Horsing Around

I have some sad news and some happy news. First, the sad news: Moto will be "on vacation" for a while. He's suffering from a bowed tendon. He started limping last week after cantering on the lunge line. I'll hear more about his diagnosis and prognosis tomorrow.

Now, the happy news: today I paid a visit to a barn (just 10 minutes from home!) where my riding instructor keeps her two horses. The barn owner is fostering two rescue yearlings. These timid little guys are so sweet and fuzzy and fun. I helped to groom them and watched them play with a ball during their turn out. It's so wonderful to know that they've been rescued!

Ruined

The Wrangler has been picking oranges in the orchard every Saturday morning and kicking off the day with freshly squeezed juice. We're ruined for life. Store-bought juice now tastes like water. Our homemade OJ is atomic orange and packs a punch. Just a few sips scratch the itch. (I wonder if people ironically overeat when their store-bought food lacks flavor and thus is not very satisfying?)

Let There Be Light...Seriously

For three times the cost of standard Christmas lights, I decided to be a Friend of the Environment and purchased solar-powered outdoor Christmas lights. (This, despite the likely environmental damage associated with FedEx-ing in a Fraser Fir from Michigan. But if you know me even a little, then you know my stance on having a decent Christmas tree.) The Wrangler balked at the cost of said solar lights, but I remained resolute. I'm trying to get off the grid whenever doing so seems reasonable. (For example, composting toilet = unreasonable.) I enticed him by noting that he wouldn't have to mess around with extension cords.

He dutifully wrapped several strands around each lamppost along our driveway. I couldn't wait for darkness to fall. Three...two..one...I ran outside to view the spectacular light show.

Oh.

"I guess we should have gone with the regular lights," I admitted, crestfallen and coveting thy neighbors' blinding LED display. It's no exaggeration to say that it's hard to tell whether our lights are even on. I was especially irritated that we'd paid so much more for so much less.

Ever the optimist, the Wrangler wasn't daunted. "Well, if the power goes out, our lights will be the brightest in the neighborhood."

Flower Power

"I'm watching a guy movie," the Wrangler cautioned as I entered the family room, book in hand. "It's pretty violent. Don't watch. Read your book over there." He gestured to the armchair in the corner. Averting my eyes, I crossed the room and settled in with my book. But I couldn't help hearing the various slashing/splatting/moaning sounds. "The movie sounds very...stabby," I said, beelining it back to my office. So much for family time tonight.

The Wrangler gets a pass, though. The good man actually watched a 90-minute instructional DVD with me yesterday on making lavender wreaths and baskets. Our Hidcote lavender plants in the orchard have surprised us with a second bloom. A fall bloom, which is not as lush as a summer bloom, typically involves a variety that blooms earliest in the summer, such as Hidcote. When the plant is harvested at peak bloom (as the flowers begin to open), and the foliage is pruned around the same time, a fall bloom sometimes occurs. That we got this fall bloom despite doing absolutely nothing with our lavender last summer--no harvesting or pruning--is a testament to lavender's hardiness and tolerance for neglect. (Which makes it the perfect crop for me.)

Incidentally, Hidcote is favored for crafts because it dries nicely and the florets remain on the stem. I'm going to try my hand at some wreaths and baskets, which looked easy enough on the DVD. And since the Wrangler watched the instructions, I can put him to work as well. I can just see him wrapping delicate lavender bundles around a grapevine wreath while watching a guy movie. Slash, splat, and wrap!

Lavender Friday

Today the Wrangler and I took a lovely drive on a winding road through the orange, lemon, avocado, and persimmon groves of Valley Center. We were headed to the store at the Keys Creek Lavender Farm, which we thought might be a tranquil alternative to Black Friday traffic and crowds. We were right. Our trip to Keys Creek far exceeded our expectations.

Keys Creek is at the end of a rugged dirt road. Alicia, the charming owner of Keys Creek, told us that some visitors complain about the road, but I think it's just part of the farm experience. True, if you try to barrel through to your destination, you might hit some pot holes. But the road is fine if you just slow down and enjoy the country. Although Keys Creek generally is closed during the winter months while the lavender plants are dormant, Alicia had decided on a whim to open the store for a few hours today.

