Outstanding in the Field

Outstanding in the Field is a traveling farm dinner series or "restaurant without walls." For over 10 years, the people behind Outstanding in the Field have set long tables in places such as organic farms, mountain tops, ranches, or ocean coves. The goal is to help people reconnect with local farmers, chefs, and ingredients. The food for these dinners usually comes directly from the fields in which these events take place.

Founder Jim Denevan has a beautiful cookbook that includes profiles of regional farmers and recipes using seasonal ingredients. I just bought the hardcover book on sale as a Bargain Book for only $5 on the Barnes and Noble website--check to see if the deal still is being offered. It's well worth the five bucks.

Photo from Outstanding in the Field website.

Anniversary

Holy cow, I just realized that today is the one-year anniversary of my Rainy Day Ranch blog. Thanks for sticking around.

Over the past year, we've lost a best friend (beautiful Miss Como) and gained several new friends, including a certain scruffy monster from Texas. I started some projects that fizzled--playing the fiddle, vegetarianism, running, artisan chocolate-making--but I learned something from each failed endeavor. My dusty fiddle reminds me to concentrate on learning to play one instrument really well instead of struggling with three (the 10,000-hour rule!). I missed bacon too much to stick to my veggie diet, but I have a new awareness of what goes on my plate--and a new concern for how it gets there. Training for two marathons and failing to come close to running them made me realize that there's no point in taking up an activity that I dread; English-style horseback riding is proving to be a much more enjoyable way to satisfy my itch for a physical challenge and some mental discipline. My disastrous attempts involving artisan chocolates and, let's face it, candles, soaps, and jewelry too, helped me to better appreciate and admire the special talents of my friends who are much more proficient in these areas.

It's fair to say, though, that the bigger picture hasn't changed much. My visions of the Rainy Day Ranch become stronger and more focused each day--kind of like Harry Potter's visions of Lord Voldemort, but in a good way. I know we're getting very close. And I'm still determined to get me some chickens.

"Beets are a dish best served cold."--Dwight Schrute

A couple weeks ago we met some friends at Tanaka Farms for a cookout tour (during which we pick the veggies for the farm staff to grill for us). We caught the tail end of the winter crop season, which meant that we picked sweet Maui onions, celery, kale, bok choy, and beets. The veggies were diced, augmented with a few chunks of tofu, drizzled with olive oil and Lawry's seasoning, and nicely grilled. I had never eaten a beet and was pleasantly surprised. It actually tasted pretty good. (Although maybe that was because the rest of my meal consisted of such things as celery and kale....)

This weekend our friend John stopped by with some beets freshly plucked from his garden. Having just sampled my first beet two weeks ago, I'm not sure how to prepare beets in a way that will do them justice. The Wrangler told me to try boiling them, but boiled beets don't sound very sassy. Any ideas?

Loam Sweet Loam

I'm back...it's been a busy month here at the RDR. I guess I should start by revealing the results of my soil test. As I left off, the soil sample in my Mason jar settled into layers. The bottom layer is sandy and is about 4 cm high. The next layer is silt, which measures about .5 cm. The top layer is clay, which also is about .5 cm. The total height of all layers (not including the water) is 5 cm. I divided each layer by the total height of all layers and then multiplied by 100. So, my soil is 80% sand (4 cm divided by 5 cm, multiplied by 100), 10% silt (.5 cm divided by 5 cm, multiplied by 100), and 10% clay.

Using these percentages, I identified my soil as "loamy sand" on the USDA's soil texture triangle. Incidentally, the soil textures in the lower left corner (sandy loam and loamy sand, in particular) are ideal for growing lavender. This makes me roll my eyes, as I don't plan on growing lavender here at the cottage--I want to grow it on my ranch. And I'm sure that no matter where I end up buying my ranch, the soil on said ranch will be far from ideal for growing lavender.

So Here's the Dirt...

My lavender class assignment this week is to test my soil type. I learned in class that I don't need a fancy professional analysis; anyone can perform a simple soil test. I dug down about five inches and collected a few samples from various locations in my planting area. I put some dirt in a glass Mason canning jar, added dishwasher detergent to break up the dirt, filled the jar with water, and shook vigorously.

