Pretending to Farm

Have a Leena?

Imagine the scene; it is a cool desert evening six months after our arrival in the desert.  We are sitting on the front patio chatting and enjoying a cocktail together when we hear a strange rustling to our south.  Tentatively looking around, we see five pig-like creatures walking our way, unafraid of us but at the same time unwilling to come too close.  We’ve heard tales of these beasts, how one gored a dog in the wash one day and laid open its entrails, how they eat the neighbors’ landscaping, how their stench precedes their arrival.  However, being an animal lover from way back, I reserved judgment.  This desert creature, named for its razor sharp tusks, is the javelina. 

Although the javelina resembles a pig, and certainly snorts and smells like one, it is actually a collared peccary.   Peccaries are more slender and 30-50 pounds smaller than pigs, have longer, thinner legs and smaller hooves. As a species, they inhabit a large range from the desert southwest through

Mexico

and Central America to northern

Argentina

.  Contrary to their appearance, they are speedy and agile, and can drive off bobcats, coyotes, and dogs.  They travel in groups, eating prickly pear and other cactus, spines and all, agaves, and other plants.  They also like carrots.

Yes, I was a bad desert dweller and decided to reward the javelinas’ more and more frequent visits with sweet carrots from the refrigerator.  Before you get mad, I realized the error of my ways and do not do this any more.  I stopped when I discovered that each winter, some testosterone-challenged idiots get to scour the state and hunt the poor things.  I was afraid that by feeding them, I was removing their fear of humans, which they should obviously have.  After a few weeks of scratching on our bedroom door, they stopped coming to the patio as well.  We still saw them from a distance often and even if we did not witness them personally, their telltale tracks alerted us to their presence the night before.  However, sadly, like the cows that used to roam freely and the wild horses that did the same, we don’t see them much anymore.

I miss the javelinas.  They had personality and spunk.  We could tell them apart and pick up on who among them called the shots and who followed.  In the two plus years since we arrived here, we see the wilderness receding and development quickly and insidiously encroaching.  Our property taxes have doubled, and will most likely triple as the powers that be force upon us unneeded water, fire, and school districts (we have a well, which they would condemn if they are successful and we contract the others independently.) These are all lobbied by the same powerful developers that are inhibiting our quality of life and that of the javelina and other desert denizens.  Someday, we might just have to pretend to farm in another place, find somewhere else to plant that invisible “Don’t Tread On Me” flag. 

Last Meals and Marilyn Reincarnated

My house smells like onions, in comparison to what it usually smells like, which is bloodhound.  I’m honestly not sure which is better.  Regardless, after Friday’s post, David looked at me longingly and begged for (get your minds out of the gutter people) French onion soup.  I cried as I sliced and sautéed until the onions, giving up finally, softened and sweetened.  By nightfall, we were all slurping down the yummy goodness. 

With a newly full belly, David called Brother John to make him aware of his prominence in that morning’s post and to let him know his recipe was finally there.  John, in grateful response, told us that if he was offered a last meal, it would be my French onion soup.  How about that?!  Makes you want to make some, doesn’t it?

I made a full pot which was scarfed down by the next afternoon.  Cravings not fully met, we then ate hot dogs with raw chopped onions accompanied by homemade fried onion rings.  (David is the fry cook, and just about any other cook he tries to be.  The man should have gone to culinary school.)  Now you know why my house smells like onions, but it was worth every air freshener I will have to buy today.

Speaking of buying, for some reason only known to Sigmund Freud, I purchased an alpaca fleece on Ebay, enemy of bank accounts everywhere.  I wanted a white fleece to mix with some white merino I (guess) previously bought on Ebay.  Well, I’m having a devil of a time with it.  I can’t get it clean.  The otherwise white staples (locks) have a stripe of brown midway down like the animal rolled in mud for about three weeks straight.  I soaked and rinsed (and soaked and rinsed) the fleece for two days straight, over and over again, and have only succeeded in partially felting the thing and making it an unattractive shade of beige.  Giving up for now, I laid it out on the drying screen (yes, it used to be on my window but Cordelia, bloodhound daughter, bent it trying to get out and catch something.)  I awoke the next day to find Felina doing her best Marilyn

Monroe

impression.  As I am very frustrated with the thing and because this is incredibly cute, I am sorely tempted to donate it for her bedding.  However, since dirty-minded hubby tickled himself by calling her one sexy pussy, I'm afraid I'd be accused of kitty porn.  Nice, huh?

