Gratitude

Since I'm always looking ahead and thinking about what's next, it's easy for me to forget to be grateful for what I do have, right here and right now. Today I consciously stopped and counted my blessings.

We slept until 10--late enough so it feels luxurious yet not sloth-like. The morning sun was bright, but the air felt crisp and autumn-y. We let the pets out into the freshly-mowed courtyard, which smelled like a dream. The doggies happily rolled around in the short grass, and the Wrangler played a few chords on the guitar. We all headed inside to the kitchen where I mixed up a coffee cake and Joni Mitchell sang in the background.

This afternoon I went to the barn to ride Moto. I couldn't help sneaking in a few hugs while I brushed his shiny coat. Mmmm. Animals soothe my soul. Meanwhile, the Wrangler hit golf balls at the driving range. We reconvened and had dinner in our small town (population 1800). The restaurant isn't particularly upscale or worthy of a Michelin star, but the ambiance is pleasant, the service is friendly, and the food is tasty. We're lucky to have any place at all in a town of this size. We got home just in time to see the sunset over the ocean, which looked like a thin, sparkly silver ribbon in the distance. The sky glowed with an ostentatious palette of oranges, pinks, and reds. For five minutes I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be. For once I had no complaints at all.

There was no morning at the spa, afternoon of shopping, or dinner at a fancy restaurant. And yet today simply was the loveliest of days.

Pilgrimage

I just finalized the travel plans for what has become an annual fall foliage trip to Vermont. Next weekend, not only will I enjoy scenic drives on winding roads through the Green Mountains ablaze with peak autumn colors, I'll also be attending a small farming workshop. I'll learn about everything from sheep care to lumberjacking. Of course, the danger here is not my solo travels along country roads. The real risk is that the Wrangler will get a text message instructing him to pack up our things, put the pets in the car, and meet me in Vermont. I honestly can't guarantee that I'll ever catch that flight back to Cali.

Smells Like Rain

Storm clouds over the farm

I almost don't want to say it, for fear I'll jinx it. But I'm too excited to hold it in. And, since it's pretty much a sure thing, I might as well just blurt it out...we're getting a storm tomorrow! Yes, for three glorious days this week, the weather will be decidedly winter-like. October is usually the hottest, driest, sunniest month 'round these parts, but it looks like I'm getting a belated birthday gift! Temps are supposed to dip down to the unseasonably cool low 60s. I can curl up in a cozy blanket by the fire, cup of hot cider in hand, veggie chili simmering in the crock pot, apple pie in the oven--without having to turn on the A/C.

Even though my lesson with Moto probably will be rained out tomorrow, it's hard to feel disappointed. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!

Art & Soul

I recently read that if you take all the art in your home and put it in a pile, you will discern a common theme. I mentally walked through each room in the house, taking note of each print, painting, and decorative piece. Aha! The common theme for me is trees! I'm fascinated by this revelation because I certainly didn't plan this on any conscious level. But there it is: an abstract print of autumn leaves here, an impressionist painting of a tree-lined meadow there. Even my decorations are tree-themed--pinecones, wreaths, wood baskets. The focal point of the family room is two stunningly beautiful wood walking sticks, handmade by the Wrangler's father, which are displayed on the fireplace mantle. Every guest has immediately gravitated to them and inquired of their origin.

My fixation on trees makes a lot of sense. I'm not super outdoorsy, so I guess I bring the great outdoors inside. The breathtaking view of the tree-filled canyon was a significant factor in our decision to lease the farm. Every day I say aloud how much I prefer the views here to the city skylines and ocean views we enjoyed in our past houses. This makes perfect sense now.

Of course, most of us decorate with a particular style in mind--country, Tuscan, contemporary, etc. Test the art theory by looking for a theme beyond the decorating style. Maybe this theory doesn't always ring true. Some houses are pleasant but more generic; the place could belong to anyone. But the next time I'm in a home like this, I'm going to take a closer look.