Alicia treated to a personal tour of the farm. We started at the pretty country store, where we sampled delicious lavender crunchies (a granola-like treat), lavender tisane, and lavender caramel sauce. I also was treated to a luscious lavender hand scrub. We walked past the hillside lavender field, up to the lavender labyrinth, and past the barn, which has been converted into a beautiful meeting space for bridal showers and other events. We saw the poolside outdoor pavilion, which has been the setting for weddings and farm-to-table dinner events, and strolled across a large patio that is used on occasional for a high tea service. On our way back down the gently sloping hill to the store, we peeked in the distillery room (where oil is extracted from lavender buds) and the snack counter (from which tea and scones are sold during the farm's busy season in May and June).

Not only were we thrilled to meet the warm and welcoming Alicia--who originally is from South Africa and bought Keys Creek three years ago after living in Laguna Beach for 20 years--we also met a fellow customer who is starting a homesteading meet-up group in our area! As we drove away with a bag filled with lavender goodies and the email addresses of two new friends, I couldn't think of a nicer way to spend Black Friday.

Giving Thanks

As we all pause today to give thanks for our blessings, I can't help but feel especially thankful for the Wrangler. Fellow feminists, don't hate me for saying that marrying a genuinely nice guy is the smartest thing I've done. Don't worry--I can stand on my own two feet. But it's kinda nice knowing that I don't always have to.

Not a Must, Crust

Even before I jumped on the farm-fresh bandwagon, I was a pie crust purist. I've made lots of pies over the years, and I've never looked to a store-bought crust to do the honors. Making pie crust is easy. Everyone has the ingredients (all four of them) on hand, and it takes less effort and skill to roll a pie crust than to unwrap and thaw a frozen store-bought crust. My pie crusts are perfectly light and flaky, if I may say so myself. However, I have a deep, dark secret: I dislike pie crusts. I just don't think they add much value, especially considering the calories and lack of nutrition. I've been making apple crisps instead of apple pies for years. I'm a traditionalist and do roll a crust for my pumpkin pies, but I've decided to bake crustless pumpkin mousse in ramekins this year. I'm pleased to report that even the esteemed New York Times food columnist Mark Bittman agrees with me on this one. He recently wrote that, "pie crust adds little to a fruit dessert apart from heft or calories."

I'm carrying this philosophy from the dessert realm to the savory sector. I've been a making a lot of quiche lately--I'm trying to eat more green veggies like broccoli and asparagus, and burying them in eggs and cheese has been a decent way to stomach these vile weeds. But instead of whipping together a pie crust, I make a mushroom crust. I don't know if it's necessarily a healthier option, but it is delicious.

Mushroom crust:

Chop about 1/2 pound of mushrooms (any kind) and saute with garlic and a pat of butter. When the mushrooms are soft, add 1/2 cup of crushed saltines. Pat this mixture into a pie plate sprayed with non-stick spray.

That's it. You can add a variety of fillings. My staple is broccoli and cheese: saute bite-sized pieces of broccoli with either chopped sweet onions or green onions, until soft. Pour over the mushroom crust. Sprinkle with Swiss or cheddar cheese. Mix four eggs with 1 cup of cream or milk and pour on top. Salt and pepper to taste. Bake at 350 until firm--about 30 minutes.

Like Bees to Honey

A few weeks ago my sister-in-law sent me an email asking what brand of honey we buy. "Your brother keeps talking about the honey he had when we visited you guys." This came as no surprise. I don't buy honey at the grocery store anymore. Ever since visiting a beekeeper and getting a taste of warm honey that was in the hive literally 30 minutes prior to my visit, I've found that store-bought honey has almost no flavor. Last week a food safety report claimed that the pollen frequently is filtered out of products that are labeled as "honey" and sold in conventional stores. The study found no pollen in 75 to 100% of the samples tested from various supermarket and convenience store chains.

Removing pollen from honey is a safety concern (without the pollen, there is no way to trace the source of the "honey"), but I'm convinced that this practice also affects the taste. I buy raw, unfiltered honey from local hives, and I can practically taste the flower blossoms in every spoonful. This stuff could inspire poetry.