Over the next day, the soil will settle into distinct layers. I'll measure each layer and do a little math to determine the percentage of clay, silt, and sand. I'll take these numbers and find where my soil falls on the USDA textural triangle. I'll explain this in more detail when I figure out my percentages tomorrow.

A Prerequisite Pursuit

Back in college, I was this close to choosing a geology major (because geology rocks, hee hee). The only thing that came between me and my mineralogy was the prerequisite physics course. As I recall, the required physics class began at some ungodly hour, like 7AM, several days a week, for two full semesters. Even then, I had the good sense to know that a 7AM commitment was utterly unrealistic for me. It probably was more like 8AM, but even so. And this, my friend, is why I decided to pursue a career that did not require early morning physics labs.

But here I am years later embarking on a delightful new hobby, English horseback riding, only to be faced with another dreaded prerequisite: yoga. Well, concurrent requisite is more accurate. And it's not exactly required. It's merely recommended for flexibility, balance, and core strength--traits possessed by good riders.

Eghh. Yoga? Really?

I know everyone does yoga these days (if they're not doing pilates), especially here in California. I just personally hate it. Call me old-school, but there's something about a room full of strangers exhaling hot breath all over the place, bending into unattractive positions, and flashing their bare feet with dirty soles. I can't even think about bikram yoga, which is done in a room that's heated to a minimum of 105 degrees. I'm not at all a germaphobe but...ewww. I looked into private yoga lessons, but they cost about as much as the riding lessons. The Wrangler is so not one of those stereotypical husbands that throws fits when the wife spends a little dough, but when I casually mentioned adding private yoga lessons to the mix, I did get a lecture of sorts on not wasting money. Apparently, smelly group lessons are the, as the Wrangler says, "non-stupid" option for someone who may be a wife, and who may live in Orange County, but who is not one of the Real Housewives of Orange County.

But I can't let my fear of group yoga stand in the way of good horsemanship. Yoga isn't a physics lab, and group lessons won't be that bad. They can't be that bad. I just hope they aren't at 7AM.

The 10,000-Hour Rule

In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell posits that greatness in any field requires not necessarily an innate talent or genius but rather 10,000 hours of practice. We can all be concert pianists or pro golfers--or at least pretty darn awesome--by the time we've spent approximately 10,000 hours honing our craft. Clearly, I'm on my way to Olympic glory in the dressage ring. Only 9,990 hours to go.

Everything's Coming Up...Lavender

Lavender: From Soil to Sachet, the six-week online course I'm currently taking, is not only interesting, it also includes little surprises--my instructor just sent me a care package filled with lavender sachets and organic culinary lavender.

The first lesson covered the illustrious history of this uber herb. Unlike so many things, the more I learn about it, the more I like it. Lavender is a natural sedative, antidepressant, and insect repellent. The Romans regarded it as a symbol of cleanliness, and the British used it as a disinfectant and a pain reducer on the battlefields. Lavender's family, lamiaceae, includes the genus mentha (mint) and the genus nepeta (catnip).

I wish I had a lavender lesson every day instead of just once a week. In between lessons, I'm scratching the itch with a few good books--a practical guide to growing and using lavender, a beautiful coffee table book on the lavender fields of Provence, and an enjoyable memoir of a New York journalist who traded in her glamourous life in the Big Apple for a lavender farm in rural Texas, population 1,600. And you can guess how thrilled I was to find the latest issue of Hobby Farm Home in my mailbox--with lavender on the cover! It's a sign, I tell you.

Skinny Dippin'

I just got the latest issue of Mary Jane's Farm, which always has a fun mish-mash of ideas for "the everyday organic lifestyle" (the magazine's tag line). This month's issue touts the art of outdoor bathing. You start by placing a charming old clawfoot bathtub on top of six 12x12 concrete pavers (sort of like tiles) in the backyard. Depending on how high the clawfeet raise the tub, there should be enough space to slide a two-burner camp stove underneath the tub. Attach the gas line from the stove to a propane tank. You can build a small wooden box to hid the propane tank (a propane tank cozy!). Fill the tub with water from a garden hose, and light the burners underneath the tub. To speed up the heating process, use a piece of plywood to cover the tub while you're filling it. Once the tub is filled, turn off the burners and hop in. Use biodegradable soap so that you can simply pull the plug and drain the water when you're done.