How Much Onion Soup Does It Take to Hang a Ceiling Fan?

First a disclaimer:

I have a very hard-working, intelligent husband.  He puts in many hours each week doing his job and many more with our family.  He’s a good man.

However, nobody’s perfect. 

David

is apparently allergic to household projects, not fun, creative household projects like chicken coops, but drudging tasks such as hanging ceiling fans.

Now,

David

’s brother, John, great guy with a heart of gold, has been to visit us here at the pretend farm twice.  He’s a good house guest, does the dishes even though I tell him not to, and provides an all-over good time, mostly due to his genial personality.  He appreciates good food, in particular  my French onion soup and the neighbor’s homemade tamales.  And he does chores.  During his first visit, he hung not one but two ceiling fans, one of which we had owned over a year.  In fact, we brought it from

San Diego

with us.  This is indicative of how much

David

hates chores.

Well, we bought another ceiling fan two months ago for Robert’s room, the only bedroom that does not have one.  Poor Bear (Robert = Roe – bear) was complaining about how hot his room got in the afternoon.  Despite this, the fan still sits on the trunk in his room, unopened, begging to be mounted.  On a recent hot day, Robert looked longingly at this same box, and asked me, “Mom, can Uncle John come visit so he can hang my ceiling fan?”

For Uncle/ Brother John, here is the recipe you wanted, with not a small hope to see you in the near future, both for your shining company, and for your abilities, somehow lost to your dear brother.

French Onion Soup

5-6 extra large sweet onions (Walla Wallas are tres bon)

Olive oil

Butter

1 Tbsp flour

1 tsp sugar

Beef broth to cover (I typically use water and beef base)

Sherry

Day old French bread

Gruyere, Swiss, or a combination of the above

Melt the butter and olive oil, enough to generously cover the bottom of a heavy bottomed stock pot.  Keep heat very low.  Half and thinly slice the peeled onions and add to the pan.  Sauté for a long time.  Find something to do.  Keep sautéing.  After an hour or so, with intermittent stirring, and after you have very soft, caramelized onions, add the flour and sugar and stir constantly for about a minute.  Add the broth to cover with a generous dollop of sherry.  Simmer the soup, stirring here and there, for a few hours, the longer the better.  Before serving, slice the bread and grate the cheese.  Ladle the soup into ovenproof bowls, add a slice of bread, and top with lots of cheese.  Heat under the broiler until golden brown and bubbly.  Bon Appetit!

Enjoying a Rare Moment

The cool misty morning bribes me into lazy farmer-dom. 

Stay in bed, that’s right.  Listen to the drizzle gently hitting the roof.  Sleep.

Reluctantly rising much later than usual, I see the clouds, impersonating fog, are lying on top of the surrounding mountains, hiding the ever-present

Four

Peaks

, and shrouding the McDowells.  The mist clings to skin, creating the rare-for-the-desert feeling of dew, temporarily stalling the always progressing troops in the battle for aging. 

The animals, farm and not, are reveling in this rare event as well.  Gila Woodpeckers lazily peck at the fruit of the Saguaro, losing their typical hurried nature, calmed by the gray.  An un-negotiated détente exists between all the birds, in fact, as they casually share the newly rinsed desert offerings.  They are unusually quiet, as if talking would ruin the moment.  A lone coyote, a young male newly ostracized from his mother pack, in search of a mate to begin his own, casually saunters by, bringing out my caring but criminal nature as I quickly grab cold fruit from the refrigerator and take it outside to him.  He knows me by now.  I’m the apple lady.  He hides in the brush, knowing I see him, and cautiously waits for me to relinquish his daily treat.  After a few kind words and whistles in his direction, I do just that.  He waits until I reluctantly head back inside and grabs it, resembling any domesticated dog strutting with a new ball in his mouth. 

