Holiday Tee Time

Overlooking the golf course from the tea room at Pelican Hill

The Laguna Beach area has several very posh resorts, and all of them offer a number of festive and reasonably priced, if not free, events for us local, not-so-posh peons. Last weekend we stopped in for the tree lighting ceremony at the Ritz Carlton, and my mom and I went to Holiday Tea at the Pelican Hill resort. The St. Regis Monarch Beach resort and the Montage resort also hosted tree lighting ceremonies and wine tastings. As we swayed to Beach Boy cover bands (nary a holiday carol to be heard at the Ritz), sipped hot cocoa, and pretended to be cold, I tried not to compare the highly orchestrated tree lighting ceremonies at these blandly elegant resorts to those in cities with souls, like Chicago and Boston. Similarly, it felt a little odd to be reveling in a full holiday tea service while overlooking a very green golf course. It's my seventh December in warm climate, but I haven't stopped dreaming of a white Christmas.

I'm not a complete Grinch, though. I give the resorts credit for trying, and I have to admit that the views, while not Christmas-y, are breathtaking. And it's 13 degrees back in my hometown as I write this. Brrr! I like cold weather but I'm not crazy. Maybe a white Christmas is overrated?

Blechh Friday

Ah, Black Friday. The day on which greediness, materialism, and bad manners are rewarded. Women lace up their running shoes in preparation of mowing down anything standing in the way of a $15 savings, men forego Thanksgiving with their families to camp out in front of Best Buy--a friend really did see people lined up in front of Best Buy on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving--and sales personnel are forced to report to work before their turkey dinner is digested. I self-righteously declared a Black Friday Black-Out this year, vowing to spend not one cent on this disgusting excuse for a holiday tradition.

The day dawned innocently enough. I had no plans for shopping, but we did have a tree to decorate. But after "thoroughly" searching the attic for the Christmas lights, the Wrangler reported that we must have thrown them away last year. (The fact that it didn't seem odd or out of character for us to inexplicably throw away perfectly good Christmas lights is, in itself, evidence that we are in no position to judge Black Friday shoppers.) I felt no compunction heading over to CVS for lights. CVS is not Target, I reasoned, unreasonably. I further assured myself that it is not 4AM, I'm not looking to score a mad deal on lights, I do not plan on shoving old ladies out of my way, and I will not fight anyone for a parking spot. I am not a crazy Black Friday shopper. I am a calm, rational consumer with a legitimate reason for buying something.

I found some cool snowflake tree lights and bought the last two boxes. Upon our return home, we were dismayed to find that we had purchased enough lights for exactly one spin 'round the tree. To make a long story short, three trips to two different CVS stores and NINE boxes of lights later, we had enough of those blasted snowflake tree lights to barely cover the Christmas tree. We mustered half-hearted applause during our tree lighting. I guess multiple trips to the store to drop $100+ on lights will usurp some of your yuletide anticipation.

Later that day, I climbed up into the attic to put away the turkey roaster. And what was the very first thing I saw at the top of the steps? A large box clearly marked "Christmas Tree Lights." I simply do not know how the box escaped the Wrangler's purview. This is the dude who spotted a $20 bill in a pile of leaves, people. From a moving car.

Even more disconcerting: somewhere out there, Black Friday shoppers are wrapping their $39 ipads and $79 flat-screen TVs. Yeah, I sure showed them!

Thanksgiving Eve

Tonight I baked two loaves of bread (one for the stuffing, one for the table), roasted and pureed four sugar pumpkins for pie, and made a 1/2 gallon of homemade vanilla ice cream. The theme this year is Thanksgiving on the Farm. For the first time, I won't be opening cans of green beans, cream of mushroom soup, and fried onions for the green been casserole. Nope, I'll be using fresh organic green beans, mushrooms, chicken stock, and my own caramelized onions. I'm roasting and creaming corn for the scalloped corn casserole. I'm making the stuffing from scratch, right down to the fresh sage, thyme, and rosemary from the spice garden. The only remnant of my Minnesota upbringing that will grace the table is the Jello salad. I'm using fresh fruit instead of canned fruit cocktail, and yogurt instead of Cool Whip, but I just can't think of an acceptable substitute for the Jello itself.

