Syrupy Sweet

In recounting my recent trip to Vermont, I'd be remiss if I described only the cheese farms and left out the maple syrup farms. For 30-some years I've enjoyed--and, truthfully, kind of preferred--pancake syrup like Mrs. Butterworth's or Log Cabin. I knew that "pancake syrup" contains corn syrup and maple-like flavoring but no real maple component at all. But I didn't appreciate the difference between pancake syrup and the real deal until I toured a maple syrup farm.

True maple syrup is essentially organic. It's simply the result of boiling the sap of sugar maple trees. Nothing is added. An astounding 40 (forty!) gallons of sap are needed to make one gallon of maple syrup. During the sugaring season in Vermont (depending on temperatures, this runs from March to mid-April), a sugar maple tree will provide about 10 gallons of sap. Most trees are not tapped unless they are at least 40 years old. A 40-year old maple likely will have only one tap; larger trees could have two or even three taps. But overtapping depletes too much of the tree's sap.

So, it takes about four trees, 40-years or older, to produce one gallon of maple syrup. Sugarbush Farm has 6,000 maples on its 550 acres and has an intricate system of tubes (the Wrangler is holding onto one in the photo) for transporting the sap. "What do you think?" I asked the Wrangler last night. "Will 10 gallons of maple syrup a year be enough for us on the ranch? We'll need just 40 adult maple trees."

"Are you kidding?" the Wrangler asked, incredulously. He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a small bottle of Log Cabin pancake syrup. "We've had this since we moved in here over two years ago."

"That's true, but when we're making our own delicious maple syrup, we'll probably use it for so much more than just French toast, waffles, and pancakes. Remember what the lady at the maple syrup farm said." Our friendly tour guide, sounding not unlike Bubba in Forest Gump listing the various ways to prepare shrimp, touted maple syrup's many uses: you can put maple syrup on ice cream, you can put maple syrup in oatmeal, you can put maple syrup in yogurt, you can put maple syrup on your cereal, you can use maple syrup in cakes, pies, and cookies, you can put maple syrup in whipped cream, you can put maple syrup in your coffee and tea...

The Wrangler looked skeptical. "I don't really see us putting it on our cereal or eating a lot of yogurt and maple syrup concoctions. And I'm not putting it in my coffee."

"Well, maybe we can give some as gifts," I said hopefully. "Who wouldn't want our fresh, homemade maple syrup?" But the vision of the two of us happily stamping through snowdrifts and carrying buckets filled with sap from our 40 maples had already begun to dim.

Maybe we will just buy ours from the good folks in Vermont.

Like Bees to Honey

As the Great Cheese Farm Tour 2010 drew to a close, the Wrangler and I agreed that it had been one heck of a trip. Who knew we'd fall in love with Vermont? We didn't even make it to Maine. I might have shed a tear or two of happiness while driving through the billboard-free Vermont countryside and commiting to memory the views of red, orange, and yellow hills. Yes, the trees had begun to change color.

I accomplished one major feat on this trip: I got the Wrangler excited about bees. Our visit with Jenna at Cold Antler Farm gave us the opportunity to process wool from her sheep and help harvest fresh honey. Okay, I'm using the word "help" a bit loosely here. I "helped" by carrying the matches for the smoker device that is used to chase the bees out of the hive, and the Wrangler "helped" by looking for the crowbar-like tool that extracts the plastic honey-filled frames from the hive. (The tool was under a bale of hay upon which a proud chicken had just laid an egg.) Jenna's hive has 30,000 bees, and she's been stung only once. She removed two frames (there are 10 total) from the hive, put them in a bucket, and brought them into the kitchen. She placed a colander in the bottom of a large bowl and scraped the honey from the frames with a brush. It oozed into the colander, which removed the wax and, well, bee particles.

