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).

Here's the Scoop...

...on my Memorial Day Weekend Project: making artisan blueberry lavender gelato. I don't know what the deal is where you live, but here in SoCal, gelato shops easily outnumber ice cream shops. Gelato was pretty popular about 10 years ago, but it hasn't been trendy for a while. We've long since moved on to cupcakes (Sprinkles) and tart yogurt (Pinkberry). Even though gelato, an Italian ice cream that contains half the butterfat of American ice cream, is yummy, I'm a little surprised that there still are so many gelato stores. Personally, I'd prefer a few more DQs. Our closest DQ is 25 minutes away, and there is nothing like a dipped cone from DQ. At any rate, there is something elegant and refreshing about gelato, and serving a dainty scoop of homemade gelato on a hot Memorial Day weekend sounded like a very urban cowgirlish thing to do.

Friday: Stopped by bookstore to pick up Torrence Kopfer's Making Artisan Gelato, which includes a recipe for blueberry lavender gelato. Picked up ingredients on the way home: whole milk, heavy cream, all-natural blueberry jam, lemon, blueberries, sugar, and eggs. I already had the organic dried lavender buds. Yes, I have no eggs or sugar on hand, but I have plenty of organic dried lavender.

Snap! Upon reading the recipe in its entirety, I learn that this (and all the other recipes) require an ice cream maker. I have no idea why this did not occur to me sooner. What was I thinking--I would just shake the ingredients in a Mason jar and--voila!--icy gelato?

Saturday: Went to Williams Sonoma and purchased a 2-quart ice cream maker. Gave the device a knowing look: although the brand supposedly is top-notch, we received as wedding gifts a fancy toaster, blender, and food processor made by this brand. Each appliance suffered a fatal meltdown well before our first anniversary. I'm onto this ice cream maker. I fully expect it to crash and burn after two uses.

Went home, donned apron, rolled up sleeves, and...learned that I had to freeze the ice cream maker's double-insulated freezer bowl for 24-48 hours. Are you kidding me? Forty-eight hours from now, I might not even feel like making gelato. Ever. Hello, I gotta strike while the iron is hot.

Sunday: Ah, the liquid in the freezer bowl is nice and frozen. Let the artisan gelato-making begin! First, I bring the milk, cream, and lavender buds to a boil, remove from heat, cover, and let steep for 15 minutes. I strain the liquid to remove the lavender buds. I dump the liquid back into the saucepan, add sugar, and stir until the mixture reaches 170 degrees. I also attempt to simultaneously separate and then whisk four egg yolks with sugar.

Oops, I've let the liquid in the saucepan boil and scorch. I dump out the liquid, wash the saucepan, and redo the milk, cream, and lavender steeping step. After 15 minutes, I strain the liquid, add the sugar, and do not stray from the stove until the mixture reaches 170 degrees.

Okay, time to temper the egg yolks (keep them from cooking) by slowly adding about half the liquid to the egg mixture. I pour the yolk-liquid mix into the saucepan, add the jam, and stir until the custard reaches 185 degrees.

Next step--puree the blueberries in food processor. I do have one of those--somewhere. Take short 1/2 hour break to locate said food processor, which still is in box. Puree the blueberries. Clean up blueberry juice that inexplicably is running down the cabinets and also staining the sink. Whisk blueberry puree and lemon juice.

Whew. Am I about done yet? I strain the custard into a clean bowl, stir in the blueberry puree, set the bowl in an ice bath (I am running out of bowls here!) and stir occasionally for 30 minutes. Then--WHAT??--I have to chill the mixture for eight hours or overnight. I mutter a choice unladylike word or two.

Monday: I plug in the new ice cream maker, add the gelato mixture, and let technology do its thing. I notice that the ice cream maker is rather loud. The dogs notice this as well. Dash is barking crazily at the appliance, and Fenway is cowering in the corner behind the couch. "How long does this thing have to run?" the Wrangler shouts over Dash's barking and the propeller plane-like ice cream maker motor, trying to sound only curious and not annoyed. Luckily, only 25 minutes. Which is no time at all, relatively speaking.

Yes, the finished gelato looks great and tastes delicious, blah blah blah. But, while I never say never, it will be a cold day in you-know-what before I do this again.

Dash 1, Vet Techs 0

This recent picture of Dash was taken by our favorite professional photographer, Stephanie Rue.

The Wrangler took Dash to the vet's office early this morning for a quick blood draw. Our little scruffy pet is getting fixed on Friday, and the vet recommended a pre-operative blood panel. "Good luck," I said, doubtfully, as the Wrangler headed out of the house with Dash tucked under his arm. Dash was eyeing us with suspicion, and I just had a feeling.

A half hour later the Wrangler returned. "It didn't work out," he announced flatly. Looking smug, Dash casually strolled past us to join Fenway on the patio. As the story goes, three vet techs unsuccessfully attempted to restrain the squirmy monster for a few seconds to obtain a blood sample. Not only was he wiggling like crazy, he screamed like a banshee each time a vet tech so much as grazed his fur with the needle. The vet techs finally gave up.

Good thing Dash's blood test was only optional. I guess his is a small victory in light of what's in store for him on Friday, so we'll let him bask in his triumph today.

Montana on My Mind

Photo taken while on horseback Thursday afternoon

I just returned from my cowgirl adventure at the Mountain Sky ranch in Montana. We had beautiful weather the entire vacation. On a typical day, my sister headed out for a 7AM hike while I slept in. She spotted a mama and baby moose and some fresh mountain lion tracks (and acquired a wood tick or too). We headed out on horseback around 9AM--walking, trotting, and loping through and alongside streams, bushwhacking through forests and meadows, and stopping for a picnic lunch at the top of the mountain. We returned to the ranch around 4PM, spent an hour or so learning to fly fish at the fully stocked trout pond, and did our best to stretch our tired muscles in a restorative yoga class. We joined the other cowgirls for beer and appetizers on a hay ride behind two beautiful Clydesdales, and then feasted on a five-course dinner. We two-stepped to live guitar music in the cozy lounge, and then headed for a quick soak in the outdoor hot tub under the zillions of stars in the big Montana sky. We headed back to our cabin, read for a bit in front of a crackling fire, and then called it a day.

But we all have to come back to reality at some point, right? Or do we?

Stay tuned.

Just 12 Years To Go

Last December I blogged that the Redrock Farm in Chelsea, Vermont will plant a Fraser fir for me in May and care for it until it is ready to harvest in approximately 12 years. Twice a year I'll receive pictures of it with a yardstick so I can track its progress.

It's hard to believe that five months have passed and it's already May. This morning I received word (and photos) from Redrock informing me that my tree has been planted! Hello, little tree. Looking forward to a spectacular Christmas tree in 2022.