Chickening Out

Bad news on the coop front. We just heard from the owners of the farm we're leasing that we can't have chickens. I'm a little bummed, but their explanation was reasonable. Apparently some of the neighbors (who, like us, are on the hill that backs up to the wildlife canyon) tried keeping chickens. The coyotes went absolutely crazy. They came up from the canyon in multiple packs and swarmed the yards at all hours. We already have quite a coyote presence; I can only imagine what would happen if we got chickens. Even though the coop area is well-fenced, it probably wouldn't be the best thing to have several packs of coyotes stalking the property in broad daylight and howling all night.

It's disappointing, but that's the good thing about only leasing the farm. We're learning as we go, and we're not stuck with any of the mistakes. When I buy a farm or ranch, I now know to really assess the predator situation. Lesson No. 1: Don't assume that fencing can solve the problem. I do see the irony here, though. We escaped the confines of cramped and crowded Laguna Beach...where urban chicken coops are allowed. (Don't worry--I'm not pining to move back.)

Owl in the Family

We have some new pets! A family of beautiful owls made their nest atop the chimney of the fireplace in the master bedroom. Despite the downturn in the housing market, this particular perch is highly sought-after. When we first moved in, the chimney was home to a graceful red-tailed hawk. Alas, a gang of crows foreclosed on the nest and sent the hawk packing. The crows bickered loudly among themselves, clanked around in the morning, and squawked into the night.

One night about a month ago, while I was trying to read and wind down before bed, the noisy racket on the roof seemed exceptionally loud. "That's it! I've had it with these crows!" I slammed my book shut, arose from the bed, and pointed to the fireplace. "Turn it on and crank up the gas," I directed the Wrangler, my voice low, slow, and evil, enunciating each syllable.

Wondering what had possessed his animal-loving wife, the same gal who gets upset upon receiving ASPCA mailings with photos of sad puppies, the Wrangler had no intention of toasting any crows. "Hold on, I'll go outside and see what's up."

After about 10 minutes, the Wrangler came storming back. "They're owls! Owls! The crows are gone. The owls are huge and amazing and beautiful! They're flying back and forth from the chimney to the trees and have enormous wingspans! And you were going to turn on the fireplace!" As if on cue, the rooftop racked stopped and we heard a gentle, "Hoot, hoot." I guess everyone is a little noisy on moving day.

I was sheepish indeed. "I really wasn't going to turn on the fireplace."

We love the soft hoot of the owls and watching them dart back and forth in the night sky. We're happy to have them as our upstairs neighbors, although sometimes the hooting does make it a little hard to sleep. I turn on the TV, and they quiet down immediately. They must be like me and enjoy falling asleep to old episodes of Seinfeld.

Born To Pin

I'm always behind the times when it comes to technology or cyberspace. (Do people even use the word "cyberspace" anymore? See what I mean?) For this, I'm unapologetic. My average monthly cell phone usage rarely exceeds 20 minutes--long live the landline! We have one or maybe even two iPads now that I think of it, but it's/they're gathering dust somewhere in a closet. It takes me a couple minutes to send a one-line text and I NEED COMPLETE SILENCE while I do so. I'll never Twitter. And GPS? Seems sneaky. So you get the point. I really should have been born in the 19th century.

Accordingly, please excuse me if I'm a bit late to the game here, but one of the Six-Button Cowgirls just introduced me to Pinterest, and I'm officially hooked. If you're like me and not in the know, there was a good article in the San Francisco Chronicle today that will give you the gist. In short, Pinterest lets us create online idea boards and share our additions. It's a great way to get inspired or simply catalog your own thoughts. I'm so excited to step into the now! I can stop keeping the huge binders of ideas that I've been compiling since the '80s. Yes, the '80s. Binder No. 1, completed at the tender age of nine, is filled with tips from Teen magazine for decorating your locker and bedroom, as well as photos torn from Town & Country magazine depicting glamourous equestrians at their country homes. (I did indeed subscribe to the patrician Town & Country as a middle-class fourth grader living in a banal suburb in the Midwest.)

