Pretending to Farm

Molasses Can Be Very Destructive, You Know

I am having a very odd day.  By that, I mean I am having a very productive day.  This is so not like me.  The farm chores are very thoroughly done; the yards are picked up, complete with hound poop scooped; the kitchen is clean; the house is reasonably tidy; and the washing machine is busy spinning its fourth load.  I must be coming down with something.  Typically, I drag myself out of bed, drive the boys to the bus stop, help with farm chores, and sit back down.  This is me.  My mother used to say I was as slow as molasses in January and I usually am.  I do recall one time when I was getting ready for the start of one of our “famous” parties (with a help from Mom) and rushing around when she looked at me in astonishment and declared, “You really can move fast when you want to.”  Perhaps so, but I guess I just don’t have that desire for a hurried pace.  I find it overly taxing.

Take my friend Allene, please (just kidding, another couldn’t resist.)  She can’t sit still.  She’s  either cleaning or organizing or checking something on her work computer.  On a vacation weekend, you’d think she could find it within herself to just relax and imbibe with me at ten in the morning, but no.  She has to “do something.”  I am very good at “doing” nothing.  I think that is an oxymoron, doing nothing, so I hereby embrace my inner-oxymoronity.  It describes me all too well.

Dear friend Steve T is the same way.  When part of the “camping crowd,” he readily enjoys his typical beer for breakfast but then exhibits strange behaviors like getting up and accomplishing tasks.  He even pulls out power tools.  Power tools and camping don’t go together, Steve.  We go camping to relax, have the twice a year Rummikub, Scrabble and Yahtzee Tournaments, and plant our bums in camp chairs with drinks in hand.  Yet, you build things and go on hikes, hikes, I tell you!  It’s just not right.  Follow your wife’s lead.  She knows how to camp/loaf.  Karen and I are kindred camping souls and that’s just the way I like it.

Despite the amount of tasks I am getting done, I will be glad to get back to my old self.  This odd feeling of great accomplishment can only last so long.  To achieve it again, I will need to do more and more work to get this same sensation.  It’s sort of like taking pain pills.  You have to take a greater dose to make them work as well as they did initially.  Ask Rush Limbaugh; he knows.  If I keep this up, next thing you know, my house will be something uncharacteristic like “immaculate.”  Dinner will be made every night and all the laundry will be done.  People might begin to think I have been possessed by aliens, really energetic, clean aliens.  They will mourn the loss of Lauren, good company to anyone sitting down.  Hopefully, that will not happen, but if it does, at least I’ll get to hang out with my friend Steve. 

An Egg in the Pan is Worth Two in the Shell

The “Double Yolker,” freshly laid, containing the unmet promise of twin chicks, is the wunderkind of eggs.  When I was a little girl, my grandmother would buy a dozen of these from a local farm as a special treat on my visits.  I would stand beside her with awe as she cracked open the shell revealing the two bright yolks hidden inside.  To a small child, it was a magical moment.

Jump ahead almost forty years to life on the pretend farm and you will find a version of that youngster still within me as I gather eggs and examine them, hoping to find that elusive double yolker.  They are rare; I have only personally found three in the year and a half I have been gathering them.  This morning, however, was one of those mornings.

I found it doing farm chores, brought it inside not completely sure of its interior, and put the water on for a poached egg.  Even without the suspense of a double yolk, this is my favorite way to eat eggs, gathered from the coop newly laid and cooked right away.  There is something that much more delicious about a never-refrigerated egg; but I digress.  Water simmering, I cracked it and low and behold, the promise was delivered.

Because of my superstitious nature, and because I live in my own strange little world, I think the discovery of this morning’s double yolker is a harbinger of good things to come.  Perhaps we will win the lottery, discover gold in the back yard, or best yet, my family will be restored to good health.  It could happen, you know.  Stranger things have. 

While writing this, I decided to look up the phenomenon of the double yolked egg and found an explanation having to do with unsynchronized production cycles and heredity.  Me?  I think I prefer to look upon it as a good luck charm and hope for the future.

Here’s hoping you find your own double yolker very soon.

I Love a Parade

Arriving home after a few days absence from the farm is always a pleasure if only because of the many living beings that are very happy to see us, as in jumping up and down and howling (dogs), meowing (kitten), clucking (chickens), crowing (roosters), quacking (ducks), baa-ing bass(sheep), baa-ing tenor (goats), gobbling (turkeys), and humming (alpacas).  I think I even heard a few coyotes yip in appreciation as well.  Although I loved seeing old friends and enjoying cool by comparison temperatures, it is good to be home. 

While I was gone, the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag that I ordered arrived and, as the battle over the developer-initiated water district continues to rage, I plan on raising it ASAP.  Maybe I’ll march it around the neighborhood first, though.  We could harness the alpacas, leash the bloodhounds, and have a regular rebel parade.  People would emerge from their homes and join in the fray.  It would look like that scene from “The Music Man,” except with farm animals and heterosexuals.  (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

So I know I promised ribald tales and, honestly, I have a few.  As expected, I conducted myself in a disorderly manner, as did many of my cohorts and relatives, but I am of the opinion at this time that what happens on vacation, stays on vacation.  You might say, but Lauren, you’ll give us lurid examples of your gynecological procedures and share the piss-poorness of your housekeeping, why not this as well?  Someday, children.  For now, I am protecting the not-so-innocent.  Let your imaginations run wild.