Outside in the “big yard,” a rockin’ party has been going on for the better part of the morning, particularly in bird land.  No longer confined to the covered shade areas, the chickens, turkeys, and ducks hop and run freely enjoying the rain cooled air and newly formed mud puddles.  The goats and sheep, initially afraid of the off and on downpour, throw caution to the wind and venture happily from under their shelter.  Hopping on straw bales, then leaping, twisting and turning in the air, they let their lighter side show with a group game of tag ending with a well-placed head butt to the captured ruminant.  The alpacas tolerate this behavior in their usual stoic manner, turning their heads away in unison like ladies of high society avoiding the nouveau riche upstarts at a party.  Who invited them?  Of course, the goats and sheep were here first but, to the refined alpacas, that is immaterial.

I hope the day stays like this.  It is a very welcome respite to what in many ways has been a hellish summer. 

Bar Floating

What a lovely morning!  (I have to tell you this because I have bitched and complained more than enough about the heat and I have to sound positive sometime.)  Showers blew through once again last night, lowering our waking temperatures to the seventies and still at 9 o’clock, it is only 81.  We have more storms in the forecast and, supposedly, not a day over 110 in the next week.  Be still my beating heart!

Enough of this mamby-pamby joy and gratitude.  As I watched the news last night, I saw that chickens and cattle are dying from the heat in record numbers across

California

’s central valley.  I cannot find words to say how disturbing this is to me.  For once, I am glad I am here and not there.  At least, in

Phoenix

, the powers-that-be, the infrastructure administrators, and the population in general are used to extreme heat and know how to deal with it.  No rolling blackouts here.  Most farmers/ranchers have misters and fans set up already, combined with shade structures galore.  It is a good thing, Martha. 

Meanwhile, back in the central valley, milk production is down 15%.  In the

Midwest

, the corn crop is burning up, and the wheat is failing, causing as much as an 80% decrease in yield for farmers.  (I am so glad I only pretend to farm.)  Ranchers are selling their cattle at distressed prices as they cannot afford to feed them hay and there is no forage left to graze upon. 

Can we blame all this on global warming?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that these drought events spur on the seriousness of this Decider-denied phenomenon.  Hot dry summers across the northern hemisphere reduce the ability of plants to absorb CO2 during their normal growing season. As crops shrivel, soils dry up, and wildfires burn, more carbon dioxide than ever is being unleashed into the atmosphere, twice the amount produced by fossil fuels, warming us up quicker than forecast.  Kiss your glaciers goodbye, baby.  They are going the way of the dodo.

In the meantime, I think my in-laws who live a mile from the Pacific will enjoy having ocean front property as sea levels rise 20 feet.  My mother in her downtown condo will be able to reel in dinner from her balcony, smartly saving on her grocery bill, something she really likes to do. Me?  I’m looking forward to grabbing a gondolier and going bar-floating the next time I sail to

San Diego

.  Why don’t you don your life preserver and join me?  Be careful, though, we might get, wait for it, TIPSY!

Poor Ned Ludd

The house won’t shut up this morning.  The churning hum of the dishwasher mixes with the ridiculously loud blowing of the air conditioner, the constant drone of the refrigerator, and the sonorous baritone of bloodhound snores.  I feel a little like the Indian in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, identifying with his ability to hear the gears turning in the walls.  The Luddite is strong in me today, albeit, irony noted, a blog posting, computer using Luddite.

