Cowgirl Creamery

I was at a football party watching the Vikings beat the Packers on Sunday, and one of the other guests had on a red Cowgirl Creamery t-shirt. I used to work in the building across the street from the Cowgirl Creamery in D.C. It wasn't unusual to stroll in from lunch with a fresh baguette in one hand and a wedge of artisan cheese in the other. The Cowgirl Creamery started in an old barn in a coastal town north of San Francisco. The two women founders bought organic milk from the neighboring Straus Family Creamery and started with a small collection of fresh and aged cheeses. Today they produce about 3,000 pounds per week and have three retail stores--the one in D.C. and two in northern California. The Creamery hosts wonderful guided tours, cheesemaking demonstrations, and tastings.

Of course, the dude wearing the Cowgirl Creamery t-shirt on Sunday did not know any of this. He told me that he needed a red t-shirt and found this one at a thrift shop.

Happy Halloween

I bought another pumpkin today. Southern California weather isn't ideal for fall and winter holidays, but we can't start breaking traditions just because the pumpkins turn squishy in two days, and the Christmas tree poses a severe fire hazard within just a week of delivery.

The roasted pumpkin seeds were delicious, and the Jack-o-Lantern was spooktacular.

Not-So-Smashing Pumpkins

We brought these home from the pumpkin patch on Sunday, and they started to rot on Tuesday! Guess we won't be carving pumpkins this year.

And, yes, my flat leaf parsley desperately needs harvesting. As is apparent from the picture, my herb garden runneth over. It turns out I am a very lazy gardener. 

Firefighting Goats

The herd has cleared the waist-high brush that bordered the trail and hillsides.

The kids are just two weeks old and about 10 inches tall.

The goats seemed to enjoy the sunset over the ocean and views of Catalina Island.

Herbal Dilemma

I don't know what is wrong with my purple sage.

Furry Friends

My posts have been a bit sparse this month. We recently suffered a great loss here at the Rainy Day Ranch. A few weeks ago, we said goodbye to our beautiful and beloved 11-year old Doberman. I've had scant enthusiasm for projects, crafts, and activities aside from hanging out with our Jack Russell, Fenway, who has been doing his very best to comfort the Wrangler and me. I haven't wanted to do, think, or read about anything that doesn't involve furry, four-legged friends.

Tonight we headed up the hill for a walk in the part of the Aliso & Wood Canyons Wilderness Park that reaches into Laguna Beach. The city's Firefighting Goats were hard at work! Laguna Beach has used goat herds since 1990 as part of its fuel-reduction and vegetation management program (wildfire prevention). The goat herd, which ranges from 75 to 600 goats, depending on need, moves to different locations around the city over a period of 18 months and costs the city about $125,000 a year. The financial and environmental benefits are significantly superior to chemical and mechanical processes. A movable goat pen, electrical fencing, and a herding dog prevent the goats from straying and keep the coyotes at bay. And the 20+ precious goat babies are a joy to watch as they run, jump, play, and pester their moms.

Turns out that Fenway loves goats! He approached with caution and actually nuzzled a goat baby through the fence (but backed off quickly and ran under the Wrangler's legs when the kid's mom threatened to buck him). I felt calm and content watching the herd graze quietly. The serene visit with these furry, firefighting friends on the hill sharply contrasts the artificial and chaotic scene at the pumpkin patch petting zoo where we picked out our pumpkins today.

I didn't have my camera, but I'm going to leave work a little early tomorrow to head back up the hill before it's too dark. I'll post pictures tomorrow night.

Sheepish Grin

This picture alone got the Wrangler quickly on board. The Rainy Day Ranch can have two sheep.

 

1989 Called. It Wants Its Hair Back

A certain someone who will remain nameless just got a perm! In 2009! But those who scoff and make 80s jokes clearly are not In-the-Know. Only very, very hip and cool folks are aware of the Digital Perm that yields delightfully soft, shiny, curling iron-style curls (unlike the fried-and-frizzy 80s number).