So, here I sit on the night before Thanksgiving, feeling ambitious and inexplicably smug. But check in with me 'round this time tomorrow. I'll either report that Thanksgiving on the Farm (a) was amazing and not really any more time-consuming than my old way of doing things, (b) was significantly more time-consuming but well worth the extra work, or (c) was a colossal disaster and a waste of time and ingredients. I guess we will see if I can kick the cans.

Cake Pops

Cupcakes and tart yogurt are so two thousand and late. We've moved onto cake pops--delicious, decadent, decorated tiny balls of cake on a stick. No more agonizing when faced with chocolate, vanilla, red velvet, and pumpkin cupcakes. With cake pops, you can have all four flavors and not feel too guilty.

I bought Bakerella's Cake Pops book last week and ambitiously signed up to bring homemade cake pops to the holiday party at the barn. This is the kind of thing I have to do in order to get some follow through around here. Without my commitment in ink on the sign-up sheet, chances are good that the Cake Pops book would join my artisan gelato books on the dusty shelf.

And so, tomorrow I am off to Michaels craft store in search of paper sticks and styrofoam holders. Do note that, in a most excellent move, I perfectly timed this endeavor to my mom's visit over the holiday weekend. Mom...help!!!

'Round the Ranch

Dash getting his nails trimmed. To keep that scruffy little jerk from biting us, we have to set down a jar of peanut butter and let him have at it.

Here at the ranch we're gearing up for the holidays. The weather admittedly has been pleasant, with low 70s during the day and cozy-ish low 60s at night. Things have been busy but banal--just a blend of pets, PT, riding, yoga, and lawyering. I'll have more time for some cowgirl ingenuity once I shed the thrice-weekly PT from the mix. I spent last weekend playing the semi-perfect homemaker: baking bread, roasting butternut squash, dutifully doing laundry (but then getting banned by the Wrangler from any such future endeavor; apparently my signature dumping of clean clothes from the dryer into a five-foot heap on the guest bed causes wrinkles--wrinkles that can't be remedied because we don't own an iron), scouring a holiday bazaar for Thanksgiving decorations, wrapping presents, designing the family Christmas card, ordering our Noble fir from Oregon (which will be chopped down this weekend and, like last year, fedexed to us in an astonishing display of environmental unfriendliness...but hey, a girl's gotta have some vices...), and lining up festive plans for holiday shows, teas, and tree lightings. It's a wonderful time of year!

Head of the Class

Now that I can sit comfortably and use my arm again, I'm back on the workshop circuit. This month and next I'm taking a series of Backyard Skills classes through the local Ecology Center. First up: a pine needle basket weaving class. Although I have to raise an eyebrow at the class description's proclamation that weaving with natural materials "awakens us to the intricate and inextricable web of life we are all woven into" and "opens our hearts to feel gratitude for the gifts of the earth" (uh...okay...), I do think it's cool that we'll be making something useful with locally harvested pine needles. Next up is a beeswax candle making class whose description simply mentions that beeswax candles burn clean and much longer than candles derived from petroleum. Nothing about the "intricate and inextricable web of life" here, thankfully.

"Hey, do you want to take a couple classes with me?" I asked the Wrangler.

"What kind of classes?" He sounded cautious. The poor man never knows what I might have up my sleeve, and he has learned the hard way. The yoga for dogs class comes to mind.

"A pine needle basket weaving class and a beeswax candle making class." I braced myself for a "no-thanks-go-with-a-girlfriend" type of response. I was pleasantly surprised when he promptly agreed.

"Sure. Sounds like the kind of classes I took in college."

Ah. I sometimes forget that my artist husband is open to a fairly wide range of creative experiences. Since he's game for so many things, we've done a fair amount of crafty-type activities together, like the watercolor tide pool class and the marine mammal sculpture class.

This here is one lucky cowgirl.