I identify with the original Luddites for reasons beyond my hypersensitivity to the mostly technology-based sound this morning, admittedly heightened by the port I drank last night in an attempt to soothe my ongoing stomach issues.  After all, Ned Ludd, or King Ludd as he became to be called, began his war on “progress” by destroying two factory frames that produced inexpensive stockings, undercutting those produced by skilled knitters.  From the sixteenth to early nineteenth century, knitting was a mostly male occupation, its trade guild filled with hard-working craftsmen who had undergone rigorous tests of their skills.  It took six years to become a master knitter, three years as an apprentice and three as a journeyman.  After this, the aspiring guild member had to produce a felted cap, a pair of stockings or gloves with embroidered decoration, a shirt or waistcoat, and a knitted carpet, six by five feet covered with foliage, flowers, and animals.  All this had to be accomplished in a period of 13 weeks.  In comparison, I have been working on the baby cardigan, though not consistently as I never do anything consistently, for over a month now and I am still not done (almost).

Understandably, as they watched all their hard work go down the drain, Ned and his followers rose up in protest.  They would meet on the moors at night and practice drills and maneuvers, often cheered on by the locals.  They succeeded in destroying many wool and cotton mills until “machine breaking” was made a capital crime in

Britain

.  Seventeen men were executed for their crimes against technology after an 1813 trial in

York

.  Others were sent to

Australia

where perhaps, in their sorrow, they turned to making really good beer. Remarkably, at one time, more British troops were fighting the Luddites than against Napoleon. Eventually, the Luddites gave up and “Luddism” died away, only to rise again from time to time with marked advances in technology.

I feel for these men.  They just wanted to keep their jobs, support their families, and preserve their livelihood, and they lost.  Technology has its good and bad points.  We, as a society, benefit from the lower prices that automation (along with cheap labor from third-world countries) has created but towns die and families crumble as once-viable jobs are lost.  Since the Luddite is strong in me today, as I said before, I am not a good judge of the right and wrong of our advances, but I do feel sorry for poor Ned Ludd.

Chant no more your old rhymes about bold Robin Hood,
His feats I but little admire
I will sing the Atchievements of General Ludd
Now the Hero of Nottinghamshire
Brave Ludd was to measures of violence unused
Till his sufferings became so severe
That at last to defend his own Interest he rous'd
And for the great work did prepare


Now by force unsubdued, and by threats undismay'd
Death itself can't his ardour repress
The presence of Armies can't make him afraid
Nor impede his career of success
Whilst the news of his conquests is spread far and near
How his Enemies take the alarm
His courage, his fortitude, strikes them with fear
For they dread his Omnipotent Arm!


The guilty may fear, but no vengeance he aims
At [the] honest man's life or Estate
His wrath is entirely confined to wide frames
And to those that old prices abate
These Engines of mischief were sentenced to die
By unanimous vote of the Trade
And Ludd who can all opposition defy
Was the grand Executioner made


And when in the work of destruction employed
He himself to no method confines
By fire and by water he gets them destroyed
For the Elements aid his designs
Whether guarded by Soldiers along the Highway
Or closely secured in the room
He shivers them up both by night and by day
And nothing can soften their doom


He may censure great Ludd's disrespect for the Laws
Who ne'er for a moment reflects
That foul Imposition alone was the cause
Which produced these unhappy effects
Let the haughty no longer the humble oppress
Then shall Ludd sheath his conquering Sword
His grievances instantly meet with redress
Then peace will be quickly restored


Let the wise and the great lend their aid and advice
Nor e'er their assistance withdraw
Till full fashioned work at the old fashioned price
Is established by Custom and Law
Then the Trade when this arduous contest is o'er
Shall raise in full splendour its head
And colting and cutting and squaring no more
Shall deprive honest workmen of bread.

Vive le Tour!

A welcome storm blew through last night, a true storm full of thunder and lightning and even, be still my foolish heart, rain.  Both landscape and countenance rejuvenated, we are ready, if only for a short while, to accept what ills nature deigns to pile on us both.  I love a good shower.

However, all is not perfect as I awake this morning rudderless; it is over.  Our 21 day obsession with the Tour de France has come to an end, if only because it is finished.  What’s a spandex-watching, landscape-coveting, wannabe expatriate to do? 