Vermont currently is awash in goldenrod, and the honey is the exact color of the goldenrod blooms--which makes perfect sense. There is nothing as sweet as fresh honey. Except for maybe fresh maple syrup. I'll get into that later.

Cheesy

And we're off. Sunset over the Pacific at take-off. Sunrise over the Atlantic at touch-down.

Saturday: Grafton Village Cheese, Vermont Country Store, Sugarbush Farm, Billings Farm.

Sunday: Three-Corner Field Farm, Cold Antler Farm, Consider Bardwell Farm.

We'll be seeing goat cheese farms, cow's milk cheese farms, sheep's milk cheese farms, and a water buffalo cheese farm, as well as a cheese factory that does not produce milk but buys its milk from Vermont farmers.

The Maine Event

I've finished the research, I've attended the seminars and conferences, I've gone on the haycations and done the dude ranch thing, I've completed the online classes, and I've read the books and blogs of other working stiffs who haven't quit their day jobs but are trying to piece together small farm or ranch operations. Now it's time for the next step. I've put together a whirlwind trip to see the not-so-simple life in action. We'll be hitting hotspots in Massachusetts, Maine, Vermont, and the New England-esque parts of upstate New York. We'll be stopping at Consider Bardwell Farm (which I first read about in Hay Fever) and the Beekman 1802 merchantile (of both the Fabulous Beekman Boys and Bucolic Plague fame). Most exciting for me is a planned visit with Jenna, the author of Made from Scratch, at her Cold Antler Farm. She has promised to give me the low-down on keeping sheep.

I've also planned tours of two farms in Woodstock, Vermont: Billings Farm and Museum (a working dairy farm with all kinds of activities, events, and programs for visitors) and Sugarbush Farm (a working cheese and maple syrup farm). I'm not exactly dragging the Wrangler kicking and screaming on this trip, but I'm throwing in a tee time for him, just for good measure.

Kale-afornia Dreamin'

When I was a volunteer in the commissary at the National Zoo, I spent many a Sunday morning chopping up kale. The majority of the zoo animals' diets include kale. I knew that it is one of those wonder foods--rich in nutients and loaded with antioxidents--but I'd never eaten kale until recently. You probably know where I'm going here. Yep, kale is good for healing bones.

I generally can choke down greens only if they're disguised in soups, sauces, or Indian food. Luckily, one of the Six-Button Cowgirls has a more healthful way to prepare the vile weed. She makes kale chips. (She also has a very interesting food blog with wonderful photos.) I have to admit I was skeptical, but I gave it try. I tore the kale into bite-sized pieces, tossed in just a tiny splash of olive oil, and sprinkled with garlic salt. Note that she is fancier than I and uses a 60/40 blend of sea salt and granulated garlic. I baked the kale at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes, until all pieces were crispy.

All said, not a bad way to eat my kale. If eating straight-up baked kale doesn't grow me some bones, I don't know what will.

Bee-lieve It or Not

I'm headed to B-School. But we're not talking business school; we're talking bee school. Despite my suspicion that beekeepers are a little weird, I'm embarking on an adventure in apiculture.

I can't believe that I didn't think of this sooner. Beekeeping has many upsides:

1. It's good for gardening. Nothing grows without a little pollination.
2. It's sort of a rescue operation. Surely you've heard of colony collapse disorder. Not to be an alarmist, but supposedly all the bees are dying out worldwide, and soon we'll have no food supply due to lack of pollination. Or something like that. Minor details.
3. Beeswax candles.
4. And, of course, delicious honey.

I personally am a good fit for beekeeping. Curiously, I have no fear of bees or stings. I had only two reservations about making a beeline for beekeeping (sorry). The first was the outfit. For some reason I had it my head that beekeepers wear long black dresses and heavy black veils and creep through their gardens on foggy mornings looking lost and creaky. Thankfully, after a little research, I discovered that I had confused beekeepers with what likely are widows in scary movies. Beekeepers actually wear some kind of white get-up that looks like an astronaut suit. It's fairly benign.