The article includes serene pictures of antique bathtubs in the wild, surrounded by flowers, candles, and soft towels. It's an intriguing idea, but I can't get on board just yet. As a practical matter, my neighbors would get quite the eyeful. A lot of houses around here have outdoor showers for apres beach sand removal, but that's different somehow. In order to bathe in your backyard but still be able to look your neighbors in the eye at block parties, you'd have to live on a fairly private piece of property. Maybe it's just me, but when I think of land that remote, I think of places like my dad's house in northern Minnesota. And let me tell you, between the mosquitos and the gnats, I have zero desire to bathe outside in northern Minnesota.

When asked what he thought about the idea of outdoor baths, the Wrangler opined that "baths are gross. It's stewing in your own filth." I wholeheartedly disagree. I don't get that dirty. Baths are relaxing. (Although a tub of water heated by a burner and a propane tank in the backyard does sort of bring to mind a "scalding the pig" scenario.) I do like the idea of outdoor bathing, though. How very cowgirl. Consider this a heads-up, all ye future RDR guests.

Happy Hands

I forgot my riding gloves and somehow rubbed all the skin off my knuckles during my horseback riding lessons today. I currently am typing rather gingerly, as bending my raw knuckles is no day at the spa. It's a funny thing, these hands of mine. I used to be sort of vain about them. My only good features are my long fingers and nice fingernails. For years I kept them perfectly manicured and protected from the elements. These days, I don't bother. Maintaining a manicure is impossible when you play the guitar, clean fish tanks at the Ocean Institute, and care for pets. Throw in an occasional callous from gardening, a baking-induced burn, a craft-related cut, and a spunky puppy with sharp puppy teeth. Add some bloody knuckles from horseback riding, and you've got yourself a fine mess.

Nonetheless, I think my hands look great. They can either be impeccably polished or useful, busy, and happy. I'll take the latter.

Weekend

Dash enjoying the sunset in Laguna Beach.

The Two-Sided Kandinsky

Sometimes the pieces fall into place, but the solved puzzle looks much different than what you had envisioned. I never thought English-style riding looked fun. But, as it turns out, I'm enjoying the traditions and protocol associated with this genteel pursuit. This isn't to say that Western-style pleasure riding is disorderly, but certainly things such as dress code are more relaxed.

And speaking of dress code, my formal dressage coat, top hat, and spotless white breeches will look much better in my romantic English lavender fields than would faded jeans and a dusty cowboy hat. I can't think of a reason why I'd be strolling around the lavender gardens in my riding apparel, but you just never know. During today's conference call, I broke the news to the Six-Button Cowgirls that I'm probably a proper English-style equestrian disguised as a cowgirl. They did not blink an eye. "We never bought your free-spirited, rugged cowgirl charade," said one. "No one likes rules, rigidity, and keeping her hands clean more than you," agreed the other. They are not entirely wrong, I suppose. Back in my sorority days, I was VP - Parliamentary Procedure, whose sole job was enforcing Robert's Rules of Order at chapter meetings. I know, I know--there are so many disturbing things about that statement. Wow.

But whatever. If you think about it, an urban cowgirl is by definition multi-faceted; like the two-sided Kandinsky in the John Guare play The Six Degrees of Separation, which has, although not real, triggered many a philosophical discussion about concurrent order and chaos. (Do nature and the ranch represent chaos and the city and the office represent control, or vice versa?) Or maybe the urban cowgirl dichotomy is more comparable to a mullet: business-in-front/party-in-back. Uh, let's go with the Kandinsky.

Lavender Lifestyle

I couldn't sleep last night because I was a little worried that my cowgirl attitude and attire will be out of place on my lavender farm. If the stuff I'm seeing on lavender farm websites is any indication, it looks like I'll have to wear Laura Ashley dresses, keep my hair long and flowing, don floppy straw hats, stroll around with a woven basket overflowing with flowers, smile demurely, speak softly, pose for pictures in silhouette (backlit by golden sunlight) and hold hands with a cherub-y child dressed in white and wearing a lavender wreath. Egads.

