Class Act

The local Community Services catalog of fall classes arrived today, and I've tabbed and highlighted about 12 courses. If history repeats itself, I'll register for four courses; attend two (but, sadly, drop out of one right around the time the instructor starts to know me well enough to wonder why I disappeared); and complete just one.

There's always a dance class in the mix, because what urban cowgirl doesn't love tap dancing or cardio hip-hop? There's the requisite craft class--Party Table Designs! Decoupage Vases!--and the more random offering, such as Found Objects. As the course description instructs, "Make your own gifts with found objects this year. Don't throw away those odds and ends and broken pieces. Bring them to class and turn them into art pieces that can be given as gifts." I'm sure my family will be amazed and delighted to receive transformed "found objects" for Christmas. Mom, Dad, siblings, and in-laws, consider yourselves warned.

I always contemplate a much-needed guitar class. I have become an expert at chord cheating and workarounds. For example, a D/F# is a pain in the you-know-what, so I just play a D. And who needs an F#m when a G will suffice? If only there were a good substitute for an F chord. I might enroll the pets in dog training classes. Alas, they tend to be held early weekend mornings, which means that I'll sleep in while the Wrangler ends up being the single parent in class. Single dads always are a hit on the puppy school scene, though, so don't feel sorry for him. I know the drill: I'll drag my absentee-mom self to graduation in the 8th week, and the other moms will exchange disapproving looks. (I did attend a few sessions of doggie yoga once, but both the Wrangler and I dropped out after the second week. Doggie yoga entailed spending a good hour massaging our Doberman on a mat in what I swear was someone's garage. We sort of weirded ourselves out and have never really spoken of it again.)

Photography, cooking, singing, tennis, watercolor painting, cake decorating...so many options, so little time. 

We Are Not Alone

Apparently, there are enough of us urban farmer wannabes to justify our very own magazine! I'm sitting here flipping through the inaugural issue of Urban Farm that I picked up at Barnes & Noble. Topics include: raising chickens, goats, and bees in the 'burbs; turning your lawn into a veggie garden; composting 101; and container gardens for patios. Wrangler, take note--the adorable urban chicken coop in the ad for a company called My Amish Goods is number one on my Christmas list.

Lazy Days

I've been a bit absent lately due to technical issues. My Dell imploded just nine months after I bought it. It's still under warranty, but I've been too lazy to get it fixed. I'm also too lazy to bring home my work laptop each night. (If you sense a pattern of sloth-like behavior, I won't deny that you're on to something.) We have two Macs around the house, so I'd been relying on those. But as of late, the Macs are acting up. Don't get the Wrangler started on why we have such bad luck with electronics around here. Fingers tend to get pointed in my direction.

I've been making lots of cheese but haven't matched the success of my maiden endeavor. One batch didn't curdle because I failed to discern that my thermometer permanently read 90 degrees after I dropped it; another batch was too sour after I inadvertently used 1 and 1/2 Tablespoons instead of teaspoons of citric acid; one batch came out too stringy and dry when I used skim milk instead of whole milk. What can I say? We artisans suffer for our craft.

After three weeks in a row of red-eye flights to and from the east coast, my schedule looks quiet and things are returning to normal. The Wrangler and I, along with some friends both old and new, are training for a marathon in December. I have signed up for three marathons in the past and have never come close to actually running one. But this time, I've decided to do just a 1/2 marathon, which makes my goal a lot less overwhelming. Baby steps.

In the meantime, I am counting the days until September 8 (the day after Labor Day) when the crowds, tourists, and traffic dissipate until next June. The town returns to normal, and we locals share a collective, happy sigh.

Foster Child (By Guest Contributer Charmaine)

There's no sweeter sight to see than a happy dog, other than maybe a happy puppy. We have three happy dogs, and now we've temporarily got a new addition. She's 16 weeks old and her name is Tater, as in "You're so darn cute, I could just eat you up like a Tater Tot!" And she is. She has fit right into our home, bringing our number of people and dogs into even numbers. She wrestles with our youngest and most hyperactive dog, Grace Ironic; they take turns slobbering on each other. She plays tug of war with my husband's ugly shorts that the other Six-Button Cowgirl Girl, Kimtastic, once said resembled a rag she owned. Bless her furry little heart, she might just tear those shorts right off the mismatched man's body. She plods along side of me, sometimes hopping, sometimes skipping, always my shadow as I walk around the house and kitchen. The fact that I occasionally trip on her is no deterrent. She's content to be there by my side if I need anything (or drop any food, I suppose).