The Digital Perm is hot overseas and isn't yet widely available in the States. In fact, it is so hard to find a Digital Perm stylist that one might have to peruse internet chat rooms, send a slew of emails, and make a series of discreet phone calls to locate an underground Digital Perm stylist who keeps the equipment in her garage. The availability of the underground stylist may be so limited that one might have to ask her boss if it's okay to miss a client meeting because the underground stylist is fully booked for a month, with the exception of one weekday morning. Not that I personally know anything about all this. I'm just saying.

The Digital Perm device has a series of hooks that hang down and clip into ceramic rollers. My, uh, "friend" noted that the contraption looked like a mind-control machine when the hooks were plugged into the rollers on her head. Digital Perms require about 3-4 hours and $300-400. My "friend" is extremely pleased with the results, although she is unsure which part is more mortifying on paper--having a perm, loving having a perm, spending $400 on a perm, or getting said perm in someone's garage.

Superb Garden

I planted an outdoor herb garden, mice be damned. As you can see, I now have a terra cotta container of lovely purple sage, English thyme, dark opal basil, chives, and Italian parsley.

Over the weekend I helped my neighbor plant rows of cabbage and eight different kinds of lettuce. The cabbage rows were easy to plant; we measured the space between each plant and simply alternated between red cabbage and green cabbage in an orderly fashion. In contrast, planting the eight varieties of lettuce was stressful. I was charged with the task of loosely arranging the plants so they would look natural, "like they just growed there," as they say back in my neighbor's Kansas. Because my rule-loving lawyer brain struggled to implement planned chaos, planting the lettuce rows took three times as long as the cabbage rows.

This week I'm planting cabbage and lettuce on a smaller scale in an antique tub on my patio. The weather here in Laguna Beach has been beautiful--overcast and in the mid-60s. My family back in Minnesota shivered through the first snowfall of the season yesterday! I guess they won't be gardening any time soon.

Cowgirl Calamities

On occasion I'm reminded why many people prefer to purchase rather than make things like, say, chocolates. Ugh. I guess I thought that making chocolates entailed only melting and pouring. I stupidly did not question why my new book, Chocolates & Confections: Formula, Theory, and Technique for the Artisan Confectioner, is 388 pages. I don't know why I thought that discussions of the formula, theory, and technique of simply melting-and-pouring chocolate into molds would require 388 pages. Turns out, artisanal chocolate-making is, in fact, an art. There is much to consider: viscosity, hygroscopicity (don't ask), equilibrium relative humidity, tempering (heating, cooling, re-heating, re-cooling at precise temperatures), tabling, seeding, slabbing, crystallization, emulsion...you get the point. Heck, I don't have the time to acquire this kind of knowledge, let alone put it to use. So here I am, with two fancy artisan chocolate textbooks, pretty molds, festive packaging, and zero patience.

Sometimes it's hard out there for an urban cowgirl. Today was a little disappointing, but I suppose that having lots of ideas that never pan out is better than having no ideas at all.

It's My Birthday Cake and I'll Cry if I Want To

I'd be remiss in recapping this year's birthday festivities if I didn't at least mention the four cake debacle. I'm definitely not a food snob. But when it comes to cake, I know exactly what I want--delicious white cake with a hint of almond, buttercream frosting, and no skimping on the frosting roses. You'd think this would be no problem, but each year my birthday cake causes a minor spat, a major headache, and perhaps a crocodile tear or two. It's just that I look forward to my birthday cake all year. Friends' birthday cakes don't scratch the itch. They have chocolate, or weird fruity fillings that taste like toothpaste, or Crisco frosting that congeals on the roof of your mouth. And don't get me started on cupcakes as an alternative to cake. I mean, come on. You can have cupcakes anytime. You only get birthday cake once a year.