I'm also a big fan of mood boards, a staple from the Wrangler's ad agency days. He stills brings home black foam core boards for me. I tend to jump from one big idea to another, so to keep me on track, he'll help me find photos to make a mood board about a particular idea, e.g., farms. (I do realize that such pastime is popular with both (a) creative genius ad execs and (b) five-year-olds.) At any rate, I now can create these boards online with just the click of my mouse--no glue, scissors, or magazines required. I don't even have to upload photos. When I see something I like on the web, I just click a "pin" button.

Can't. Stop. Pinning.

No Scrooges Allowed

It's no secret around here that I love Christmas an abnormal amount. I once founded a Christmas Club for ladies who love Christmas, but no one else wanted to meet in the "off season" of January through October. I've been known to unabashedly set up the Christmas village as early as October 1st, and I bake Christmas cookies well into February. And, yes, I've been lobbying for an 18-foot artificial Christmas tree this year.

So what if an 18-foot artificial tree is impractical, cumbersome, and a decorating nightmare? None of these arguments take into account the hours, days, weeks, and even years of sheer Christmas bliss that such a tree surely would bring. I'd curl up in front of the massive tree and doze off on a cozy Sunday afternoon. I'd watch the thousands of white lights twinkle as twilight set in on a chilly December evening. I'd stack festively wrapped packages with enormous bows under the lowest branches. In the spirit of frugality, I'd even forego any Christmas presents for myself. ("Nothing's stopping you from doing any of these things with a 10-foot tree," the Wrangler has noted wryly.) I'm not being profligate; I'd use the tree for years to come. It would be, as they say, an investment piece.

I usually can get the Wrangler on board with some of my more whimsical ideas. Once in a while, though, I can tell that he isn't going to budge. That's when a modern cowgirl has to take matters into her own hands. I figure there's about a 50/50 chance that, should the 18 feet of Christmas glory just happen to show up on our doorstep (a Christmas miracle!), the Wrangler--much like Ebenezer or, say, the Grinch--will see the errors of his ways. Far from grumbling over the logistics of assembling and decorating an 18-foot tree, he'll take a vacation day to string the lights. ("I'm sooo glad you went ahead and got this magical, majestic tree of cheer, tra la," he'll murmur appreciatively.)

But just in case...I suppose I better read that return policy.

Moo!

I've been threatening to get a cow for a while. Goats are fun, and I have no doubt that I'll love having a couple around the farm once I figure out the fencing situation, but I still haven't acquired a taste for goat's milk. I'm currently engrossed in Philip Hasheider's Family Cow Handbook, which has affirmed my belief that this family needs a beautiful, docile, Jersey cow.

Speaking of cows...out here in the country, we stumble upon interesting things all the time. On our way home from lunch today, the Wrangler and I just happened to see a cattle roping competition taking place at one of the many nearby riding stables. I'd never seen a roping event. In Montana we gathered cattle and did some team penning, but neither gathering nor penning involves roping. It was hard to not feel the excitement today, as each pair of riders burst out of the gate and tried to lasso the cow within a matter of seconds. But the sport quickly became difficult to watch because I felt so bad for the poor cows! It also made me wonder about team penning. Even though there are no ropes involved, I'm sure the cows don't like it.

Powerless

Oh sure, it was mildly fun to roast marshmallows by the campfire during the big power outage in San Diego county last week. If I'm being honest, though, the 12 hours without electricity were pretty dull. Now that I'm on the farm, I'm probably slightly more prepared than the average person for a natural disaster. The family could make it a couple weeks without electricity or access to town. But would we want to? Heck no. When the power was out last Thursday night, we were so bored without internet, computers, and lighting sufficient for reading that we went to bed about four hours earlier than usual. Yes, four hours. You can only strum the guitar by the campfire for so long.

As soon as we had power I ran to my computer, went directly to the Lehman's website, and snapped up anything that is powered by solar or hand-crank. In reflecting on some of the more impulsive purchases, I have to admit that I really didn't need a hand-operated cider press. But just think how productive I'll be during the next blackout!

Getting Moto Moving

I'm riding more often now that I'm leasing Moto again. It's wonderful to have something to look forward to several times a week. I don't even mind the commute to the barn, which has tripled since I moved to the farm.