When she's 20-25 weeks old, she'll leave our foster home to go into full-time training to become a service dog for a disabled veteran. She's a quick learner and easy to please. She's only had one accident in one week. It's easy to love a dog who takes to potty training. The only problem is that she's so sweet and so easy to love. It may be hard to give her up. Look at this precious face. I must admit that I'm already practicing how I'll tell a man with severe PTSD the story about how she ran away and wouldn't come back.

--Charmaine

Thoreau-ing It All Away

This summer I've read several amusing and thought-provoking books by writers-turned-farmers. Although the stories share a common underlying theme (a big-city author who wants to escape the madness and become more self-sufficient), each tale has its own unique twist. After finishing a few books in this modern-day homesteading genre, I realized that the writer-turned-farmer condition is not, in fact, novel (pardon the pun) but an archetype. After all, over 150 years ago, Henry David Thoreau built his cabin on Walden Pond and began a two-year attempt to eliminate the luxuries that "are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind." It somehow is both comforting and dismaying that one's pursuit of the simple life in 1845 is just as relevant in 2009.

Recommended books by writers-turned-farmers:

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver; Made from Scratch by Jenna Woginrich; Farewell My Subaru by Doug Fine; Goat Song by Brad Kessler; Farm City by Novella Carpenter; Hit by a Farm by Catherine Friend; Coop by Michael Perry; Fifty Acres and a Poodle, by Jeanne Marie Laskas

Say Cheese!

I made my first batch of cheese today, and it turned out perfectly! I am extremely proud and already imagining a world-renowned artisan cheese business. Seldom do my pastimes yield such satisfying results (as my recently documented failures involving campfire cooking, beading, and fiddling illustrate).

At the risk of sounding like an infomercial, I must state that I owe everything to my 30-Minute Mozzarella and Ricotta Kit from the New England Cheesemaking Supply Company. I had read about the owner, Ricki Carroll, in Barbara Kingsolver's book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. Ricki recommends that beginners start with soft cheeses, which require little equipment and are not aged. I ordered the mozzarella kit on Thursday and it arrived Saturday. The $24.95 kit contains a dairy thermometer, butter muslin, citric acid, cheese salt, and vegetable rennet tablets--enough for 30 batches of cheese. 

I began by pouring a gallon of organic whole milk (pasteurized but not ultra-pasteurized) in a stainless steel stock pot and stirring in 1 and 1/2 teaspoons citric acid dissolved in one cup of bottled water. When the milk reached 90 degrees, I added 1/4 of a rennet tablet dissolved in one cup of water. I brought the milk to 105 degrees, turned off the heat, and covered the pot. Five minutes later, the curds had pulled away from the sides of the pot and were ready to scoop into a microwaveable bowl. 

I microwaved the curds for one minute, drained the excess whey, and gently folded in about one tablespoon of cheese salt.  I returned the mixture to the microwave for 35 seconds, drained the whey, and kneaded the cheese until it was smooth and stretchy, like taffy. I rolled the cheese into a ball, and dropped it in a bowl of ice water. Done!

The Wrangler, whose culinary skills ordinarily are of the grilled cheese sandwich or frozen pizza variety, made a beautiful and tasty cabrese salad with the homemade mozzarella, heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil from our neighbor's garden, and olive oil. It was a wonderful treat on a hot summer's eve.

Technical Assistance

Around the time I finished law school, I started the veterinary technician associate's degree program at Purdue University. It's a distance learning program, with 35 internet-based core courses and 17 clinical labs. Courses include anatomy, physiology, parasitology, and clinical pathology. The clinical labs, which are supervised by a local licensed veterinarian, include small, large, and equine nursing and anesthesia, diognostic imaging, sterilization techniques, pharmacy, and necropsy.