Upon rising, and sometimes the evening before,

David

and I would consider our prospective schedules for the day, and decide the opportune time to “tour” together.  Morning was best, as otherwise we had to close our ears to the outside world for fear of learning the outcome of the day’s stage and spoiling our collective excitement. 

Our few fellow tour-obsessed friends would call at times, “Did you see what happened in the tour today?”

For probably the first time in my life, I craved ignorance.  “Don’t tell me; I don’t want to know!”

Many of you would not identify with our tour obsession.  I think my mother said something along the lines of, “I tried to watch it once, but it was just a bunch of men riding in circles.”

  It’s not a velodrome.  It’s a race of both physical strength and mental fortitude, mixed with carefully considered strategy, through

Luxembourg

, the

Netherlands

,

Belgium

,

France

, and

Spain

, totaling over 3000 km over the Alps and

Pyrenees

as well as through beautiful rolling countryside.  Roman ruins, enormous chateaus, and quaint villages provide lovely distractions throughout the route, awakening the Francophile in me, spurring me back to language learning CDs, and prompting me to respond to my family en Française.  I’m getting tres confused looks from mon famille but happily proceed regardless, ego elevated as I recall much more than I thought I could from high school and college language courses.  Je suis tres bien, merci!

Dreams of drinking good

Bordeaux

while eating ripe cheese on crusty baguettes from a rented villa while athletic men cycle past have me newly obsessed.

“Next year I would like to watch the tour in person,” I told

David

.

“Save your money,” he says.

I’m working on it.

Vive le Tour!

La-La-La

Driving through town,

David

looked down to see his in-truck thermostat read 119.  I, in my ongoing endeavor to look the other way, was not paying attention to these things as young

David

and I, in a rare event, ventured out to lunch and the movies.  At “The Yard House,” we shared grilled artichokes and salads, finished with a brownie with vanilla ice cream (for him) and a Belhaven Scottish Ale (for me.)  We ventured next to the theater where I, as many moms before me, sacrificed my true movie-going desires to view “Monster House.”  A review, you would like?  (Yoda must be somewhere around here.) It was just okay, though it had its moments.  What it lacked was the subtle adult innuendo that the better kid movies have, but that’s just fine. 

David

and I were having a fantastic mother-son outing, just the two of us, and his smiles and hugs more than made up for a lukewarm show. 

Exiting the theater, we noticed it had rained.  It doesn’t rain for weeks (months) on end yet when I spend two hours isolated from any knowledge of the goings-on of the great outdoors, it pours, if only briefly.  Still, that was okay.  The temperatures had noticeably dropped with the short-lived storm and we drove home together happily recounting the day we had shared.

Of course, nothing lasts forever, particularly ebullient moods, and we arrived home to find one of the original chickens, a Blue Andalusian, had met her heat-related demise despite running misters and numerous shade areas.  I will spare you the effect this had (has) on me.  Been there, read that.   

Today, I primarily remember sharing a wonderful day with my soon-to-be teenaged son.  I will not allow myself to focus on fowl demise or the record-setting temperatures expected to replay today.  When negative thoughts surreptitiously creep into this melon on my head, I will clap my hands to my ears and loudly and keylessly sing la-la-la.  Just don’t let them take me away; I look terrible in white jackets. 

The Fall of the British Empire

What can I say?  No news is good news?  All is well on the farm for now, though we are bracing for another “record breaking temperatures” filled weekend.  Ruby, the formerly female turkey, displayed his feathers for us this morning, Thanksgiving style, warranting a renaming and further decimating our hopes of turkey eggs for breakfast.  I am hoping the Narragansetts are girls, but am afraid the remaining four are toms. At least, they do not crow.  Gobble on, boys.

While finishing his farm chores,

David

decided to play Dr. Doolittle this morning and proceeded to talk to the ducks, Donald-style.  I don’t know what he said but they were all very offended and ran together as one as far as they could from him.  This leads me to believe those Disney folks actually did put subliminal messages and imagery in their films, sex in the clouds, and topless women amongst crime-fighting mice. 