Ah, Moto. Despite his size, I feel safe riding him because he is lazy. Although it's hard to get him going, I'll take a lazy horse over a touchy, spunky horse any day. Of course, his laziness necessitates the discussion of riding aids used to communicate with horses. Natural aids include leg pressure, voice, and hand and seat position. Artificial aids include spurs, whips, and crops (a very short and stiff variation of the whip). Although they sound severe, spurs, whips, and crops are commonly used as corrective tools. On the one hand, I know that it's important, for safety reasons, for the horse to obey and know who is (more or less) in charge. On the other hand, I can't help but think that only exceptional circumstances--such as needed medical attention--justify inflicting even minor pain on an animal. I have a hard enough time thinking about the bit and bridle and the fact that a horse has to tote me around on his poor back!

I don't wear spurs, and I don't use a whip. At my instructor's suggestion, I do carry a crop. Despite squeezing my calves against Moto's sides with all my might, I was having a hard time getting Moto moving. I've found that, even though I don't use it, just carrying the crop helps. Moto can see it out of the corner of his eye.

But the crop probably motivates me more than Moto. I've been told that a little tap of the crop on his shoulder feels like nothing more than a light smack on your bottom--it just lets the horse know that you mean business. Nonetheless, I don't want to use it. But if I can't get Moto moving with my legs, my instructor directs me to give him a tap with the crop. Thus, I put literally all I've got into making him move off my legs alone.

I end each session drenched in sweat and go home to soak my aching ab, thigh, and calf muscles in the tub. It's quite a workout, riding a lazy horse.

Weird Week

It was sort of a weird week on the farm. It began on Sunday night when we awoke to a flash (lightning) and a crash (thunder). First, I've never heard thunder like that in Southern California. Second, the lightning struck something in our grove. It was so close we could feel the energy in the air. Third, we haven't had rain in months, and we don't expect any until November. We're in the middle of wildfire season; I was convinced that the lightning would spark a brush fire in our canyon. I envisioned us running from the flames, with pets and boxes of family photos in tow.

On Monday night, even though it wasn't raining, we were treated to the largest rainbow I've seen. It arched directly over our house, a beacon. The sky turned purple and gold, and the air felt both magical and eerie. I thought we'd have an earthquake for sure.

Tuesday and Wednesday temperatures soared to the triple-digits with Houston-like humidity. This, again, highly unusual for our region.

And then on Thursday afternoon, the lights went out...in all of San Diego county and parts of Orange County and Riverside County and Arizona and Mexico. For a while cell phone towers were down as well. Traffic signals didn't work, turning the Wrangler's usual 40-minute commute into a three-hour nightmare. We scrounged up a campfire dinner of s'mores, brushed our teeth by candlelight, and headed to bed around 9PM--about four hours early. Power was restored at 3AM.

We're almost through Friday and, so far, nothing magical or strange.

Back to the Start

Pop Over

I have a dark secret: I haven't baked much bread since moving to the farm. Every time I walk into the kitchen, I am shamed by the idle bags of flour, jars of yeast, and spacious countertops perfect for kneading dough. I don't bake as much during the summer, so perhaps I'll throw on an apron and get serious in a couple of months. In the mean time, I've been appeasing our guests with popovers.

Ah, the popover, a staple of my childhood. My mom made popovers--perfectly light and fluffy on the inside and a crisp golden brown on the outside--in the mornings and served them piping hot from the oven with butter and jam. Many supper clubs serve them with dinner. (I could write a separate blog entry on midwestern supper clubs, which I adore.)

I don't think that the popover, which purportedly is the American version of Yorkshire pudding, is a midwestern thing. But for some reason, I've never seen them served in restaurants on the east or west coasts. And so far, none of my guests have been familiar with popovers. One friend who is a very skilled bread baker was amazed that popovers aren't a yeast bread. "No yeast," I told him. "Just flour, eggs, milk and a pinch of salt." I could tell he didn't believe me.

My point here is that everyone who comes to the farm sort of expects to be greeted by the smell of freshly baked bread. I can't seem to set aside a few hours for bread baking, but popovers are doing the trick quite nicely. They're delicious, festive, easy to make, inexpensive, and low-cal/low-fat. I guarantee that you have the ingredients on hand.

