Strings & Things

We have two new string instruments--an appalachian dulcimer and a ukelele. I've been wanting to get the former for a while, but I know next to nothing about them and got overwhelmed by the options. Last month I saw a Cold Antler Farm blog post that explained the basics and recommended TK O'Brien's Walnut Creek mountain dulcimer from Craggy Mountain Music. With a choice of eight wood types and six different sound hole patterns, I ended up with a lovely cherry wood top and leaping deer sound holes. It was very reasonably priced and included a carrying case, instruction manual, extra strings, a pick, and a "noter" (a short length of dowel for the left hand). It was shipped the same day I ordered.

Strung differently from a guitar, the dulcimer is one of the easiest instruments to learn. I honestly think that anyone from age 4 to 104 could learn to play a few songs on the dulcimer in a couple hours, even with no musical background whatsoever. After skimming the instruction book for just 10 minutes, I was rewarded with rich, complex sound that belies my beginner status. I keep it in the kitchen, and the Wrangler picks at it while I make dinner. After just two nights, he can play folk tunes with aplomb.

The Wrangler received the ukelele for Christmas. I hear him plinking away on it every so often. Anything but his electric guitar is music to my ears.

Pig Update

I'm about halfway through Oink, and it seems that the pigs were not the most gracious house guests. At this point in the memoir, the author has relocated them from the family room to the backyard. Food for thought.

Of Art and Ancestry

We received a beautiful Rosemaled bowl for Christmas. Rosemaling, which means "decorative painting" in Norwegian, is a folk art that originated in Norway's low-lands in the mid-18th Century. It is characterized by its flowing, stylized floral patterns. Interested in this art form, I did a little research online and learned of the John C. Campbell Folk School in North Carolina that not only offers Rosemaling classes but also hosts a number of Scandinavian arts, crafts, and cooking classes during Scandinavian Heritage Week. This year's classes include Rosemaling, Viking-style iron work, Scandinavian desserts, Norwegian bentwood box carving, Hardangersom needlework (embroidery worked with white thread on white cloth), and even an introduction to genealogy research and recording techniques.

I don't see myself devoting a week's vacation to Scandinavian crafts, but you never know. The Wrangler is an artist by a trade and a proud Norwegian. A knack for Viking-style iron work could be in his genes.

Oink

I'm reading Matt Whyman's delightful Oink: My Life with Mini-Pigs and, naturally, I've got mini-pigs on my mind. A miniature pig/teacup pig/micro-pig is not a particular breed. The first miniature pigs were crossbred from the better known Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs (which, at around 250 pounds, are smaller than "regular-sized" pigs but are not actually small) for medical research. The recent pet mini-pig trend is controversial. They have not been bred long enough to have a consistent or predictable size. Some breeders sell tiny piglets from parents that are only several months old themselves and claim that the piglets will remain small like their parents. But a pig takes about three to four years to reach its full size, and mini-pigs can grow from teacup size to 60 pounds. Many mini-pigs are abandoned when owners expecting a purse-sized pet find themselves with a whole lot more.

Despite their reputation, pigs are clean. They are extremely intelligent--more intelligent than dogs--and easily house-trained. They are very social and have sensitive feelings; you can't just leave one outside like, say, a cow.

Last night when I informed the Wrangler of my plan to get tow mini-pigs, I braced myself for protests, but the Wrangler surprised me. He didn't seem to mind. Feeling the need for full disclosure, I did warn him that they are highly social and will need to live with us in the house. Even this was no cause for alarm on the Wrangler's part.

Well, then. That was easy.

I've decided to be a good citizen and rescue two abandoned mini-pigs instead of buying from a breeder.

Of course this means giving up eating pork. We've been avoiding it for a while and have cut way back on the bacon and ham, but I do love a tasty pork chop on occasion. This, of course, must stop immediately. It would be weird to welcome two pigs into the family and then eat their cousins for dinner.

Labyrinth

I'm thinking of planting my lavender in a labyrinth configuration. Pictured here is a lavender labyrinth in Kastellaun, Germany. Known as a Chartres labyrinth, this design is based on the labyrinth in the French Cathedral of Our Lady Chartres constructed in the early 13th century. I also like the classical seven-point labyrinth. The labyrinth walk is found in many religious traditions and New Age-type lore. Unlike a maze, a labyrinth has no tricks and no dead-ends. To some, walking the path represents a spiritual journey of sorts, but I just think that it's a neat way to grow lavender.

