The strange parcel is an unused landfill--a dump! It operated from 1968 to 1985 (which means it was unlined because no one thought about contamination in those days), and currently is the subject of considerable controversy due to numerous violations. It has contaminated the drinking water in nearby wells and is leaching toxic substances into the storm water drainage system. I couldn't stop thinking about that little stream that runs through the property. "Maybe the chemical soup would make my lavender grow sky-high." I tried to be optimistic, but I knew that we'd never be comfortable living a quarter mile downstream from the landfill.

I'll spare you the extensive details about the other two places, but let me just say that the move-in ready, four-acre gentleman's farm with barn and pasture is...12 miles from a nuclear power plant, which has sent cancer rates soaring in the neighboring towns. And the 50-acre Christmas tree farm (yes! a Christmas tree farm--how amazingly perfect!) comes with not only Christmas trees but...a family cemetery. Yes, unfortunately, plenty of people live within close proximity to nuclear power plants, landfills, or other environmental nightmares. But perhaps my brother summed it up best: If we buy near one, then there's really no point in adopting an organic lifestyle anymore. Granted, there's nothing really dangerous (I don't think) about having one's own cemetery. If push comes to shove, I could probably get on board with that one.

Can you just see us on that HGTV show House Hunters? "Will they take the pastoral farm near the landfill; the move-in ready hobby farm near the nuclear reactor; or the amazing Christmas tree farm with its own cemetery?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Tuning Out

Turns out, we might have been a little couch potato-ish when we lived in the cottage. As we were sitting outside by the fire tonight, the Wrangler and I realized that we never watch TV anymore. We do, however, play more music--on the iTunes but also on our instruments. There's just something about rolling hills, dreamy sunsets, and crackling campfires that make you want some background music instead of background chatter. We can strum our guitars as loud as we like, or we can crank up the volume for our speakers until the bass rattles. The coyotes probably think we're rude, but they can't call the cops.

Home Safety

I'm convinced that cell phones cause cancer, although purportedly, there are no studies that show a direct link. In the absence of anything conclusive, isn't it logical to just use your common sense? And common sense tells me that holding a device that emits and receives electromagnetic radiation near my brain probably isn't the best thing. At any rate, I've taken an interest in reducing everyday toxins and health risks in the home.

I found an interesting book, The Healthy Home: Simple Truths To Protect Your Family from Hidden Household Dangers. I like the book's approach, which recognizes that completely eliminating health risks from the modern home isn't practical. Instead, the book suggests little things we can do to reduce risks. For example, toxic or not, nonstick cookware is here to stay. If I have to soak and scrub a food-crusted skillet every night, you can bet that I won't be doing much cooking. And eating out is probably worse for us than aluminum-laced home-cooked meals. But I'm phasing out plastic storage containers in favor of glass containers. Little steps.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that this newest mission is driving the Wrangler absolutely crazy. At least five times a day, I spout wisdom from the "Home Safety" book:

"The Home Safety book says that your brand of deodorant is the most toxic," I yelled to the Wrangler through the bathroom door this morning.

"The Home Safety book says that you should avoid microwaved popcorn because of the chemicals in the lining of the bags," I informed the Wrangler, shaking my head in disapproval, as he looked for snacks in the kitchen cabinet.

"The Home Safety book says that if you can't avoid wearing dry-cleaned clothing, then you should sleep on organic cotton sheets. That way at least one-third of your day is spent without chemicals rubbing against your skin," I explained earnestly, as we headed to the store in search of new bedding.

"The Home Safety book says that..." I began, as the Wrangler poured himself a bowl of cereal.

"Okay, Sweets. Enough of the Home Safety book," the Wrangler interrupted. "I can't stand that book," he added, with considerable feeling.

"It's just that the Home Safety book says that many so-called "healthy" cereals have a high glycemic index," I said very, very softly. I couldn't help it.

The Wrangler looked me squarely in the eye and took a huge bite of cereal. Point taken.

Apparently, reducing household toxins may be harmful to household relationships.

Change

Big news: we're officially moving within the next two months! Goodbye Laguna Beach cottage.

