Holiday Project #1

With the holiday season officially beginning this week, I'm working on a few hostess gifts. Wine and flowers, although lovely and always appreciated, sometimes feel too much like a last-minute purchase at the grocery store en route to the party. This year I'm assembling Christmas cookie gift baskets: glass snowman jar filled with the dry ingredients for gingerbread cookies, a gingerbread man cookie cutter, holiday oven mitt, and a Gooseberry Patch Christmas cookie cookbook. The Wrangler willingly accompanied me to a craft boutique, Target, Pier 1, TJ Maxx, and Whole Foods as I collected the supplies. Each gift basket costs less than a halfway decent bottle of wine but will be way more fun to give. Of course, the jury still is out on whether they also will be "way more fun" to receive. (I know a lot of people who would prefer the wine!) 

Fabric holiday bag (the "basket") = $3.99

Large glass snowman jar with lid = $3.00 (on sale at Pier 1--a great deal)

Organic dry ingredients = about $1.50

Cookie cutter = $1.00

Oven mitt = $1.99

Cookbook = $3.99 (these are super cute, and I found them at TJ Maxx marked down from $16)

Grand total = about $16 per gift basket

Goat School

The November/December issue of Hobby Farms was waiting in the mailbox when I got home from work tonight. I was very, very excited to read in "Back to Goat School" on page 58 that, for only $100 per person or $150 per couple, Janice and Ken Spaulding offer a weekend of lectures, demonstrations, and hands-on activities relating to goat care and goat management. The price also includes one breakfast, two lunches, and a copy of Janice's book, Goat School. The next session is in May 2010.

See you at Goat School!

Waiting Is the Hardest Part

The Rainy Day Ranch will soon welcome its newest canine family member. The details still are bit murky, but it's looking like my Advent calendar will count down not only the days until Christmas but also the days until the puppy's arrival. It's been hard to focus on anything else--I've got puppy fever like some women get baby fever. I notice puppies wherever I go. I look at my dogs' baby pictures. I'm re-reading all my puppy care and training books and brushing up on the latest puppy parenting techniques. I've gotten the puppy carrier, bowls, leashes, and--ahem--clothing (sorry) out of storage. The Wrangler called our vet to discuss traveling with the new puppy. I've scoped out the best puppy kindergarten class in the area. 

I'm counting the days.

O Christmas Tree

So I poked around a little today and, somewhat surprisingly, found lots of information on starting a Christmas tree farm. For example, North Carolina State University put together an especially detailed booklet that includes Christmas tree fertility, pest management, shaping, and harvesting information, as well as marketing, record keeping, and tax tips.

Depending on the region, Christmas trees take about 8-10 years to grow. In high altitude places like Colorado, add another 5 or 6 years. Ten years--wow. What are the odds that I'll still be interested in Christmas tree farming in 10 years?

Mail Order Tree

Surely creating one heck of a carbon footprint on at least some level, I just ordered my Christmas tree for delivery by mail. I figure that I mitigated some of the environmental damage by ordering from a west coast tree farm in Oregon, as opposed to New England or North Carolina, even though this means forfeiting a Fraser Fir. I settled for the next best thing: a gigantic Noble Fir. Never mind that shipping costs twice as much as the tree itself. (I can't afford not to start my own Christmas tree farm on the ranch! Good argument to present to the Wrangler, right?) I couldn't help it. After two years of brittle trees from the lot down the street, I'm determined to do whatever it takes to have the most spectacular, breathtaking, show-stopping Christmas tree ever, one that is both aromatic and enduring. I'm envisioning a festive tree trimming party. I'm picturing slightly smug Rockwellesque evenings in front of the tree. I'm hearing the ohhs and ahhs of passerbys peeking in the window.

Alas, pride goes before a fall. In my excitement, I accidentally purchased the wrong tree--a smallish Grand Fir. Eghh. Well, if that is my greatest disappointment of the day, it really is not a bad day at all.

A Formal Affair

The Six-Button Cowgirls reunited this weekend in San Diego for...a birthday party for a dog. The Denver cowgirl flew in from Colorado for the lavish event, and a number of thirty-something urban cowgirls drove in from areas up-and-down the California coast.

The San Diego cowgirl spared no expense in celebrating the coming-of-age of her terrier-mix, Harper. The professional (if a bit skeevy) DJs were better than those at any wedding I've ever attended; the catered meal was top-notch; and the canine guests got along, with the exception of a grumpy Chihuahua and an overzealous greyhound-mix who were subject to periodic time-outs. A good time was had by all.

Knit-picking

It's the time of year that I take up knitting again. I'm not sure why, but knitting is not a year-round activity for me. It's probably for the best that I don't have several old-lady projects going on at once. I like to cook, sew, knit, decorate cakes, and collect pieces for my ceramic Christmas village--which, on paper, pretty much makes me either a 1950s housewife or a grandma. Maybe even a great-grandma. But I figure that since I don't iron or clean, I'm not a true 1950s housewife. And since I listen to mostly hip-hop and rap music on my ipod while I knit, maybe I'm not that grandmotherly just yet. That's what I keep telling myself.

Lone Star Starr

Just back from my first trip to Houston. I've been to Dallas, Austin, and San Antonio, but I'd never been to Houston, the self-proclaimed Energy Capitol of the World. I was both impressed and a little disappointed. Clearly, I'd seen Urban Cowboy one too many times. I must confess that I expected to see lots of real cowboys, fancy cowgirls, and rich oil moguls with cigars and white suits making deals in the shadow of an oil rig. Instead, I found myself in a livable but ordinary city with friendly but ordinary people. I may have overheard a few rich oil moguls making deals in the lobby at the Four Seasons, but they most definitely were not wearing white suits. 

Feeling a bit dejected, I met an old friend for brunch in the trendy area along Washington Avenue. My spirits lifted as I tucked into my carne asada y huevos. After brunch, we walked across the street to the Wabash Antiques and Feed Store. Now this was more like it! Perhaps the New York Times describes it best: "The eclectic 100-year-old business is straight out of 'Petticoat Junction.' Antique Texas stars, boot-shaped planters and imported pottery share a roof with caged chickens and rabbits, beekeeping supplies, plants and beer (to loosen up the customers)." Don't you just love a city in which you can, in one swoop, have brunch at a hotspot and pick up a few pullets for your urban coop?

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.