Coyote Country

We had New Year's brunch with the neighbors this morning, and coyotes were on everyone's mind. One couple reported that they'd been tracked and then surrounded by a pack of coyotes just last night while walking down the street to a New Year's Eve party. Finding no stick nearby, Rich resorted to a deep baritone shout (which, thankfully, worked). The coyotes took off, but Rich's voice was still hoarse at brunch.

Out here in the sticks, there are no streetlights and there are long stretches of undeveloped land. We encounter coyotes regularly; more often than not, the Wrangler and I see or hear them on our evening walks with the dogs. The coyotes in our area are big and beautiful, with full and shiny coats--not at all like the scrappy, mangy-looking coyotes we used to see in Laguna Beach now and then. The coyotes have always been afraid of us and kept their distance. It was a little unsettling to hear that coyotes were brave enough to surround two adults.

Another couple noted that the coyotes seem desperate. "We're used to coyotes, and we're used to coyotes howling in the distance," Randy said. "But lately we're hearing them very close to the house, and the howls sound crazy and frantic." He suspects that the coyotes are severely overcrowded and food is scarce.

For our part, we're finding piles of coyote scat on the patio and in the driveway. Lately the dogs have been barking more than usual at night, and we think that they're seeing or hearing coyotes just outside the windows. Clearly, the coyotes are coming very close to the house and letting us know that this is their territory.

It was suggested at brunch today that a good way to keep the coyotes at bay is to, ahem, mark one's territory. "You mean let the dogs mark in the shrubbery?" I asked innocently. "Not exactly," our neighbor hinted. Everyone looked at the Wrangler. Oh, boy.

We wouldn't have to worry about what the neighbors would think if they happened to see him in action--after all, they were the ones who suggested it.

I was assured that this method is at least organic if not hygienic.

Nonetheless, I think I'd prefer the coyote scat on the patio as opposed to...ah, never mind. No need to go into detail.

December Recap

My posts were rather sparse this past month. Thankfully, despite the busy month at work, visiting family members kept the mood festive.

Some bad news: Moto will be out of commission for at least six months. His bowed tendon doesn't seem to be noticeably visible or causing him any general discomfort. His current rehab schedule allows him only one five-minute hand walk per day, which means that he's confined to his 12x12 box stall for 23 hours and 55 minutes a day! Poor Moto! It is very troubling, but at least his prognosis is excellent and he's expected to fully heal.

With Moto out of commission, I've been lucky enough to get my horse fix at a nice local horse barn that is hosting the two rescue Thoroughbred yearlings, Winston and Stewie. It's just down the street, and the owner kindly allows me to come by a couple times a week to spend time with the boys. I'm getting pretty attached to Stewie, a gentle, mild-mannered fellow who stands quietly, almost sleeping, while I brush him. If I knew even a thing or two about training young horses, I would adopt him in a minute. But it will be a few years before he'll be old enough to carry a rider on his back--he has a lot of training ahead of him, and he needs an experienced horse owner. Winston is a good boy, but he's still a little skittish. He puts up a small fuss when I approach him with his halter, and he tries to nip me while I'm grooming him. While some gals like the challenge, I've never been attracted to bad boys. I end up spending most of my time with good ole steady Stewie.

The barn is a pleasant place, especially with its family of five pygmy goats. (That's a few of them in the picture above. Rusty, the little reddish guy, is my favorite.) Although I am a sheep person, pygmy goats are irresistible. I'm sure that the Wrangler would love to have some of his own...which is why I bought him two for Christmas! They'll be born in late January and ready to come home seven weeks after their birth. We stopped in on Christmas Day to meet the goat breeder and to see the expectant parents. They live just a few minutes away, so we'll get to see the babies almost immediately after they're born.

Yesterday, the Wrangler and I met with the owners of a local wholesale nursery to discuss an initial order of approximately 7400 lavender plugs. This will be a small order for them--they recently grew 600,000 lavender plugs for a large retailer. The nursery owners (who are the parents of my riding instructor) patiently shared with us a wealth of information on lavender varieties that do well in this climate, as well as watering and planting considerations unique to this area. I've read literally every single book available on growing lavender, but these books focus on growing lavender in other regions--Provence, the Pacific Northwest, Australia, South Africa. There is no substitute for speaking with someone who grows it just a few miles away.

Tonight we will see some friends from Laguna Beach and help prepare and serve the New Year's Eve dinner to the residents of the Friendship House. We're looking forward to catching up with the Laguna crew and, as always, picking up some new cooking tips from our master chef John.

Have a fun and safe New Year's Eve.

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