My second reservation concerned the sheer number of bees that will be arriving (via U.S. Mail, nonetheless). A typical hive has 60,000 bees. While I'm unafraid of bees, I generally am grossed out by things in mass quantities. You know how one ladybug is cute? Well, 60 ladybugs are not cute (much less 60,000 ladybugs). But I must push past this quirk. I just have to think about all that honey.

Crab Fest Rx

Out here on the left coast, people are fond of their dungeness crab. I gave it a fair shake when I moved here, but I've concluded that anyone who loves dungeness crab only does so because he or she hasn't had blue crab. Along with first-rate Ethiopian food, blue crab is what the Wrangler and I miss most about living in DC.

Admittedly, the words" blue" and "crab" pretty much describe me lately. It's been almost six weeks since I've been able to ride Moto. Sensing my mood, the San Diego-based Six-Button Cowgirl took matters into her own hands and had a half-bushel (translation: a lot) of large, live blue crabs flown in from Maryland for our own little crab fest. Never one to skimp, she also served up jumbo lobster tails, shrimp, corn on the cob, potato salad, corn bread, and her special dipping sauce concoction of Old Bay, butter, and vinegar. The Wrangler bravely transferred the squirming crabs one-by-one into the 19-quart lobster pot and covered with beer, water, and plenty of Old Bay. After boiling for about 25 minutes, the crabs were ready.

It was a little tricky picking crabs with one hand. The Wrangler wrapped me and my cast with a plastic bag, HazMat-style, covered me with paper towels, and handed me a mallet. I wasn't exactly channeling Jackie-O or Audrey Hepburn. But it didn't matter.

I could say something corny about good friends and good food being the best medicine, but I'm way too full.

Catch and Release...Into My Tummy

The Wrangler and I headed to the midwest last weekend to pay homage to our roots and families in northern Minnesota. In three years, I'll have lived outside Minnesota longer than I lived there. Each time I go back, it all feels a little more unfamiliar. Yet, I'm always doing things that only someone from my neck of the woods can understand. No one here in California knows what I mean when I say that the ocean looks just like Mille Lacs, or why nothing says "festive holiday" more than canned fruit cocktail mixed with jello, mini-marshmallows, and cool-whip, or that walleye tastes one thousand times better than any other fish (but northerns are more fun to catch).

Ah, the northern--a good-sized freshwater pike fish that puts up a fun fight but few Minnesota anglers keep. Most of us are fairly disappointed to find a northern on the end of our line. Northern filets have too many bones. But leave it to my dad to ensure that nothing goes to waste, even the oft-maligned northern. Dad's been pickling northern for years. The pickling process eliminates the bones and turns a tough filet into little tasty treats. It started as a tradition at--of all places--his office. The entire staff helped make jar after jar of pickled northern for the annual Christmas party. When I lived in DC and Dad came to visit, I actually overheard him boasting about his pickled northern to the random couple sharing our table at a Japanese steakhouse. The visibly perplexed couple clearly had no idea what a "northern" is, why people would be pickling it at the office, and why it was the delicacy du jour at holiday parties.

This past weekend, we saw Dad in action. My aunt is hosting a weekend party for 60 houseguests and instructed my dad to bring 10 jars of pickled northern, which apparently is just as popular outside the holiday party circuit. Dad caught the fish on his lake, cut the filets into bite-sized pieces, and soaked the fish in a water and salt solution for three days (changing the solution periodically). We observed him as he filled canning jars with sugar, onions, pickling spices, and fish. He poured half a cup of white wine in each jar, and topped off the jars with vinegar. When I saw the jars of pickled fish stacked in the refrigerator, I knew I was home.

Flame Grilled Pizza

I didn't get a picture, but our friends served us up one heck of a good homemade pizza. Actually, six good homemade pizzas--we each made our own--on the grill.

