Pop Over

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

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

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

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

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

4 eggs

2 cups flour

2 cups milk

1 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Grease a popover or muffin pan.

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

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

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

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

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

Evening on the Farm

A Gouda Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Isn't Your Mother's Front Yard

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go Nuts

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

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

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

Farm Fresh

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

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

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

New Hobby

The First Month

We've been on the farm for exactly one month now. One month down, eight to go, in this experiment of ours.

I love: the open spaces, astounding views, abundant wildlife, absence of city noises, seeing things every day that remind me I'm not in the city anymore--like the guy (albeit illegally and disturbingly) selling wolf puppies in the grocery store parking lot.

I don't mind too much: having to drive about 30 minutes for big box store shopping, commuting an hour to work, the slower pace of people in town.

I wish that: this "gentleman's farm" were a bit less genteel and a bit more "farm." Granted, test-driving a fancy little farm was the right thing to do. This urban cowgirl has always been more urban than cowgirl. I might have been overwhelmed and high-tailed it right back to the city if I'd been abruptly thrown into rustic living conditions.

I'm starting to suspect, however, that our neighborhood (which consists of 20 small avocado farms) is for posers like me with day jobs in the city. We're all probably more of a motley crew of misanthropes seeking solitude than homesteaders looking to connect with the land. From what I can tell, everyone's grove (including ours) is managed by a third-party service. The service takes care of all the avocado maintenance, harvesting, shipping, and sales, and sends the property owner a check. In other words, there ain't no one really farmin' 'round here.

Only one neighbor has horses and chickens. It's hard to tell what goes on behind all the grand gates, but from the road I see an awful lot of well-manicured lawns; acres of useless green lawns in a desert climate. Some people do have small vineyards. But, with the exception of our one equine-friendly neighbor, I haven't seen any barns. No goats, no sheep, no llamas. I just learned that the community once had beautiful horse trails, but the property owners voted to merge the land for trails back into individual lots.

I do love it here of course. Complaining about anything these days is, yes, like complaining that gold coins falling from the sky hurt my head. And just down the road, right outside our neighborhood of avocado farms, there are true hobby farms with horses, goats, and bees galore.

I'm always looking ahead. On the one hand, this attitude drives me to accomplish things. On the other hand, I guess it's a major personality flaw--the exact opposite of being present in the moment. Regardless, right now I'm looking ahead to having a BARN.

More Moto

I just learned that, beginning this week, I'll be back on Moto! I haven't ridden him since I fell last July, but I'm not too concerned. After all, my fall wasn't in any way Moto's fault. I'm telling myself that Moto's size doesn't mean much. Really, does falling from a small horse versus a tall horse make that much of a difference? I'll probably get hurt either way.

I never was that comfortable riding Francie. She's a good girl, but more often than not, I felt frustrated and scared. This largely was due to my own lack of confidence, skill, and strength--I'm not the same rider that I was before the accident. But it also was because Francie and I didn't have a great partnership. I didn't trust her, and she didn't trust me.

And so I need to see whether I'm also frustrated and scared on Moto. If so, then I'll step away from riding regularly. Horseback riding will become something I do only when I'm on vacation. But if I feel comfortable back on Moto, then it's game on.

Summer Nights

The rest of the country is suffering through a heat wave, but here on the farm we get cool breezes every day starting around 5PM. Some of the trees in the avocado grove recently were trimmed, and we have lots of great firewood for our evening campfires. Avocado wood seems to burn clean--no smoke and no sparks. We're stocking Jiffy-Pop popcorn, ingredients for s'mores, and pie fillings and Wonder bread. (The Wrangler makes a special campfire pie by spraying the inside of a campfire sandwich press with non-stick spray, pouring some canned pie filling between two slices of Wonder bread--I don't know why it has to be Wonder brand, but it just does--and toasting the concoction over the fire until golden brown. Apple pie filling is my favorite; the Wrangler prefers cherry or blueberry. You would never guess it's Wonder bread and not delicious pie crust.)

The quiet, the breeze, and the starry night sky erase the tension from the day's work in the city. But amid the romance, reality rears its head. While I was busy waxing poetic by the fire, Fenway quite literally reveled in the good smells of the country (in other words, rolled in some animal poop outside) and then beelined it for the house and called it a night. Let's just say it took us a little too long to learn of his transgression.