Last night as the Wrangler poured honey on his peanut butter sandwich (I do feed the man, but he likes to snack on peanut butter sandwiches), he looked from the jar of honey to the jars of homemade beeswax candles on the counter and declared his love for bees. "I will be in charge of the hive, the honey, and the candles, if you'd like," he announced. I like bees and beeswax, but I'm not one to hoard farm chores.

"Bee my guest."

Homemade Is Where the Heart Is

I spent a couple hours today making beeswax candles using widemouth 8 oz canning jars as molds. Of all the crafty things I attempt, beeswax candle-making is probably my favorite because of the easy factor. The kitchen smells nice, mistakes can be melted away, and it doesn't take long to have a tangible, practical product. The only step I struggle with a little is chiseling the two-pound block of raw beeswax into smaller pieces for melting.

I ordered some kraft boxes for packaging sets of votives and tea lights that I'll make for gifts. I'm glad to see that the stigma once associated with homemade gifts is fading. When I receive a homemade gift from a busy friend, I almost want to cry because I know that she is giving me something extra special--the gift of her time. It takes so little effort to send a gift card, but setting aside precious time to create a gift means a lot. It doesn't have to be fancy or even that time-consuming. A box of homemade rice krispie bars could make someone's day!

Wouldn't it be cool if, instead of feeding the grotesque Black Friday shopping tradition (which, by the way, is now encroaching into Thanksgiving Day--Walmart is opening at 10PM on Thursday, which is beyond gross), we stayed at home and made things to give for the holidays? Instead of strapping on running shoes and pepper-spraying old ladies in the name of "big savings," we could relax and recover from the Thanksgiving festivities and maybe invite a couple good friends over for, I don't know, a knitting bee or something? I realize that my Anti-Black Friday manifesto makes me sound old-fashioned. I can hear the protests: "Stay home and knit instead of scoring a cheap iPad? Surely you jest." I really should have been born 100 years ago.

Old Farmer, New Farmer

We're finally getting some cozy winterish weather--highs in the 60s, lows in the 40s, clouds. I'm thoroughly enjoying the shorter, post-Daylight Savings days, the sound of the furnace, plush down comforters, and chilly pets who want to snuggle on laps. As I write this now, it is pouring rain and I feel alive. With the monotonous summer weather finally out of the picture, I'm regaining my energy and motivation. I've been baking again (bread and cookies), crafting again (making cheese, candles, and hats), planning again (holiday activities and parties) and plotting again (working on the numbers for Snow Day Farm, my newly-christened farm business that I will be writing about in the coming days).

My dad just left after a wonderful week's visit. I took advantage of my status as a farmer's daughter and pored through farming books and data with my dad, who was raised on a 280-acre commercial farm, a smaller version of which is still in the family. In its heyday, the farm yielded large crops of soybeans, sugar beets, and corn, and kept at any given time 250 pigs, 500 chickens, and about 25 dairy cows (they sold only the cream; the milk was used by the family or fed to the pigs.) Dad's view of farming is pragmatic, whereas mine is admittedly more utopian. Dad farmed in an era in which pesticides were welcomed innovations, grain-fed cattle were considered to be superior to their grass-fed counterparts, and animals were products not pets (and certainly not family members!). He wasn't a back-to-the land hobby farmer, but he does understand what I'm trying to accomplish. Dad comes from a family of hardworking, self-sufficient entrepreneurs. He's shown us kids the value of being your own boss and relying on your own two hands whenever possible. I often wish that I'd listened to him more when I was growing up.

When I described my problems in making the numbers work for my envisioned hobby farm operation, Dad made things simple. "You have to remember that a hobby farm is just that: a hobby. You can have a few sheep, a couple goats, some chickens, and a horse or two for fun but not for profit. To make the numbers work, you have to think bigger. You want to sell fleece? You'll need at least 50 to 100 sheep."

The Wrangler tried not to look alarmed. "How many people does it take to care for 50 sheep?" he asked. Dad was matter-of-fact. "Just one. You put the sheep in a five-acre fenced pasture with a gate in the corner, and then rotate them into a second five-acre pasture as needed. Give 'em a three-sided shed for shelter. Sheep are easy. Goats, on the other hand..." We already were well-aware that Dad thinks Goats Are The Worst.