We used pre-made pizza dough from Trader Joes. Each package makes about two or three individual pizzas. If they're too large, they're difficult to grill. Roll out the dough and brush one side with olive oil. Place the dough, olive oil-side down, on a hot grill. Brush the top side with olive oil, and flip the dough after about three minutes. Top with sauce and pre-cooked toppings. I topped mine with traditional pizza sauce, sauteed mushrooms and onions, sausage (browned and crumbled), and cheese, but the pizza with alfredo sauce and chicken looked good too. By the time the cheese has melted (about four minutes), the pizza is done. Grilling makes for a nice, thin, crispy crust. Yum!

The Magnificent Miki Moto

I'm obviously not riding as of late, but I still have lessons on Tuesdays and Saturdays and am learning plenty. Everyone at the barn from the young grade-school girls and their parents to the seasoned riders and the head trainer has been caring and sympathetic. It's great to be part of such a supportive community while I'm recovering from my injuries. And I love visiting Moto.

Mr. Miki Moto, at 18 hands, is the tallest horse at the barn. A hand is four inches, and horses are measured from their withers (the ridge on the back between the shoulder blades) to the ground. After I learned that I broke my sacrum, I read that sacrum injuries often are caused by falling from "a great height." That would be Moto! Despite his size, he's a gentle giant and very patient with beginners. He does tend to be a bit lazy, but you can hardly blame him. Wouldn't you be a little languid if you were his size? I love how he turns his ears backward to listen to me when I'm riding him.

The handsome guy loves treats. He hikes up his front leg and taps his huge bell-shaped hoof to let me know that he'd like another carrot, please. Moto likes being groomed and leans in to me and sighs when I curry-comb his chest. Heaven.

So Long, Soda

Aside from the animals, it is the idea of the fresh, homegrown food that makes the "simpler life" on the farm or ranch sound so appealing. Yet, while I'd given a lot of thought to local, seasonal, organic, and humane food over the past couple years and made some small changes (I buy organic and humane products whenever possible), my overall diet missed the point. For example, before my accident two weeks ago, I had an appalling 4-can-a-day diet soda habit. I had tried to kick the habit many times, with no success.

(The Wrangler, who doesn't drink soda, once protested my purchase of a 24-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper at Target. "You drink way too much," he scolded, not bothering to help as I struggled to carry the carton to our cart.

"I only drink a lot because of my job," I explained. "If I could just stay at home on the ranch, I'd cut way back."

"That's not true. You'd just sit at home and drink even more all day," the Wrangler said, oblivious to the craned heads of other shoppers who, looking at me with disapproval, undoubtedly thought we were discussing a different vice.)

My broken humerus and sacrum--yep, just learned that my tailbone area is fractured, not merely bruised--helped me to quit cold-turkey. I'm no longer a soda pop junkie. After the accident, I learned that caffeine, carbonated beverages, soda, salt, red meat, fatty dairy, refined sugar, and processed/junk foods (about 95% of my pre-accident diet) hinder bone repair. No can of soda is worth a prolonged recovery.

Supernova

The Wrangler's pet name for me is Supernova. (There are no Sweeties or Honeybunches on this ranch.) I earned this term of endearment because one minute I'm crazily into something and then, suddenly, I'm not. Sometimes I simply overdo it--like the KFC bowl, for example. Remember those? Mashed potatoes topped with KFC chicken, gravy, corn, and cheese? I ate one every day for two months straight. Then one fateful day I discovered that even thinking about a KFC bowl grossed me out.

Sometimes I just exhaust my resources. After reading literally every book out there on lavender (including books en francais), taking a lavender class, touring lavender farms, researching lavender festivals and vacations, conducting lavender growing studies, learning lavender crafts, talking to lavender experts, and purchasing so many lavender products that the den looked like a wholesale lavender distribution facility (until I threw everything in boxes and stuffed them in the attic), I'm good for now with the lavender research, thanks.