 

My favorite cake is from a grocery store in Minneapolis

(see, I'm not a food snob). Okay, it's not exactly a birthday cake. It's a baby shower cake. The cake and frosting are heavenly, and each slice has a huge frosting baby bootie. If there were a birthday cake with a huge frosting rose on each slice, I could abandon the infamous "bootie cake." I order one each time I'm back in Minnesota and usually get a second one for the road. I've been known to keep the bootie cake box carefully on my lap for the entire 19-hour road trip from Minneapolis to D.C. 

This year the Wrangler ordered a lovely cake from a famous cake bakery a half hour away. It tasted like cherry cough syrup. (They used marzipan instead of almond flavoring. Too fancy.) In a desperate attempt to please, the Wrangler actually baked a cake. This man is a lot of things, but a baker he is not. I am certain he used a cornbread mix. He enlisted the help of my very dear friend, who brought over an Italian creme cake. It was a kind gesture, and I'm sure the dessert is yummy, but an Italian creme cake is not a birthday cake. Noting my crossed arms and scowl (oh, did I mention that I can be a diva?), the Wrangler made an eleventh-hour trip to the grocery store for one of those generic lard-and-sugar nightmares with confetti (confetti!) sprinkles instead of delicate buttercream roses. 

To make a long story longer, I still am waiting for my birthday cake. I asked the Wrangler if blogging about my birthday cake was too pedantic. He promptly and emphatically replied, "No," which surprised me--until he muttered something about how "people should know what I go through each year."

Birthday Grouch

"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." -- George Eliot

Most people seem to love their birthday month, and I'm no exception. But even if my birthday didn't fall in October, I still would love this beautiful month. Before I moved to California, my birthday involved quintessential fall activities. A few years ago the Wrangler planned one of my favorite birthdays of all time--a trifecta of wine tasting, horseback riding, and apple-picking in the Virginia countryside. He rented a commercial van and hauled a group of us to the Stillhouse Vineyard, the Marriott Ranch (see the photo below), and the Stribling Orchard near Hume, Virginia. There were games and prizes on the happy road trip. We were treated to a light rain shower on the horse trails, and the weather cleared by the time we arrived back at the ranch for a gourmet picnic.

This year I celebrated my birthday here in southern California, which does not know autumn. It was 89 degrees. I was inconsolable. After a few hours of my moping and grumping, an exasperated Wrangler sent me off to bed early without any birthday cake.

Double Digging

This morning we helped our neighbor prepare for his winter garden. John has a 1/2 acre, which is a huge yard by Laguna Beach standards. His house is situated on the edge of the property, instead of in the middle, so the 1/2 acre looks and feels a lot larger. This summer we benefited from his surplus of swiss chard, heirloom tomatoes, Italian peppers, and pumpkins. He put the summer garden to bed in August--it's just too hot and dry in August and September to grow much.

Today we helped double-dig one of his five beds in anticipation of the beets, sweet peas, and winter salad greens that he'll plant in two weeks. Unlike the rich black dirt laced with fat earthworms (the presence of which indicate that the soil is very healthy) that is abundant in my home state of Minnesota, the soil here is hard clay. Over the past 10+ years, John has worked hard to soften and enrich his garden's soil. It is now a dry but nutrient-rich dirt. We dug rows and rows of six-inch trenches. With a pitchfork, we worked in bone meal (for calcium), chicken manure, steer manure, and compost. We covered the trenches with dirt and another layer of manure and compost. The earth was dry; had we waited until the rainy season in January to dig the trenches, we probably could have dug six inches deeper.

The Wrangler and I don't know much about gardening. I don't like working in the heat and sun, but there is nothing like a homegrown tomato. I'd also like to have pumpkins at some point. Pumpkins need a lot of room to run, but I've heard of city-folk who grow them in plastic kiddie pools. It's good to know it's possible, I suppose, but the kiddie pool pumpkin patch somehow lacks the charm of the country pumpkin patch that I'm envisioning.