And now, for your quirky story of the week, or why the British decided to stop colonizing and populating the world.  After all, fishing is far less life-threatening and a trout is a much more easily plundered victim. 

LONDON (AFP) - Three-quarters of British sport fishermen would rather go fishing than go to bed with their partners, a survey showed.

More than half of the 1,000 anglers surveyed by bookmaker Totesport also said they would rather catch a record-breaking trout or salmon than spend a night with a supermodel.

Fishermen who took part in the poll spent, on average, eight times as much money on fishing equipment than on gifts for their partners.

"It is odds on that there are fishing widows the length and breadth of the country that can relate to these results," Paul Petrie, a spokesman for Totesport, said.

Forty-six percent of respondents also said they lied about the real size of their catch to impress their peers.

I don’t know why this last item should surprise anyone.  Men lie about size all the time, though Madeline Kahn was never disappointed.  Download gifted.mp3 Have a great weekend everyone. 

On This Day in History

The adults gathered excitedly with drinks in hands and smiles on faces.  Mom and Joyce, one brunette, the other blonde, looking the picture of the sixties era with straight waist-length hair, liquid black-lined eyes, and fitted mini-dresses, talked and laughed, each thrilled with the evening ahead.  Daddy and Tigger felt it as well.  They discussed the advances in science that have brought us to this evening, Daddy getting more and more animated as he spoke.  He was the space buff.  He was the one who saved his money to buy his prized telescope, taking it to the mall in

Washington

,

DC

, to witness and share the total eclipse of the sun with countless spectators, puffing up with each compliment on his technique.  He was the first to show me the craters of the moon, telling me the names of the places there, the Seas of Tranquility and Ingenuity, the Humboldt Crater, and

Mount

Hadley

. 

This day was a long time in coming, longer than the Space Race between the Soviet Union and the

United States

, going back through time immemorial to ancient cultures and religions.  Both the Greeks and Romans had lunar deities, Selene and Phoebe, or Luna and Diana, all females in compliment to the male sun gods.  The Pagans also worshipped the moon, as did virtually every ancient culture.

After the rise of monotheism, the Roman Catholic Church retained a stronghold on the western  world and punished those who still believed in those ancient deities.  The first victims of the Spanish Inquisition (Download spanish.aiff), in fact, were Italian worshippers of the moon goddess Madonna Oriente, who were burned at the stake as witches. 

Even before that, learning and thought quietly came into play.  One of the first scientific theories of the moon came from the pre-Socratic philosopher, Anaxagoras, who believed the moon and sun were rocks, the latter illuminating the former.  For this, he was accused of atheism, imprisoned, and eventually exiled.  Sometimes I think it is a wonder we have gotten anywhere in this world.  Centuries later, with his improvement of the telescope, Galileo was the first to view the mountains and craters of the moon, even estimating the mountains' heights from these observations.  He was, therefore, the first man to prove the moon’s surface to be uneven rather than the perfect sphere as his predecessor, Aristotle, had supposed.

Jet ahead and back to 1969.  I was six, though in my foggy memory I was much younger.  I was infused with the palpable excitement, just as much because I was allowed to stay awake past midnight as for the event to come.  We gathered around the small television, black and white I think, though I am not sure.  We watched the Eagle pilot its way to Tranquility Base (Download tranquility.wav), viewed Neil Armstrong descend the ladder to the moon’s surface, and held our collective breath as he took that first step onto the surface.  Great hoops and hollers erupted, filling the small apartment, perhaps waking any incurious neighbors.  I don’t think we even heard that first pronouncement, so here it is again, Download step.wav .  In an interesting bit of trivia, he omitted the “a” before man, which he had meant to say, forever deepening the meaning of that famous quotation.

I will never forget that day, though long ago and fuzzy in my memory.  Not only did it mark a history-making event in

United States

and world history, it provided me with a permanent snapshot of my youth and the young lives of my parents that I will forever cherish.

On this day in history, July 20, 1969, astronaut Neil Armstrong became the first man to walk on the moon.