It sounded do-able. The only catch? His business model for my sheep farm would have me selling the older sheep for slaughter. "It's the only way to be profitable," he tried to explain. "You can't keep a bunch of old animals around. The expense of caring for them won't be recovered." Selling my little sheep for meat?? My eyes widened in horror. "No way! The animals get to stay on the farm forever and die peacefully in their sleep at ripe old ages," I proclaimed with benevolence.

"What are you really going to do with a herd of old animals?" Dad asked.

"Maybe the old sheep will naturally get thinned out...taken by predators when they're no longer quick enough to escape," I suggested, only semi-hopefully. Even the "nature conquers" scenario sounds pretty brutal.

"Wouldn't it be better to just spare them that misery, have them slaughtered for meat, and recoup some money?" Dad reasoned.

I see his point, but I just don't want to sell my farm animals for meat. There's got to be another way to make the numbers work. The only problem is that my dad is usually right about things.

Heritage Lawn Mowing

There was a great article in the New York Times today highlighting small agricultural businesses founded by people in their 20s and 30s who have found themselves frozen out of the traditional job market. In particular, I was very interested in the lawn mowing business that rents out sheep to graze on dandelions, grass, and weeds. Customers pay $1 per sheep per day, but the owner also accepts barter payments. These have included karate lessons and maple syrup. Hmmm...

No Ghosts

The Wrangler was out-of-town yesterday, his first time away since we moved out here to the sticks. I knew that my night alone on the farm was going to be either (a) a scary fright night filled with strange creaks, weird shadows, and a pair of strange eyes (human or not) glowing in the darkness outside my window, or (b) a typical cozy night in the country. It was the latter. The sunset over the canyon was breathtakingly beautiful as usual, and the familiar ocean breeze (which rolls in each day at 5PM, like clockwork) blew away the tensions of the workday. As darkness fell, the serenity of the country enveloped the farm, and I felt peaceful and safe. Although the pets and I missed the Wrangler, we were not lonely. We slept soundly.

Back in the cottage in Laguna Beach, I hated nights when the Wrangler was out-of-town. The neighbors seemed louder than normal, the cottage felt stiflingly small, and the pets and I locked ourselves inside after dark. It was hard to sleep. The pets, missing their alpha, were on high alert and barked at any noise.

I guess we are at home in the country.

Missing New England

And so many weeks passed away. Heidi did not know if it was winter or summer, for the walls and windows she looked out upon showed no change....[T]hey generally only saw more fine streets and large houses and crowds of people; they seldom got anywhere beyond them, and grass and flowers, fir trees and mountains, were still far away. Heidi's longing for the old familiar and beautiful things grew daily stronger, so that now only to read a word that recalled them to her remembrance brought her to the verge of tears, which with difficulty she suppressed. So the autumn and winter passed, and again the sun came shining down on the white walls of the opposite houses, and Heidi would think to herself that now the time had come for Peter to go out again with the goats....Heidi would go and sit in a corner of her lonely room and put her hands up to her eyes that she might not see the sun shining on the opposite wall.

--from Heidi, by Johanna Spyri

Built Fjord Tough

While channel surfing I stumbled upon a show on RFDTV ("Rural America's Most Important Network") on the Norwegian Fjord Horse. As the spouse of a proud Norwegian, I paused to learn more about this small but strong breed that was domesticated in western Norway 4,000 years ago.

The Fjord horse is one of the world's oldest and purest breeds. Although ranging in height from only 13.1 to 14.3 hands, the Fjord is strong enough for heavy work loads, such as pulling timber or a plow. At the same time, the Fjord is light and agile enough for competitive riding. It is surefooted on rough terrain and considered to be an excellent driving horse. Its reputation makes it a good choice for riding schools and therapeutic programs. Fjords are good flock guardians and even can be taught to herd sheep. I can see why Fjords have been used for hundreds of years as farm horses in Norway!

The Fjord's distinguishing features include its light draft horse build and a thick mane with a full-length dorsal stripe. The mane usually is clipped to stand erect. I watched the footage of Fjords and their riders with interest. I suspect that, at approximately five hands shorter than Moto, Fjords offer their riders a much softer landing if they fall off--about two feet closer to the ground!