The distance learning format lets me take as few or as many courses as I can manage, skip a semester here and there, and "attend" class when work allows. Granted, this flexibility means that it will take me years and years to finish the program. I only have six classes under my belt and, truth be told, I've been on hiatus for a while. But I'm not sweating it. Taking the occasional vet tech class or two is a constructive hobby. I'm learning things that are useful to pet owners and hobby farmers, I might be able to volunteer as a vet tech at an animal hospital or zoo, and...I like studying and taking tests. It's an illness, but the Wrangler loves me anyway.

http://www.vet.purdue.edu/vtdl/vtdlhome/

Just Bead It

Earlier this summer, I spotted a beautiful beaded necklace in one of the boutiques here in town. I don't wear much jewelry--I'm allergic to metals, and I dislike fussy things. But this necklace had a very simple design of shiny burgundy beads interwoven with small, sparkly crystal beads. Price? $140. "Whatever," I told my friend. "I could make this for, like, $20."

Determined to prove that boutique prices are for suckers, I dutifully signed up for the Beading 101 class at the local craft store. Upon registering, I was slightly dismayed to receive a lengthy supply list. I needed only some string, a clasp, and two types of beads, right? Apparently not. I purchased the required "Bead Bucket" and now own three types of pliers, an assortment of odd needle-like sticks purportedly called tube crimps, several rolls of wire, and some strange looking pins.

Noting that the speciously named Bead Bucket did not actually contain any beads, I stopped by the Bead Lounge to look for shiny burgundy and sparkly crystal beads. The Bead Lounge did not disappoint; I found the exact beads I was searching for! Unfortunately, I also found that beads are expensive.

Beading 101 Class = $45

Bead Bucket = $54.38

Beads = $90.50

Grand total = $189.88

Number of beautiful beaded necklaces completed by me = 0

Summer Daze

Just when you don't believe it's possible for a place to be drier or sunnier, July arrives in Southern California and delivers an uppercut that takes your breath away. The omnipresent sunshine and dry spells are more intense July through October in Laguna Beach, leaving this urban cowgirl longing for greener pastures. Summer traffic and tourists add insult to injury. No amount of fantasy farming and counterfeit camping can satiate my thirsty soul. 

What can be said about a place where the weather is the same...day in and day out, year in and year out, until every memory blends seamlessly into the next, and life morphs into the same long day? East coast, west coast, or midwest is fine, so long as I have my four northern seasons and an occasional cloudy day. Right now, I am too far south of paradise.

Not-So-EZ-Bake Oven

We met some friends for dinner at their campsite near Trabuco Canyon yesterday. I envisioned making a blueberry cobbler in a dutch oven hanging over a roaring campfire or nestled among smoldering coals. I did enough research to learn that Lodge makes the best dutch ovens, and I bought a cast iron beauty at the local Sports Authority yesterday morning. Unfortunately, I had not done enough research to ascertain that dutch oven cooking requires a some skill. It is not as simple as dumping some berries and crumb topping into a pot and simmering over the fire.

I didn't realize that the dutch oven must be seasoned (coated in olive oil and baked in an oven for at least an hour). Nor had I anticipated that important peripheral equipment is necessary to maneuver the 14-pound cast iron pot and lid among the fire and coals--for example, long-handled metal tongs are used to handle hot charcoal, and an iron lid lifter prevents burned fingers and also keeps hot ashes from being dropped in the food. Moreover, it turns out that I had purchased a flat-bottomed dutch oven for traditional stove and oven cooking instead of a camp dutch oven with legs. The legs keep the pot from resting directly on coals and allow for better heat circulation.

Although I scrapped my dutch oven cobbler plans for the campfire dinner last night, I am not discouraged. I bought the International Dutch Oven Society's Field Guide to Dutch Oven Cooking from Novice to Champion and am going to find the leggier version of my dutch oven. I vow to wow the Six-Button Cowgirls with my amazing campfire cooking on our upcoming trip to Sombrero Ranch.

Fun with Fungi

One of the Six-Button Cowgirls, a very enterprising sort, grows gourmet mushrooms in her living room. Contrary to popular belief, mushrooms don't have to be grown in manure--a fact for which Charmaine's fellow residents and guests alike are grateful, I'm sure. Mushrooms do, however, have to be grown in a relatively warm environment, which makes Charmaine's outdoor garden near the mountains less than ideal for her mushroom endeavors. Thus, Charmaine's sunny living room is the place to be if you're a baby bella or young shiitake.