Doll Face

I try to keep upbeat on this blog, but October found me feeling a bit blue. It was the everyday stress from work and other responsibilties--you know, life--combined with the tedious recovery from the accident, dealing with my new fear of riding, and longing for a real autumn. To literally add insult to injury, I'm virtually and virtuously viceless these days. I'm doing whatever I can to avoid breaking any more bones the next time I fall off my horse (and, assuredly, there will be a next time). So I've sworn off soda, sweets, caffeine, red meat, and anything else bad for me and taken up the dreaded yoga. Clearly, something had to give.

I thought long and hard about what I needed to do to snap out of my indulgent despair. I looked at Chanel bags (too la-de-dah). I considered a vacation (too temporary). I thought about a new car (too expensive). I signed up for an SLR photography class (too complicated--the Wrangler ended up going in my stead). Then, magically, last week at Border's an extraordinary book fell off the shelf and into my hands: Storey's Guide To Raising Miniature Livestock.

I've previously mentioned my plan to one day add some babydoll sheep to the family. Well, friends, that day has come. I am on the list to acquire two Olde English Babydoll Southdown sheep after lambing season this coming spring. As the Old English Babydoll Sheep Registry states, these minature sheep "are outstanding pets who produce wool that is a hand spinner's delight." They provide organic weeding and make excellent companions. Their gentle nature "makes them a joy to own," and their "wooly teddy bear face will always give you a smile." They generally are 18 to 24 inches tall and weigh about 70-150 pounds.

I guess it's official: there's a lot of work to be done and things to be figured out between now and May when the new furry friends arrive. The spring in my step is back.

I'm Baaaack!

The Wrangler kicking back and watching my big comeback

There's been plenty going on here at the RDR, but I took a brief hiatus from blogging until I had some good news to report. Even I was tired of hearing about my aches and pains. For a while, it was looking like I might have the dreaded "frozen shoulder," but I've made some progress. (Ultimate remedy to frozen shoulder? Doctor unfreezes shoulder with force while patient is unconscious. Um, ouch?) My thrice-weekly physical therapy habit is beginning to pay off big time. Not only was I able to start playing the guitar again this past weekend, I started riding again. My mom pointedly ignores my emails discussing riding. She cannot be convinced that the doctor who cleared me for riding is anything but stark raving mad. My mom would prefer that I never ride again. She did mention a compromise of sorts...something about a miniature horse that is small enough so my feet would touch the ground when I ride. She did not suggest this in jest. Ahh, a mother's love and concern. But I had to get back on. I can't swaddle myself in bubble-wrap and sit at home the rest of my life.

I'm far from fearless, though. Truthfully, there are times when the thought of riding freaks me out. I clearly remember the feeling of hitting the ground and seeing my lifeless arm. I'm thankful everyday that my injuries were not worse. Unfooled by any bravado on my part, the trainers suggested that I regain my confidence on a very gentle 19-year old mare with an exceptionally smooth gait. I'm sad that I'm not leasing Moto; it wasn't his fault that I fell. But it's a long way to the ground from atop Mr. Moto. So, for now, I literally have a new lease on life with the slightly smaller, mild-mannered Francie. I think we'll be a good team. I hope to lease Moto again once I'm fully healed.

And thus things are resuming to normal around here. Most parts of the country are reveling in the full glory of fall, but for once I won't moan too much about the lack of seasons here in SoCal. I've pretty much used up my complaint allowance for the year--I definitely was not the angelic invalid cheerfully bearing her burdens with a smile, uttering nary a complaint. Beth March, I am not.

Syrupy Sweet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Bees to Honey

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

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

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

Cheesy

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

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

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

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

The Maine Event

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

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

Kale-afornia Dreamin'

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

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

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

Bee-lieve It or Not

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

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

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

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

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

Crab Fest Rx

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

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

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

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

Catch and Release...Into My Tummy

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

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

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

Flame Grilled Pizza

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

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

The Magnificent Miki Moto

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

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

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

So Long, Soda

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

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

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

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

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

Supernova

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

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

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

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