Bye Bye Borders

As a lifelong bookworm, I was saddened today to read that Borders is closing all of its stores. Until moving to the farm, miles from any bookstores, I dropped by our local Borders at least twice a week. I just love bookstores and libraries! Mom-and-pop bookstores are the best, of course, but I don't turn up my nose at the big box bookstores. I buy a lot of books, and I justify the expense as one that is practically virtuous--I'm supporting authors.

All this Nook and Kindle nonsense has me worried as of late. I love the crinkle of book jackets, the stitching on hard covers, the feel of the pages and the sound of them turning, and the smell of both old and new books. I hate computers, even iPads, and don't want to read books on them. I know it would be easier to "get with the now" and start e-reading. When we moved, I couldn't deny the somber fact that I had 65 boxes of very heavy, very space-consuming books. I still have my favorite books that I read as a kid, some with missing covers or tattered pages or my name or notes written on the inside cover.

I suppose the day is coming when I'll be forced to curl up with a darn computer, but I'm going to hold out for as long as I can.

The Wool Lady

As a future shepherdess, I feel that it's my duty to master at least one wool craft. Accordingly, last weekend I paid a visit to the The Wool Lady in Old Town Temecula. The Wool Lady, otherwise known as Ruth, was friendly and helpful and took the time to explain with enthusiasm several different types of wool crafts--rug hooking, punch needle, felting, and wool applique stitchery. I wasn't a huge fan of felting, so I'm pressing onward with this chicken-themed wool applique project. It calls for hand-stitching rather than a sewing machine, which is good because I've completely forgotten how to wind a bobbin or thread my machine.

I just need to check YouTube for instructions on how to do a blanket stitch, chain stitch, French knot, and back stitch, and then I'll be good to go. Oooh, as I typed this, I starting feeling a little overwhelmed. It wouldn't be out of character for me to end up just straight stitching the entire thing.

Breaking Ground

Today we broke ground on the future residence of our intended flock of Ameraucanas, Buff Orpingtons, and Rhode Island Reds. After a lot of thought, we decided to put the coop in an abandoned dog run on the property. The run is approximately 45 x 30 feet and enclosed by a 10-foot high fence. It's not much to look at and, sadly, it's in an area that we can't see from the house. But given the coyote/fox/raccoon/opossum/skunk/hawk/owl situation out here, it's the safest place for the ladies and won't require a lot of new fencing. There's a water source in the run, and the perimeter is tightly sealed around the bottom with an extra ring of 2x4s. The chicks will get some nice sun and shade. Except for the fact that I can't see it from the house, it really is a perfect place for the coop.

The run currently has a layer of gravel atop a layer of paper mulch, but the Wrangler uncovered some nice reddish clay/dirt beneath the layers, and we're going to scatter some grass seed in a 15x8 foot patch.

It's a little late in the year to start with chicks, but we stopped by the local feed store today and were happy to see that it has some hens ready to go. Incidentally, the feed store had lots of interesting animals--all kinds of geese, turkeys, and ducks. It was hard to resist a pair of miniature goats. But first things first.

Tuning Out

Turns out, we might have been a little couch potato-ish when we lived in the cottage. As we were sitting outside by the fire tonight, the Wrangler and I realized that we never watch TV anymore. We do, however, play more music--on the iTunes but also on our instruments. There's just something about rolling hills, dreamy sunsets, and crackling campfires that make you want some background music instead of background chatter. We can strum our guitars as loud as we like, or we can crank up the volume for our speakers until the bass rattles. The coyotes probably think we're rude, but they can't call the cops.

Saturday in the Country

Even out here in the country, it's hard to find time to relax. (Real farmers probably would say, "Especially out here in the country, it's hard to find time to relax.") My day started with an early morning orientation for volunteers at Zoofari, the non-profit organization dedicated to housing non-releasable or confiscated wildlife.

The Wrangler and I spent part of the afternoon walking the farm's five acres. Sporting our new muck boots (mine are a pleasing hot pink) and wide-brimmed hats, and armed with the walking stick formerly known as a golf club, we checked the state of the gardens, fencing, orchard, and avocado grove. Our friend, an expert gardener, from Laguna Beach is stopping in tomorrow to give us some much needed direction on mid-summer planting. From what I've read, it's not too late to plant tomatoes, squash, zucchini, peppers, and watermelon, but we'll see what our green-thumbed friend says tomorrow.