Sometimes I lose interest. Scrapbooking class = $125. Creative Memories scrapbooking supplies = $1500. Discovering that a person with no patience and even less artistic ability has no business cutting up cherished photos = priceless.

And sometimes I crash and burn. In February I decided to start hunter/jumper horseback riding lessons. By March I had added a second lesson each week. By April I had two bookshelves-worth of horse riding manuals, and the guy at the tack store knew me by name. By June I had competed in my first show, was taking two lessons plus hacking each week, and half-leased a horse. And then, the first week of July, I took a bad fall while learning to canter, suffering a broken arm and a severely bruised tailbone. I'm sidelined until late August. My plans to spend the summer on horseback have imploded.

Happy 4th of July Weekend

My Green Thumb

My newly transplanted succulent clippings

Yesterday at the grocery store, I lamented having to buy fresh rosemary. "It was so nice having a spice garden last year," I said with a sigh. The Wrangler looked confused. "Huh? You still have a spice garden." It was my turn to look confused. "I do?" I haven't given a thought to that bowl o' plants on the patio since March. I assumed it was dead. Turns out, my spice garden is alive and well. Thanks to the Wrangler's periodic watering and care. And no thanks to me. I don't think that this exchange in the produce section did much to build the Wrangler's confidence in my lavender farming abilities.

Well, there's no use setting oneself up to fail. I am a rather relaxed, not to say neglectful, gardener. Thus, my latest gardening project involves succulents--water-retaining plants that can pretty much fend for themselves. I bought a collection of succulent cuttings and am planning to plant a living picture as soon the cuttings have settled in. (See the instructions in Sunset magazine.) I'm debating whether to take the easy way out and purchase a living picture planter kit from the Succulent Gardens that includes the frame and cactus mix for the cuttings. Somehow this seems like cheating, though. A true cowgirl would build her own frame...but on the other hand, an urban cowgirl might buy hers online. Why do I feel like I'm at a crossroads?

Heartfelt

Pieces of roving stabbed into a thin piece of artfelt paper

This afternoon a friend and I took an artfelt class at Strands & Stitches, an adorable knitting store just a few blocks away. What is artfelt? Well, as the Artfelt website states, "It's not needle felting. It's not wet felting. It's not fulling." Good to know. Although, I've never heard of any of those things. My rudimentary description: you take various colors of roving (strips of flimsy wool fiber--yes, this is an alpaca tie-in), twist into shapes, and place on a piece of special artfelt paper. Using a barbed needle, stab the pieces of roving into the artfelt paper. To save your table top, be sure to place a piece of foam or tacking board between the artfelt paper and your table.

After it "felted" in the dryer

Immerse your design in water. Cover the top side of your design with a piece of plastic (like a plastic grocery bag), and then place a rolled dishtowel on top. Roll the design into a tube shape (around the dishtowel) and then put the tube into a trouser sock. The process does not ruin the dishtowel or sock. Throw it into the dryer for about 15 minutes, and then unroll. Place your design, paper side-up, in the sink, and pour boiling water over it to dissolve the paper. Rinse and allow to dry.

Finished product: a camera case for my niece

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.

Viele Köche verderben den Brei? Not in this case.

I've mentioned before that a bunch of us prepare a meal at the Friendship House once a month. We plan the menu, do the grocery shopping, cook the food, and serve it to about 40 residents. The one thing we do not have to do is the dishes! Our gentle leader John takes pride in ensuring that every dish is made from the best ingredients and served with soul. This month we planned a German menu. John bought a feast's worth of wurst and sauerkraut from Mattern, a German deli in the city of Orange. Mattern is one of those places where people stand on line for 45 minutes to place their order. Judging from the sauerkraut, I can attest that it is worth any wait.