Charmaine is a proud member of a mushroom-of-the-month club that sends her monthly mushroom patches (mushroom mycelium growing on a sterilized medium, or substrate), which Charmaine places under a humidity tent in said living room. She's also active in a mushroom growers support club. She reports that club members skew heavily toward the "grown-up Dungeons and Dragons nerd" demographic (Charmaine excluded, of course).

At any rate, she has grown beautiful and delicious mushrooms that taste far better than the grocery store variety. Pictured here are her pearl oyster mushrooms sprouting at the tender age of four days.

Lazy Sunday

There's something nice about the occasional day with minimal commitments. I didn't have to volunteer at the Ocean Institute today, and the Wrangler's soccer game wasn't until the afternoon, which allowed us to sleep in until 10. Waking at 10 is reasonably decadent without being as sloth-like as rising at 11, which, admittedly, we sometimes do on Saturdays (hey, we don't have kids).

After our trip to the farmers' market, the Wrangler headed out to his soccer game, and I started reading Ricki Carroll's Home Cheese Making: Recipes for 75 Homemade Cheeses. I dozed off due to the cuddly, warm puppy on my lap. We grilled vegetables for dinner, and I baked a deliciously gooey strawberry pie. Right now, I'm waiting for my bread dough to rise. I'm using the recipe that allows me to refrigerate the dough and break off a chunk each night to bake. Baking fresh bread after a long day at work helps me transition from corporate to cowgirl.

I'm ready for the week.

"To Market, To Market..."

I grew up in the Midwest where it was not unusual for city-folk to have large vegetable gardens and fruit-bearing trees. We had two apple trees, a plum tree, and a pear tree, and my dad grew lettuce, carrots, green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and radishes in our suburban backyard. My parents canned tomatoes and pickles every fall. As an adult, I don't eat nearly as many veggies as I did as a kid, probably because I don't have a garden and have to rely largely on flavorless grocery store produce that has spent days in transit.

The Tenaka Farms veggies that we bought last weekend added an undeniable spark to our meals this past week. Questioning our smarts for not doing so years ago, the Wrangler and I decided to make an effort to buy only locally grown produce from now on. California certified farmers' markets are easy to find around here. All farmers who sell at a certified market are inspected by the county agricultural commissioner to ensure that their farms actually grow the food that is sold at the market. This makes supporting local farmers as easy as going to the grocery store, and we pay less money for better quality food. Win-win. Today we spent $16 on farm-fresh green and red peppers, asparagus, Maui onions, green onions, broccoli, green beans, squash, tomatoes, and carrots. I'm guessing we would have paid more than double that amount at the grocery store.

Truckin'

Someone down the street is selling a beat up 1978 Chevy pickup truck for $700. Picturing it on the ranch with a few bales of hay in the back, I gave it more than a little thought. Then, as things tend to do in this house, the modest $700 plan rapidly evolved into an alarming $30,000 idea as I found myself searching ebay for a shiny red, fully restored 1950s-era short-bed truck. I imagined selling the convertible and rolling into work in my vintage truck, which would look delightfully out of place among the fancy-pants BMWs and Mercedes in the law firm's parking garage. And I didn't plan to stop at one truck, since I really need two--I don't want to put hay and chickens in my shiny red short-bed. I figured that I'd better get the '78 Chevy for those kinds of tasks. It was all fun and games until the Wrangler put the kibosh on both proposals, pointing out that we don't actually have a ranch yet. I don't know when he became so fixated on minor details.

Vegging Out

Ugh, so I've become a vegetarian. The Wrangler is convinced that aliens have abducted the real me, who believed that a meatless meal really is just a snack. Until I quit eating meat cold-turkey, so to speak, I probably hadn't gone without eating it for more than half a day. I regarded my friendships with vegetarians with skepticism--I secretly suspected that our differences were too great to bridge. I remember filling a pinata with Slim Jims instead of candy. I was offended by pizza lacking meat toppings. I have cookbooks with titles such as "The Meat Club," and "Bacon." When asked what I wanted for dinner, I usually just said, "meat."

For a while I'd been finding it hard to reconcile my love of pets and animals with my love of eating meat. Something had to give. I really don't have a problem with eating animals who have had nice lives and did not suffer. But the reality is that most of the meat sold in grocery stores and served in restaurants does not come from natural or humane circumstances and conditions.

I'm by no means a vegan or even a strict vegetarian; I still eat seafood, eggs, milk, and cheese. I don't know why I feel sorry for cows and pigs but not fish. Maybe someday I will.