In preparation for our visitors, the Wrangler and I dashed over to Temecula this evening to round up some local ingredients: olive oil from olives hand grown, picked, and pressed by the folks at the Temecula Olive Oil Company, a bottle of wine from a nearby vineyard, fresh honey, and strawberry jam. I'll make popovers and a caprese salad (with homemade mozzarella, heirloom tomatoes, and home grown basil). The Wrangler purchased some locally made salsa to mix in with his fresh guacamole.

Tonight I still have to make flashcards to learn the names and species of all the exotic animals at Zoofari, finish up some lawyering, and sketch a blueprint for the barn owl box. It could be a long night. I'm brewing some (caffeinated) tea.

Sights for Sore Eyes

Everyday I see something new and interesting that reminds me I'm a country gal now. Whether it's the rotund California Toad sitting on the Welcome mat in the courtyard, the family-run heirloom herb and vegetable stands on the side of the twisting, scenic road into town, or the man in a cowboy hat, suit, and tie sitting on his horse next to us at the stop sign, the Wrangler and I are utterly charmed by our new 'hood.

Tonight on our way home from the neighboring city of Fallbrook, we noticed a stretch of road adopted by Backyard Barn Owls. The Wrangler recalled an amusing barn owls video that had gone viral a couple years ago. Sure enough--when we looked it up, we discovered that Bert Kersey of Fallbrook produced the Backyard Barn Owls video. He also provides some interesting information on the benefits of building an owl box to encourage a barn owl family to nest on the farm. Not only are they amusing to watch, they provide excellent rodent patrol. (They're also pet-friendly--the average barn owl is only one pound and can't abscond with my Russells).

You guessed it. Building a barn owl box is next on the list.

Pitch Black Nights

Pitch Black is a sci-fi Vin Diesel thriller (circa 2000) in which space travelers land on a planet that orbits three suns. The planet has perpetual daylight except during a one-month eclipse once every 22 years. And when darkness does fall, things get crazy. Creatures that survive only in the dark emerge from their dens, ravenous after 22 years of hibernation. This does not bode well for the space travelers, of course.

We've got our own Pitch Black situation here on the farm. I'm being a little dramatic, but the Wrangler and I have been marveling at the level of activity outside once night falls. At dusk the coyotes start their radio show; the howls, growls, and yips tell a story. Sometimes the coyotes sound happy and excited, as if they're at a party. Sometimes they fight--nasty, terrible-sounding skirmishes that end with a lone coyote crying in the dark. As we settle into bed, we hear the comforting hoot of a spotted owl and, now and then, an odd rustle in the bushes outside our window. In the middle of the night, Dash growls when he hears the banshee shriek of a screech owl. Our motion-detecting flood lights are activated, and as I peer through the window I see a small animal dart down the hill.

By sunrise the world is quiet again. The Wrangler sees remnants of the past night's multiple battles: a dead mouse by the gate, animal tracks in the garden, a fresh burrow. But the red-tailed hawk soars gracefully overhead (the farm seems to be located right in the middle of his territory) and all is calm.

Unlike the space travelers in Pitch Black, I'm unafraid of what goes down on the farm after dark. In the city, nocturnal clanks and shuffles on the patio were cause for alarm. The Wrangler kept a golf club by the side of the bed. (Can you see him confronting an intruder? "Stop or I'll swing!") Out here in the sticks, nighttime stirrings feel natural. If animals can't live in the country, then where can they live? When we moved in, they probably sighed, "Well, there goes the neighborhood."

Amid all the country noises, I've never slept so soundly.

A Year of Grace

A year ago today I fell off Moto. I'm about 95% as good as new, and I feel very, very blessed to have had so many shoulders to lean on this past year.

Small Town USA

We're getting to know our new town, population 1800. The town consists of two strip malls, which boast a surprising number of convenient stores--a small but well-stocked and reasonably-priced grocery, a gas station, a McDonalds, a Mexican restaurant, a Chinese restaurant, a pizzeria, a breakfast cafe, a wine bar, a dance studio, a yogurt place, a spa, a veterinarian, a donut house, a tack and feed store, and a movie theater! There's a public golf course in town, with fine dining in the country club. So all in all, we've got pretty much all we need within an easy five-minute drive to town. We saw a movie tonight and were pleasantly surprised by the small but high-quality theater. Before the movie, the manager came in and gave a little welcoming speech--something we've never seen done.

The Wrangler is officially a country guy now, so I presented him with a pair of Hunter wellies to protect him from rattlers and the like. It's a good look on him.