I use my mom's recipe, which is adapted from the Betty Crocker cookbook:

4 eggs

2 cups flour

2 cups milk

1 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Grease a popover or muffin pan.

Beat the eggs by hand just until mixed (don't overdo).

Add the flour, milk, and salt. Mix just until smooth.

Fill the popover cups 2/3 full. If using a muffin pan fill the cups 1/2 full.

Bake at 450 for about 20-25 minutes. Lower temp to 350 and bake another 15-20 minutes until golden brown and puffy.

Serve with homemade honey butter and jam for a sweet popover in the morning. For a savory popover with dinner, serve with meat, au jus, or gravy.

Evening on the Farm

A Gouda Day

The Winchester Cheese Company is located just 10 minutes northeast of Temecula, but in a scorched valley. The thermometer in the car read 94 degrees. (It was only 80 degrees back home on the farm.) As we turned off the main road onto the dusty dirt road, I saw lots of cows grazing not on grass but just dry, brown earth. "These are the Happy Cows?" I asked the Wrangler rhetorically, referring to the California dairy advertisements that depict California cows as being much happier than their blizzard-prone midwestern counterparts. "I think the Wisconsin cows with their green pastures have a leg up on this sorry lot."

The Wrangler, a fellow former midwesterner who has long since transferred his loyalties to California (with the exception of his affinity for the Minnesota Vikings), was less disparaging. "What are you talking about? These cows are having a blast. They're hanging out in the sun--not cooped up in some factory farm." Good point. As we continued up the road, I embraced the Wrangler's optimism...which quickly faded as we turned into the parking lot of the Winchester Cheese Company.

Scanning the three trailer homes strung together in front of us, I couldn't help announcing, "Well, we're not in Vermont." We made our way to the trailer with the neon "Open" sign. Things didn't look much better inside.

We did sample five delicious goudas--from a crumbly, sharp gouda aged five years down to their best-selling 60-day aged cheese (a mild but flavorful, smooth and somewhat creamy gouda). The cheese store trailer houses the table of cheese samples, a refrigerator filled with cheese for purchase, and a few shelves of tacky cow knick-knacks. The 70s decor is relic, not even throwback. But the sales staff is friendly and knowledgeable. After asking a few questions about the cheese operation, the Wrangler and I suddenly found ourselves on a fascinating, impromptu private tour of the "factory."

Donning hair nets, we headed to the cheese cave where the cheese is aged. It's not so much a cave as it is a carefully climate-controlled (66 degrees), sterile room in what I presume is a double-wide trailer. Rows and rows of cheese wheels in all sizes are aging on racks. Some are aged not for sale but for research; a few wheels of cheese date back to 2003. We were shown the immaculate but surprisingly small room where the cheese is made. With the exception of the giant tub in which the milk is stirred, none of the equipment is automated. The cheese truly is handmade. We saw the brine tubs that are never emptied, and the edible vegetable-based solution that is painted on each wheel (instead of wax). The solution allows the cheese to breathe and continue its aging process until the moment the cheese is eaten.

In its heyday, the Winchester Cheese Company had a working dairy operation and produced award-winning farmstead cheese featured in a Wolfgang Puck special (which we watched on a video in the office trailer). Today, the cows are gone and it buys its milk from dairies. The sales staff hinted at management problems--the founder passed away last year--and acknowledged that cheese isn't being made on schedule.

After watching the video of Wolfgang Puck's visit to the Winchester Cheese Company and his subsequent preparation of a gouda and prosciutto panini made with Winchester Cheese Company gouda, the Wrangler and I felt faint with hunger. We remembered that the Temecula Valley Cheese Company sells Winchester Cheese Company gouda. As we said our goodbyes and departed for Old Town Temecula, I noticed that the three trailers comprising the cheese store, office, and factory no longer looked so forlorn. They're not quaint and picturesque like the pastoral Vermont cheese farms. But there's a lot of heart and soul in those trailers.

P.S. We did get our gouda and prosciutto panini made with Winchester Cheese Company gouda at the charming Temecula Valley Cheese Company. While we were eating, a customer marched up to the cheese case, chanting "gouda! gouda!" My thoughts exactly.