I've never tended so much as a houseplant before, with the exception of an aloe plant that spiraled out of control and threatened to take over the living room. But lack of experience is no excuse. I'm going to have to know how to grow things on the ranch.

Somewhere, It Is Autumn

Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

--Emily Bronte

New Baby

Just what I definitely do not need--another guitar. This weekend I played (if by "played" you mean "errantly plucked") a Baby Taylor, which is three-quarters the size of a full-sized guitar and is made of solid spruce or mahogany. Most three-quarter guitars are made of laminate, and you really can tell the difference. The wood version has surprising volume and a rich tone.

The Taylor catalog says that the Baby is the "type of guitar you can keep at the office." I worked at a firm where I wouldn't have been ostracized for strumming a few clumsy notes in between conference calls. After all, no one blinked an eye at the lawyer who kept his Segway in his office and would scoot down the hall to and from the elevator each day, or the secretary who wore an official firefighter uniform, including the hat, when it rained. People were free to go about their business there. I'm quite certain that my current co-workers are the sort who would object to midday maladroit musings on the Baby Taylor. Perhaps once I've improved...

Falling for Fall

Fall has arrived here in Laguna Beach! We're in the middle of a heat wave that is not due to break for another week and half. But I know that fall is here because the Laguna Nursery, famous among the locals for its elaborate seasonal decor, has brought out its giant pumpkins. Every year a few rowdy drunks tamper with the display and smash an artificial pumpkin or two. Thankfully, this does not discourage the Nursery.

Instead of my usual wallowing in heartache for the splendor that is autumn in my beloved New England, I've decided to proceed with fall, Southern California be damned. I've retrieved the fall decorations from the attic. I've replaced the light and bright linens and towels with warm and cozy colors. The winter bedding is coming out of storage, and we'll just have to blast the air conditioner at night when we tuck under the down comforter. (I like nature and all that, but I've never claimed to be an environmentalist.)

The cottage is awash with the *rather heavy* scent of decorative pine cones. Seriously, the smell is a bit overwhelming. Our eyes are watering, and it's hard to concentrate. The Wrangler is being a Very Good Sport and has been careful not to utter even the tiniest complaint. I suspect he greatly prefers this make-the-best-of things attitude over my usual moping. The Wrangler's favorite weather girl on Channel 5 forecasts temps in the 90s on Tuesday, the official first day of fall, but that's not going to stop me from making a nice pot of chili and a homemade apple pie.

Welcome, fall!

Little Ranch in the 'Burbs

The Wrangler and I spent the past week getting sort of serious about relocating the Rainy Day Ranch from the beach to the 'burbs. Yikes, right? Well, it's a little exciting! We've been checking out two equestrian communities located about 20 minutes inland. Smack in the middle of everything one associates with The O.C. (shopping malls, strip malls, chain restaurants, SUVs, and all the other trappings of Stepford living) are planned ranch communities with riding stables, acres and acres of trails, mature trees of the non-Palm variety, and spacious residential lots zoned to allow chickens and goats! It's hard to believe that the land in the picture posted above is just five minutes from a 20-movie stadium theater, Best Buy, Borders, and Home Depot.

We'd be trading the marine layer for ceaseless sun. Depending on who you are, this is a bummer (me) or a bonus (Wrangler). But we'd say goodbye to tourists and hello to easy freeway access shaving 20 minutes from the weekday commute. We'd probably miss the unique beach town shops and restaurants, but the unfortunate reality is that we love Target stores and Yogurtland. Most important, we'd be able to try our hand at keeping livestock without having to make huge lifestyle changes like finding new jobs and moving to the country. One of the communities apparently allows bison. No joke. Our friends have seen a resident on several occasions walking his leashed bison around the neighborhood. We don't have plans to keep bison--yet.

We're going to keep looking until we find the perfect place, so who knows what we'll end up doing. I'm still nervous about getting too settled. I have to hand it to the Wrangler, though. He found two places nearby that could scratch the itch for ranch life without actually having to move to one. That guy will do anything to stay here.