Fjords: they're good-natured, they can be safely ridden, driven, or used for hauling loads, and they work well with sheep...I'm sold.

Counting Sheep

When does the proverbial counting of sheep keep you wide awake instead putting you to sleep? When you've been working on a farm business plan before bed and can't stop going over the numbers in your head. (I did down a highly caffeinated chai latte around 11PM, which admittedly didn't help things.) In addition to the adorable little babydoll Southdown sheep, I've been dreaming of a larger fiber flock of Romneys and Merinos.

I'm a spreadsheet and numbers-oriented kind of gal, and I'm struggling with the figures for a hobby fiber farm. There's the costs for basic animal care (acquiring the sheep, food, fencing, shelter, and veterinary expenses), yearly shearing (to minimize nicks and cuts, this is a task best left to skilled professionals who shear regularly), fiber processing (sorting, washing, fiber cleaning/dehairing, carding, rovings, drafting, spinning, plying, steaming, conewinding, and skeining, not to mention dyeing), marketing (labels), and selling (expenses associated with selling online or at stores and markets). And I'm probably overlooking some major costs.

The numbers indicate that it's possible to eke out a meager profit, but only if I have a fairly large flock. I love the idea of, say, six sheep, but I'm not sure how I feel about 30. The good news is that the Wrangler recently told me, "You can get any animals you'd like." I knew he'd come around.

Common Ground and Common Sense

Saturday afternoon activities at Antlerstock included a discussion of heritage chicken breeds, a home wool processing workshop, and a horse skidding demonstration (using horses to move large logs). Around 5pm we adjourned for a couple hours and would reconvene later for a bonfire. I ventured into town--a blink-and-you'll-miss-it but quaint New England town, complete with the charming country church-and-steeple. Despite having only one coffee shop (which was closed for the day) and no other apparent restaurants, save for the one in the town's hotel, Main Street was home to a fabulous local bookstore. As I browsed the shelves designated for local authors, I was stunned to see that I owned many of the books. I guess authors living in Vermont really speak to me!

Finding not much else to do in town, I returned to the farm to help get ready for the bonfire. A pumpkin carving assembly line was in full swing--the Jack O'Lanterns lined the path to the bonfire. It was BYOHB--bring your own hay bale. We carried hay bales from the barn to the campsite, sat two to a bale around the crackling fire, and enjoyed ice cold local craft beer. Instruments were played, stories were shared. We eventually got rained out and fled to the cozy farmhouse for freshly-pressed cider, hot this time.

I called it a night around 10pm and drove back to my hotel in Manchester (another town with a fabulous local bookstore). I'm a nervous driver and the roads were narrow, winding, and dark. Heavy rain pelted the windshield. The speed limit was 55 but I was afraid to do more than 45. I wondered what I'd do if a car got behind me but, incredibly, not a single car followed me during the 40-minute drive!

Sunday was clear and crisp--a perfect autumn day. Back at Antlerstock I conquered my fear of botulism at the canning workshop! If nothing else the skills I acquired over the weekend will keep me from accidentally (1) burning down the house while soapmaking with lye, (2) poisoning the family with improperly canned vegetables, and (3) felling a tree onto the roof.

The weekend concluded with a field trip to the Common Sense Farm, an organic farm and commercial soap-making enterprise run by a somewhat controversial religious community. The folks have that Amish-look--stoic-looking men with beards and glasses, women and little girls in long dresses with kerchiefs around their heads, long-haired little boys with pony tails. I had some pre-conceived notion that they would be serious and quiet, but it turns out that--shocker--they are just regular people with a normal sense of humor. They didn't proselytize; they talked animatedly about farming, not religion. They were gracious hosts and served us delicious tea made from herbs from their 6-acre herb garden, sweetened with honey from their hives, on their rolling 100-acre farm. The family herbalist introduced us to the various herbs that she grows to address health issues in their community. (It was unclear whether they completely eschew western medicine--my impression was that they prefer natural cures but don't prohibit modern medical treatment.) We toured their immaculate barn to see their chickens, goats, and sheep.