Helmet Head

I bought my training helmet today at an equestrian supply store over in San Juan Capistrano, which was, incidentally, abuzz with preparations for the annual return of their famous cliff swallows. The swallows leave town each year on the Day of San Juan (October 23) and head to their winter home 6,000 miles away in Argentina. They come back to the famous Mission San Juan Capistrano each year on St. Joseph's Day (March 19). Crowds of visitors greet the little birds with parades and fiestas. But I digress.

One person who does not need a training helmet? The Wrangler. He's quitting his riding lessons! He claims it's because he wants to focus on golf and guitar, but I think it's because he felt out of place at the stables. All of the students and most of the trainers are women. The lessons are private, so it's not like he was the only dude in a group of girls. But it's true he was the only guy in a training ring. I'm not super disappointed. Think of the savings! Without the Wrangler in the mix, I can add an extra lesson each week, buy twice as much stuff at the tack store, and buy a horse that's twice as fancy. Because that's how it works, right?

What Color Is My Parachute?

So here we are, nearly three months into 2010, and I have to give myself some props for making decent progress toward moving the Rainy Day Ranch into the physical realm. I've attended a farm conference, enrolled in a class on how to start a farm or ranch, and thoroughly researched various farm/ranch financing programs. The time has come to get serious about the actual business enterprise. Is it a Christmas tree farm or a pumpkin patch? Am I keeping alpacas or starting a creamery? Should I be a real cowgirl and raise grass-fed beef?

I guess I'm not that excited about trying to master multiple crops, so general organic farming is out. I'm gruff and not particularly social, so I cringe at the thought of a bunch of hooligans traipsing onto my beautiful and serene ranch to cut down their Christmas trees or pick out pumpkins during my two favorite seasons. And as cool as it would be to keep goats and run a creamery, I suspect that the regular milkings and food safety issues might be a headache.

Hmm, what to do, what to do. What's beautiful, fragrant, sustainable, holistically medicinal, and all-around lovely? Why, that would be lavender. According to my research, small-scale lavender crops can be very successful. Lavender shrubs attract few pests or diseases and thus don't require chemical pesticides. Nor do they require fertilizers or extensive irrigation. Lavender is a good "entertainment crop," meaning it does well on the festival and agri-tour circuit. Lavender grows very well in California, Oregon, and Washington state. Of course, all the great lavender farmers regularly travel to the heart of the lavender industry in...the Provence region of France. Alors, quelle horreur! Seriously, can you imagine the annual trade shows and conferences?

As thirty-something women with no kids tend to do, I signed up for yet another class. This one is a six-week course called Lavender: From Soil to Sachet. I can tell I'm onto something.

Cruisin'

A couple months ago I edged a little closer to ranch life by selling my convertible and buying a little SUV. Truth be told, the convertible was too much like the friend's spouse that you don't click with at all but are forced to appreciate because he really isn't a bad guy. The car looked nice and ran well. It couldn't help the fact that I don't like the sun on my face and thus have no business owning a car that is meant to be driven with its top down. With a bloom-where-you're-planted sort of optimism, I had bought the car immediately after moving out here from the east coast, mistakenly thinking that if I fully embraced the California lifestyle, surely it would grow on me.

I soon learned that a convertible with its top up is pretty much a death trap. The bonnet precludes any kind of rear visibility. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and hoped for the best every time I had to change lanes. For some reason the drivers I cut off or nearly clipped were not always appeased by my mea culpa shoulder shrug and the "I'm sorry" politely mouthed into the rearview mirror.

Any remnant of the fantasy of cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway at sunset, top down, hair blowing in the wind, fully evaporated after a slight debacle in Denver over Christmas this past winter. The Wrangler and I weren't in the convertible; we were in his zippy little car that we had driven from California to Denver so that we could bring the dog along for the holidays. Did I mention that said zippy little car was nicely equipped with...summer tires? Good one, Wrangler. Denver got a 1/2 inch of snow, and the car refused to budge. "I think the car is broken," the Wrangler said, with faint traces of panic, as he pressed on the gas and his good for nothing baby didn't move. I started sniffling as I watched the parade of all-wheel-drive Subarus dodging our stalled vehicle. I practically could hear the crunch of a giant SUV slamming into us.

Eventually a slightly exasperated state trooper arrived on the scene to assist the two idiots with the California license plates navigate the 1/2 inch of snow. He stood behind the car as the Wrangler pressed on the gas.