I'm just back from another wonderful trip to Montana and the Mountain Sky Ranch. I'm in love with that Ranch. I love it so much that I can never to move to Montana; if I lived there it would be sort of impractical to spend my vacations down the road at Mountain Sky. But my annual tradition is going to become a semi-annual tradition. While May is for us cowgirls only, I'm planning a September trip to the Ranch for the Wrangler and me.

In the mean time, there's a lot to accomplish. We've got to work out the details for the move, plan for the sheep, and make some big decisions. Change is in the air.

Baker's Delight

This winter has been particularly brutal. After the epic rainfall here in SoCal, the unprecedented ice storms across the south, the weeks of sub-zero temps in the Midwest, and the record-setting blizzards in the east, I need a little reassurance that the ranch will have heat and a method of cooking if nature shows the power grid who's the boss. Thus, I've been researching dual-function wood-fired ovens. If pressed, I'll admit that I'm probably motivated less by the practicality of these charming ovens and more by romantic notions of stoking a fire in the cookstove and baking bread in a cozy cottage while a winter storm howls outside.

I had pretty much decided on the Baker's Oven featured in the Lehman's Non-Electric Catalog. The Baker's Oven can heat a 700 square-foot room while the cooktop accommodates four large saucepans and the bottom oven is used for baking. But I recently saw a post on another blog discussing the Vermont Bun Baker. Aside from having a catchier name, the Vermont Bun Baker comes with an attractive soapstone hearth, side wall, and top.

Not cheap, these ovens. (The Vermont Bun Baker 1500 pictured here will set you back a cool $6950.00.) Why does it cost so much to have a back-up plan?

New Year

Happy New Year! 2011 is off to an auspicious start--my orthopedic surgeon officially discharged me from his care today, which also means that I can quit physical therapy. It has been six months to the day since I fell off Moto. Things still are creaky and hurt now and then, but I really can't complain. I've also got a full line-up of activities this season: yoga, ballet, piano, and horseback riding lessons. As one of the Six-Button Cowgirls points out, swap soccer for yoga and mine is the schedule of a 12-year-old girl. Ah, but there is little danger of illusions of youth here. Especially now that my once-broken bone throbs when it rains--certainly, the hallmark of the aged.

Mouse House

We have a mouse. That's what you get when you leave the patio doors wide open to enjoy the ocean breeze on warm summer evenings. I made the discovery yesterday when I noticed a large chunk missing from a loaf of bread. Don't get me wrong, a mouse in the house is gross. But I've gotten much more relaxed about things like this. I see the barn cat kill mice all the time when I'm at the stables. Rodents are part of ranch life. Of course, that doesn't mean I want one in the house and eating my bread.

The Wrangler is on mouse patrol. He's done this once before, a couple Octobers ago when a mouse broke in and ate all our Halloween candy. I don't mean to criticize my better half, but it must be said that Operation Mighty Mouse wasn't the smoothest or most aggressive campaign. The soft-hearted Wrangler's weapon of choice is the catch-and-release trap, which provided our clever guest with many delightful appetizers (cheese, crackers, candy) but did not, uh, do the trick. After a week of empty traps and stolen bait, the Wrangler was forced to admit that the catch-and-release traps were doing nothing more than just feeding the fellow.

He conceded that it was time to move on to a traditional snap trap. At bedtime, I'd corral the puppies into the bedroom while the Wrangler set the traps in the living room and kitchen. During the next 20 minutes, the puppies and I would hear a SNAP! and then the Wrangler shouting "ouch!" Then another SNAP! and the Wrangler's "arghh!" And yet another SNAP! followed by a "darn it!" (Unlike this urban cowgirl who's been known to launch a few decidedly non-ladylike words on occasion, the genteel Wrangler does not swear.) I kid you not, our late sweet Doberman Como actually turned to me, rolled her eyes, and mouthed the word, "dufus." We weren't sure whether it was the Wrangler or Homer Simpson in our kitchen trying to set a snap trap.

Flash forward to the present. We now are on Night 2 of our ground war. Here's hoping it's over in a...snap.