We also toured their soap shop, which is in a beautifully converted barn. The lovely--and very modern--offices were formerly horse stalls. As the story goes, when their community decided to set up shop (literally) in this barn, Estee Lauder/Origins provided the financial backing. The relationship ended in 2001 after the Labor Department found a 15-year-old changing a lightbulb in the soap shop. Origins, although sympathetic, didn't want any controversy. While community living with a factional religious group isn't really my thing, I enjoyed this glimpse into their farming and soap business. I don't know enough about the group to judge whether their tenets are untenable. All is I know is that, despite vastly different backgrounds and beliefs, we found some common ground. Perhaps family farming is the great equalizer, several of us mused.

I had to depart for the airport after the field trip. Jenna, the amazing host of Antlerstock, refused to let me go without a small Mason jar of homemade chili "for the road." I said my goodbyes and might have shed a tear or two in the car as I thought of leaving this lush and pastoral paradise with wonderfully unpredictable weather to return to dry, dusty, monotonously sunny southern California.

What Do You Do at Antlerstock?

What goes on at Antlerstock? Well, the easier question to answer might be, "What doesn't go on at Antlerstock?" The first workshop on Saturday was woodlot management/lumberjacking. I had planned to attend the concurrent cheesemaking class, but I decided to step out my comfort zone and try something completely new. I'm so glad that I did! We started with some good old-fashioned competitive axe throwing. The axe was quite a bit heavier than I expected. After multiple throws, I still couldn't hit the target. The guys seemed to get the hang of it after just one throw. Our instructor hit the bullseye every time. We learned how to use an axe, bow saw, and chain saw. We learned about general safety, notching (replacing the 45-degree notch with a 90-degree notch, based on Swedish forestry methods, has reduced injuries by 30%), back cuts, and escape routes. We felled two large trees. Guess what? Lumberjacks wear chaps.

Next up was Chickens 101. We learned how to construct a brooder and care for chicks, pullets, hens, and roosters. I was fascinated by how easy it is to immobilize a squawking, flapping, frantic chicken: just hold her upside down and she'll fall into a zen-like trance immediately.

Lunch was social affair. I was still full from the quiche (farmstead eggs, broccoli, Vermont cheddar, and of course homemade crust) that was served before the first workshop, but I managed to scarf down the BBQ pork from Flying Pig Farm (the BBQ sauce was made from farmstead honey and maple syrup harvested by Antlerstock attendees), potato soup from Firecracker Farm, and a piece of homemade apple pie...okay, if I'm being honest, two pieces of apple pie! We shook apples from the trees into a sheet and dumped them into the cider press. I held my mug under the spout while someone else cranked away. About 15 of us sat in front of the cozy woodstove and chatted like old friends while others stayed outside and carved pumpkins. The weather was delightfully fall-like: a comfortable 60 degrees with occasional sprinkles.

After lunch I headed to the soapmaking workshop where I finally overcame my fear of lye. I've avoided lye by making glycerine soaps, but let's face it. Glycerine soaps are lame. The big kids make real soap from lye. We donned safety goggles and masks, and by the time the workshop was over, I felt confident that working with lye requires only basic safety precautions--you just avoid inhaling it or splashing it in your eyes.

Sheep 101 was a treat and reaffirmed my hopes and dreams of having sheep of my own very soon. They're gentle and a manageable size and have a calming effect. Unsurprisingly, bottle-raised lambs are extraordinarily affectionate as adults. Although most busy farmers feel some dismay when forced to bottle-feed a lamb who was rejected by its mother, I secretly wouldn't mind the time drain one bit. (And I just know that the Wrangler would let me bottle-feed the lamb in the house, although probably in the mud room.)

There's still loads more to tell, but I suppose that this has been enough for now. I'll write about the Saturday evening and Sunday activities tomorrow. Teaser: we took a field trip to a commune for the herbalism workshop.

Who Goes to Anterstock?

The road to Antlerstock. Literally.