Entrepreneurial Spirit

It occurred to me recently that most of my friends have artistic side businesses in addition to their day jobs. When they leave the office, they are professional writers, musicians, photographers, glassblowers, painters, sculptors, bakers and chefs, restorers of old cars, illustrators, and jewelry designers. One friend has her own line of beauty products. Another has her greeting cards in upscale boutiques. Although many of these pursuits are very profitable, most of these businesses were started due to a need for a creative outlet, not extra income.

My artistic endeavors could never bring in money, and I haven't found anything for which I'd have enough passion to turn into a business. For now, I'm happy to try something for fun and then move on. This weekend I picked up an interesting book, Making Artisan Chocolates. I'm ordering some candy molds and cool packaging. I'm also trying another batch of layered soap. My first batch smelled like skunky beer. This time I'm using fancy organic glycerine with (you guessed it) goat's milk, instead of the cheap glycerine cubes I bought in a kit. Also on the to-do list is sewing mittens and stuffed animals made from old Fair Isle-patterned sweaters.

The cottage pretty much looks like a craft store threw up in it. Tables and desks are covered with supplies, and stacks of idea books threaten to topple over in every room. The Wrangler, who actually is a true artist and not a sloppy wannabe-artisan like I, never complains about my creative messes. In fact, he encourages them! Alas, he is not as accepting of my clothing-related messes.

Seeing Is Believing

I just got home from a party where I chatted with a couple who owns a successful brewery and has contemplated starting a creamery as well. I've already arranged for them to take my first litter of pygmy goat babies off my hands. This should please the Wrangler. On the way to the party, I had broken the news to him that the Rainy Day Ranch may end up with quite a few pygmy goats. After all, a goat doesn't produce milk until she has babies. I mentioned casually that we should plan for an eventual herd of about 12 goats. The Wrangler stated kindly but firmly that 12 goats sounds creepy, and two to four would be more manageable. This led to one minute of silent treatment (imposed by me and unnoticed by he). I don't want my baby goats going to just anybody. Who would we find to take them? I don't want them eaten or in the care of crazies.

The stars aligned, however. What are the chances of, just an hour later, running into a lovely couple who also dreams of artisan cheese? I will feel very confident entrusting them with my baby goats. To better understand my concerns, check out this adorable video. It is impossible to imagine that anyone who sees this will not jump immediately on the urban goat bandwagon.

Whatever Gets Your Goat

Urban chicken coops are so early-2009. I'm convinced that the next big thing is urban goats. Two years ago, Seattle famously passed an ordinance allowing residents to keep miniature goats as pets. It's not a new concept--it just needs to catch on.

The question is not "why would I get a goat?" The question really is "why wouldn't I get a goat?" Pygmy goat does are about two feet tall, weigh 35 to 60 pounds, and give about 1/2 a gallon of "extremely sweet and delicious" milk a day (so says the National Pygmy Goat Association, or NPGA). The NPGA also reports that pygmy milk is higher in calcium, phosphorus, potassium, and iron than milk from other breeds. Although goat's milk is not popular in the United States, more people drink goat's milk than cow's milk worldwide.

Pygmy goats are perfect for your urban yard--a modest 8' x 10' shed will house four adult pygmies. The four animals would need less than 1/2 an acre of fenced yard for grazing. Pygmies are peaceful, friendly, and quiet (with only an occasional, pleasant "baaa"). Neutered males (wethers) and does do not have the unpleasant smell associated with intact males.

After reading books like Goat Song and Farewell, My Subaru, which are in part love letters to the authors' goats, I simply can't wait to get my two pygmies. I have big plans for goat's milk products--homemade butter, cheese, ice cream, and soap. Of course the Wrangler suggested that I try some goat's milk first to see if I like it. Silly man. Even if I can't stand to drink a drop of goat's milk, I just know that I'll love my goats.