Tenaka Farms

This morning we awoke to cozy, cool weather, light rain, and overcast skies--a rare treat here in Laguna Beach. I love-love-love June Gloom. Come July, we will have sunshine until November. It's a long stretch, and I'm trying not to think about it. 

It was a perfect day to head to the cookout tour at Tenaka Farms, just 20 minutes away. During a guided tour of the 30-acre farm, we picked our own green onions, carrots, cilantro, radishes, green beans, and squash.  

Our guide took us to the BBQ area where we cleaned and cut the veggies, and added tofu, olive oil, and seasonings. The veggie mix was wrapped in foil and grilled for about 10 minutes. Before eating, we added the most delicious grilled sweet Maui onion slices to the veggie mix. Although farmers' markets and stores like Whole Foods have good produce, there truly is nothing like eating something just minutes after pulling it from the ground.

After lunch, we headed to the strawberry fields for concurrent gluttony and picking. I was planning to preserve some, so we brought home two boxes. It would be a shame, however, to add anything to these berries, which simply are perfect on their own. 

Cowgirl Overload

During today's conference call to discuss our upcoming trip to the Sombrero Ranch in Colorado, the Six-Button Cowgirls concurred that we had gone a bit overboard on our last group shopping trip to the Boot Barn in Flagstaff. I guess we can blame it on our state-of-mind, which was decidedly "wild west," as we were about to embark on our mule ride to Phantom Ranch.

I mentioned during the call that I've realized that the clothes I'd bought on the trip are too over-the-top to wear around here. I mean, there's western-style and then there's just plain western without the style. Agreeing, the Denver-based Six-Button Cowgirl noted that a couple weeks ago, she put on the jeans, boots, one of the shirts, and the huge belt buckle she'd bought on that trip and did a double-take when she saw herself in the mirror. The shirts, which are heavy and have no darting or tailoring at the waist, are very unflattering. Add the crazy embroidered pattern, huge brass buttons, and...wow. I love my gigantic belt buckle and Roper Rockstar boots, though. But talk about trying too hard. I sure do feel sorry for all the locals who had to watch our sorry selves swaggering around town!

On the up side, the San Diego-based Six-Button Cowgirl said that she has no regrets purchasing the riding jeans with the "comfort fit" elastic waistband. She wears them when she plans to eat a lot.

Hot Plate

I'm loving Villeroy & Boch's Design Naif fine china pattern. The country and village motif seems very cowgirl / farmgirl, and it even has a Christmas collection.

The Mad Hatter

I bought a traditional raffia straw cowboy hat when I was in Montana last year, and I got a wool Stetson on the mule trip in Arizona this past winter. The latter makes me look like a railroad laborer circa 1850 and makes the Wrangler look like the tall guy who is Curious George's friend. At any rate, for the upcoming horseback riding / camping trip with the Six-Button Cowgirls, I'm tempted to get a Spanish gaucho-style hat--or is it a bolero? I don't know the difference. Think Penelope Cruz in All the Pretty Horses.

The raffia straw number would be far more appropriate, given the season and activity (camping). But one of the wranglers at the Mountain Sky Ranch had a striking custom blue bolero that I haven't forgotten. It cost her over $500, so she vowed to wear it, like, every day. I suppose it is the cowgirl version of Manolos. I've found a few similar hats for under $100, but they are not nearly as lovely as the beautiful blue bolero. Maybe I'll spring for the custom bolero for cowgirl camp next spring. I doubt I can pull off wearing it every day, though.

Gang Aft Agley (To Go Astray)

I've been a bit remiss in blogging lately; I haven't had much time to spend at my figurative ranch due to longer-than-usual hours at work and hosting house guests. I usually read a couple books a week but, as of late, I haven't had time to finish William Alexander's delightful The $64 Tomato, which I started two weeks ago. I haven't baked anything from scratch in the same two weeks, unless you count the Hello Kitty-shaped waffles and homemade pizzas for my adorable nieces visiting from Colorado. Let's not even mention the new fiddle that is sitting untuned in its case in the corner of the guest room. I am part of a fiddle challenge with a Fourth of July benchmark and have made zero progress. What is that Robert Burns poem about gang aft agley and the best laid plans of mice and men...?