It's hard to pull off a German meal. When you're messing around with all that wurst, pickled cabbage, pork, and potato salad, it really can go either way. I admit that I had some misgivings going into this on Saturday. Minutes after arriving at the Friendship House, John put three of us to work peeling peaches and washing berries for the fruit cobbler. The other three started peeling potatoes for the potato salad--using a treasured recipe from John's friend's grandmother. No mayo. Just vinegar, sugar, green onions, and bacon for seasoning. Served warm, of course.

It's hard to gauge which dish was the piece de resistance, but I think I have to go with the bacon-wrapped pork loin. Yeah, you heard me right. We took two pork loins (5 lbs each) and wrapped them unabashedly in bacon, browned the meat, and popped it in the oven. We basted the meat with a syrupy mixture of vinegar, honey, onion, rosemary, and raisins. We thought there would be a ton of leftovers, but there was absolutely nothing left in any pot, dish, or pan.

Dinner always tastes delicious at the Friendship House. It's a combination of our hard work, the fun of cooking with friends, the gratitude from the residents, and truly good food. Next month is Kansas City-style BBQ.

A Bath for Dash

Scrappy Doo was looking and smelling great after his bath tonight...until a certain Wrangler who was supposed to be supervising the pets outside got too absorbed in his guitar and didn't notice that the Russells were chasing baby birds and rolling in dirt in the side yard.

Show Time

I competed in my first horse show this weekend--a practice show hosted by my riding school. My goal was simple: anything but last place. I'm pleased to report that I exceeded my goal. Out of the five riders who competed at the Beginner level, I placed third in the flat class (where judges look at the horse's movement) and fourth in the flat equitation class (where judges look at the rider's position). Not too bad for someone who just started lessons a few months ago, right? Well, my honor demands that I tell you the entire story. A seven-year old and her pony took first place. You can see why I'm concurrently proud and pathetic.

The day of the show, I entered the arena atop the magnificent Miki Moto, a beautiful warmblood gelding who stands 18 hands high. As I trotted past little girls on their spunky ponies (under 14.2 hands), I felt mildly like someone in a scene in a Will Ferrell movie or SNL sketch in which a hulking adult mows down tiny tots to win a 50-yard dash, does an overly exuberant victory dance, and makes an "L" with his thumb and forefinger as he brushes past the kids who lost. Luckily for me, I was never in any danger of soundly defeating all the aspiring National Velvets and thus looking like a Will Farrell character. My young competitors, although still Beginners, have been riding for a year or more. They looked awesome--it certainly wasn't a case of the judges just letting the kids win.

I was fairly nervous before the show. I knew that I'd be the only adult, which is kind of humiliating. Why are there no other adult beginners? And why did I wait until now to start lessons? Even though I wasn't aiming to win and knew that I wouldn't win, I didn't want to--as the Wrangler says--"stall out." (The Wrangler came to one of my lessons and asked why I sometimes "stall out" or, in other words, just stop my horse and sit there for a minute. I'm sure my instructor would like to know the same thing. The answer is simple: sometimes there is too much to think about at once. I'm like a PC that freezes up when it has too many apps running.)

All in all, my first show was a great experience. First, I didn't stall out. Second, I loved shopping at the tack store for my show outfit. Third, there's a cross-stitch sampler-worthy moral lesson in here (maybe something like, "it's never too late," "you have to start somewhere," or "you're not all that"). Fourth, it's good to get my hotshot lawyer ego taken down a notch or 10 (losing to a seven-year old will do that nicely). But most of all, it was just plain fun to spend the morning with horses and people who love them.

I Scream, You Scream

I followed the Wrangler's advice and made a batch of ice cream tonight. The man knows what he's talking about. I just mixed organic whole milk, cream, vanilla extract, and sugar in a bowl, dumped the mixture into the freezer bowl, and turned on the ice cream maker. Twenty minutes later we were scarfing down a nice bowl of homemade ice cream. As I made room in the freezer for the leftovers, I shook a fist at the gelato (a/k/a my rookie mistake).