Approaching the driver's side window, the trooper announced, "You've got too much torque."

"Yes I do, sir," the Wrangler promptly replied, doing nothing to conceal a smug grin.

"Yeah, these cars are built for speed but not icy conditions," the trooper said, giving the hood scoop an admiring glance.

I observed the trooper settling into a comfortable lean against the car, and I knew the Wrangler was about launch into a proud and detailed discussion of his engine specs. What is it with guys? I cut him off at the pass. "This is not the time!!" I shouted. We were, after all, in the middle lane and vehicles were whizzing past us on both sides at frightening speeds. The trooper snapped out of his reverie and helped us gain some traction. We made it back to the house, although not without a few close calls with stop signs and the like. Upon reaching our destination, I had decided that the time was nigh to buy at least one ranch-worthy vehicle. Glancing at the Wrangler, who was lovingly scraping snow off his zippy little car, I knew that it was the convertible that had to go.

I'm not sad. I love my new all-wheel-drive vehicle. Today, it smells a little like horses and dogs, which is pleasingly ranch-like. I wanted to put a cowgirl decal on the back, but the Wrangler got pouty. Turns out, he likes driving the little SUV a lot, but he can't drive it with a cowgirl decal. Perhaps he will ditch his zippy little car for something a bit more ranch-worthy.

I'm not holding my breath, though.

A Well-Groomed Horse

Our riding lessons are underway. Actually, the lessons involve much more than riding. At least half the time is devoted to grooming and tacking. I have a newfound appreciation for the wranglers at the dude ranches we visit on vacations. At such places, someone simply leads a fully groomed and tacked horse to me and I just hop on. After the ride I jump off and someone leads the horse away, while I head for the spa or the dining room. But I think I've been missing out. I'm sure grooming and tacking can be a pain if you're pressed for time, but brushing a beautiful horse sure beats sitting in the office.

I was wiped out after the lessons this morning. After I got home, I took a shower and a nice two-hour nap. Lessons apparently are not as exhausting for the Wrangler. He went surfing. He better enjoy this schedule while it lasts--surfing and ranching generally don't go hand-in-hand.

Scruffy McScruff

Unlike Fenway's smooth coat, Dash's coat is looking a little scruffy.

Kitschy Kitchenware

I'm overhauling my baking equipment drawer. After almost 11 years since settin' up shop with ye olde Wrangler, it's time to replace the faded and mismatched stuff. Anthropologie has some super cute kitchen things this season. I love these chicken measuring cups; there also are some funny nesting geese measuring cups. I'm not sure that Anthropologie's $18 flower-shaped measuring spoons work any better than the standard sort that cost less than two bucks, but the ranch is all about putting the "f-u-n" in "functional," right?

Soup's On

I picked up a cute cookbook, From Portland's Palate, in the airport gift shop on my way home from Portland this past weekend. Last night I tried one of the soup recipes--and we ate every last drop. Here's the recipe:

Italian Sausage Soup

1 lb Italian sausage, sliced and casings removed (use a really good sausage--I used the excellent sweet Italian turkey sausage that my local grocery store Gelson's makes)

1/2 cup carrots, chopped

1/2 cup celery, chopped

1 cup fresh mushrooms, sliced (I used baby bellas)

2 Tbsp. butter

1/2 c fresh flat leaf parsley, chopped (I used parsley from my spice garden--yum!)

3 cups chicken broth (I used organic chicken broth that comes in the box)

1 (15.5 oz) can garbanzo beans with liquid

1 tsp. dried sage

salt and pepper

1 cup freshly shredded Parmesan cheese

In large saucepan over medium-high heat, saute sausage until browned. Remove from pan and set aside. Drain excess grease (if you use turkey sausage, there isn't any grease to drain). Add carrots, onion, celery, and mushrooms and saute in butter over medium-low heat for 5-10 minutes or until veggies are softened.

Return sausage to pan. Add parsley, chicken broth, garbanzo beans with liquid, sage, and salt and pepper. Simmer 30 to 40 minutes.

To serve, sprinkle each serving with Parmesan cheese.

Artisan bread with three cheeses baked in the crust was delicious with the soup.