Forgive me if this is just the first in a series of Anterstock posts, but there is so much to tell. What a fantastic weekend in Vermont/New York! Before I describe the activities, sights, and food, I'll clue you in on the kind of people who end up at a small farm workshop in New England hosted by a young farm writer with a devoted blog following. We came from far and wide--a school teacher in Arizona who dreams of having some land in northern Minnesota some day, a Canadian who makes the most of her quarter-acre in the city, a farmstead goat's milk soapmaker from Texas, a forestry professor from upstate New York, a candymaker from Boston, an engineer and speech pathologist couple starting a sheep's milk cheese business, snowboard shop owners from Maine, New York City slickers with container gardens on their balconies, organic farmers living on a commune. All told, there were about 40 of us: maybe a few more women than men but a good mix, and about evenly split between couples and singletons.

You know the person who can easily befriend strangers in the checkout line at the grocery store and who shines in a group setting? That person is not me. The Wrangler usually has to drag me kicking and screaming to a party. I was prepared to be a little uncomfortable and perhaps even quietly duck out early and head back to my hotel. But I had so much in common with everyone that conversation flowed naturally. There was not so much small talk as there was exchanging of ideas. The time flew by. I arrived for the first workshop on Saturday at 10AM and didn't leave until 10PM.

We all have day jobs and farm dreams. Some people have just taken the plunge and had lots to share. Usually when I get one of my more radical ideas, well-meaning friends are quick to tell me why it won't work. At Antlerstock there was no naysaying. "We used our entire life savings to start our business," one attendee told me. "Money that we'd saved for years and years for retirement. Of course it's a little scary. But you know what? What's the worst thing that can happen? We lose all our money and our house. Yeah? So what? No one dies. But what's more likely is that we will succeed because we didn't cut corners. We think it's well worth the risk." (I described this atmosphere of encouragement to one of the Six-Button Cowgirls, which garnered the dry response, "Sounds like a support group for crazies; everyone egging each other on.") No one talked politics but I suspect we covered the full spectrum. Yet we all got along just fine.

When the Wrangler picked me up at the airport, I talked non-stop during the one-hour drive home. He pointed out that many of us at Antlerstock probably are left-brainers--lawyers, engineers, accountants, IT techs--but everyone has some creative juices. Some of us knit, most of us have blogs, and many of us are musical. As we sat on hay bales around the bonfire on Saturday night, various people brought out their guitars, bongo drum, flute, mandolin, and fiddle. We truly were a bunch of urban cowgirls (and urban cowboys) enjoying a bucolic October weekend among new friends.

Next up: the workshops.

Antlerstock

I'm off to Vermont for a long weekend of fun, foliage, farming, and new friends. I'm taking a redeye flight, which I firmly believe is the most efficient way to fly east. I hope I'm not being too ambitious; my itinerary doesn't leave me much time to sleep.

The weekend begins with a lecture and book-signing by acclaimed New York Times bestselling author Jon Katz of Bedlam Farm, an author whose books I've read and enjoyed for years. Then it's off to Antlerstock at Cold Antler Farm. There are too many classes for one person to attend, so I've "narrowed" down my selection to cheese-making, soap-making, basic sheep care, basic chicken care, home wool processing, knitting, canning, intro to mountain music, herbalism, and sheep herding. The meals sound amazing--BBQ pork from nearby Flying Pig Farm (I avoid factory-farmed meat, but the pigs at Flying Pig Farm are humanely-raised in the woods and fields), hand-pressed apple cider, free-range egg quiches, and pizzas made with local cheeses. Although I usually shy away from crowds, this time I'm excited to meet the other 30 attendees who obviously must share my interest in hobby farming.

When asked what he'd do if I didn't make it back to California, the Wrangler promptly said that he'd send me a picture of my sad, lonely puppies every day. So, I guess I will do my best to catch the return flight on Sunday after all.

Let There Bee Light

What was in this giant box that arrived today all the way from the Brushy Mountain Bee Farm in North Carolina? None of your beeswax. Literally. It's my beeswax!

I was inspired to place an order after the Wrangler bought a small beeswax candle for $14.95 at Sprouts last week! I can make five candles that size from one pound of beeswax, which costs about $5.00. I'm no math wizard but even I could see that the $14.95 candle can be replicated for roughly a $1.00. Sure, there's the labor factor to consider but, especially when compared to most of the other crafty things I've attempted, making candles is a breeze.

And I'm sure the candles will come in handy during the next power outage.