This Isn't Your Mother's Front Yard

How rad is this? On a drive through town, we spotted someone eschewing the manicured lawn ideal by growing pumpkins in his front yard. Nice!

"Just follow your heart...that's what I do." --Napoleon Dynamite

When I'm on the fence about something and can't reach a decision, I, like many people, make a list of pros and cons. (Of course, my fastidious self takes this a bit further by categorizing and assigning weights to each pro and con before tabulating the results...on an Excel spreadsheet...yeesh...I know.) But sometimes the right choice defies logic and reason; sometimes it's a mistake to choose what looks best on paper. I supposes that a lot of people learn this the hard way in choosing careers or even spouses!

After my fall from the magnificent Miki Moto, riding sweet Francie seemed to be the safest and most logical decision. Francie is older and a little smaller, with a smoother gait, than Moto. Gentle Francie is beloved among beginners, and a great partner for a newly-timid, slightly gimpy, accident-prone, inexperienced rider like myself. Francie and I were to be quite the team.

But of this, a despair. It was a good match only on paper. I made zero progress over the past nine months. Francie knew I wasn't in charge. In June, I took a break from riding--partly because my awesome instructor was on vacation, but equally because I wasn't enjoying riding. It's hard to enjoy riding when you're scared off your you-know-what.

Two weeks ago, I decided to throw reason to the wind. It wasn't doing me any good anyway. I started riding again, but this time on Moto. So what if he's a giant with a rocking horse gait? He's the horse I loved to ride. And guess what? He still is!

Go Nuts

The Wrangler and I had to make a Big Box Store run to the 'burbs on Saturday to pick up various supplies, which got me feeling a little down. I love our farm and the small towns nearby, but I'm not too keen on some of the large surrounding cities: traffic, crowds, scrappy strip malls. I do realize that I'm starting to sound OLD. Perhaps tranquility, peace, and quiet age us faster than noise and chaos?!

Today the Wrangler and I got our country groove back by taking a scenic 15-minute drive down Old Castle Road to the Bates Nut Farm. The 100-acre ranch and general store is probably the closest you can come to something like my beloved Vermont Country Store here in Southern California. The drive was incredible. Winding roads lined with coniferous trees (reminiscent of my native Minnesota), with "peeks of peaks" in the distance. As much as I'd like to bemoan the dusty, dry ranches of northern San Diego county that are so unlike the lush green rolling hills I dream of, I'm struck by the beauty in this desert landscape.

The Bates Nut Farm has spacious--and dog-friendly--picnic areas under shady trees, and hospitable ducks, geese, sheep, llamas, and goats. The ostriches and miniature donkeys are, perhaps, of the grumpy sort, as they are kept a bit beyond reach. The pumpkin patch opens in late September, so I know where I'll be getting my pumpkins this year. But next year, I'll be getting them from my own patch.

Farm Fresh

We're hosting a house guest this weekend, and it's fun to plan menus that take advantage of the fresh food grown right here on the farm or just a few miles down the way: lemonade made with lemons from our orchard and garnished with mint from our garden; caprese salad made with local farmstand tomatoes, basil from the garden, mozzarella from the Rainy Day Ranch creamery, of course, and drizzled with the Temecula Olive Oil Company's finest; home-baked bread with homemade honey butter (featuring local honey, of course); the Wrangler's signature guacamole dip with avocados plucked from the trees literally minutes before mashing; lots of oranges and tangerines; and maybe some fresh pomegranate juice if I can scrounge up a basketful of pomegranates. They're not in season until September, but we do have a few.

I'm acting country cool, but I have to admit that all of these things could be made with ingredients from container gardens in the city. We did all of this stuff back in the cottage. I guess the real excitement starts when I'm growing things like pumpkins, or getting eggs and milk from my own animals. (I'm not sure about the idea of eating meat from animals raised on my own farm--my pesky anthropomorphism gets in the way.)

But in the mean time, I will try to be present in the moment as I sit back and relax with some freshly squeezed lemonade and a warm slice of bread right out of the oven.