Home again, I have a house dirtier-than-left to clean, a job to find, and a liver to wring out.  Hopefully, I can at least accomplish two out of three, though it is anyone’s guess what those will be.

Before I sign off, I have favor to ask of all my friends and readers.  Although I do not lean heavily on the religious side, I do believe in the power of prayer.  Would everyone please send some positive thoughts to my wonderful father-in-law who is battling a serious health issue?  Great guy that he is, he deserves it more than you know.  Thank you all very much.

Now let the parade begin.

 

A Promise of Future Ribald Tales

Just a quick note to let you all know I will be out of town for a few days.  Upon return, I hope to regale you with ribald tales of disorderly conduct and adventure.  In the meantime, visit the Yarn Harlot as she always has something funny to say.  Then mosey on over to Hobby Farms Magazine to research your future farm plans, and then to McMurray Hatchery to lust over bird breeds.  You don't do this?  Well, you should.  It's healthier than most obsessions and you get fresh eggs to boot.

Until Monday, U-hyu'-s-ti, Auf Wiedersehen, Slán go fóill. (That's farewell in Cherokee, German, and Irish Gaelic because that's what I am.)

The Lions' Share

True, I complain about the heat here in the

Sonoran

Desert

, probably more often than I should.  (No comments from the peanut gallery, please.)  Also, by living here, we deal with scorpions, rattlesnakes, and tarantulas, among other creatures.  Although some might find it hard to understand why someone would want to settle in this environment, including me at times, every place has its down side.  Case in fact, courtesy an email from my husband:

You are a South African bush pilot. You fly in some critical medical supplies; enjoy a quick lunch at the hospital.

It's a stifling 100 degrees in the shade and you're eager to get back up to the cool, high blue yonder.

On the way back to your plane, you discover that the only bit of shade, within 1 mile, has become very popular. . You start calculating the distance to the plane door and wonder . . .

"Do I feel lucky today?"

All Creatures Great and Small - and Hairy

My house is very dirty.  I mean, it usually is, but it is now downright filthy.  I’m sick and tired of cleaning up after these mutha%*$&#* bloodhounds in this mutha%*$&#* home.  (Obviously, I am not quite done with my Snakes on a Plane obsession.  It takes me a while; have patience.)  The dog hair is everywhere, clumped in corners and ground in carpet, it is clogging my filters, dryer, vacuum, and duct, and cramping my style.  Why I thought that getting short haired dogs meant lower maintenance is beyond me.  Three bloodhounds and a little brown mutt make more mess than my already poor housekeeping skills can handle.  I will only say this once, mother.  You were right.  I was crazy to get all these dogs.  It’s too much.  That said, I am not going to do a damned thing about it.  I will vacuum up their hair and wipe off their slobber, cursing them all the while.  Then I will love them.

Moving on…

I have shared with you gentle readers many tales of the various creatures inhabiting Rancho Laurena, domesticated and not.  Yesterday, however, we found something I have not yet seen here in the desert, though I knew of its presence.  It was in the swimming pool, drowned poor thing.  It’s as big as my hand.  This scares me; I am not ashamed to admit it.  I will never again venture outside at night with bare feet.

Between rampant dog hair mess and scary tarantulas in the pool, you may think I am heading towards another get-me-the-hell-outta-here phase but no.  The monsoon rains are still falling and it hasn’t topped 110 in almost a month.  I am content to stay right where I am, if perhaps with the help of some well-placed blinders.

Tarting It Up

In my ever-present search for ways to use the many eggs hatched each day by our hens, I spent some time in the kitchen this weekend.  Imagine my surprise after making these lemon bars (see recipe below) that my husband declared that in our almost twenty years of marriage, this was the best dessert I had ever made.  (Granted, he was a little buzzed at the time.)  If it is even makes the top ten, it surely is worth sharing.  Enjoy!

Winning Lemon Bars

INGREDIENTS:

 2 sticks (8 ounces) butter

 2 cups flour

 1/2 cup confectioners' sugar

 4 beaten eggs

 2 cups sugar

 4 tablespoons flour

 1/4 cup lemon juice

 1 tablespoon finely grated lemon peel

 sifted confectioners' sugar

PREPARATION: Heat oven to 325°. Blend butter, 2 cups flour and 1/2 cup confectioners' sugar. Pat into ungreased 13x9x2-inch pan. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes. For filling, blend together eggs, sugar, 4 tablespoons flour, lemon juice, and lemon peel. Pour over first layer. Return to oven and bake at 325° for 20 minutes. Loosen around edges, cut into bars and sift confectioners' sugar over the top while warm.

My diet?  Not going so well.

I Love Lucy vs Hansel and Gretel

I awoke this morning to my husband ominously standing over me and, in his best beginning-of-a-bad-horror-movie voice, saying, “Whatever you do, do not let the dogs into the big yard.”

Part of living on a farm, pretend or not, is the occasional surprise offered by its inhabitants.  Apparently the turkeys once again escaped and were having a grand time strolling across the dirt and touring the property.  As turkeys are very curious and intelligent birds, they cannot help their lust for adventure any more than my husband can frickin’ sit still on a Sunday morning (he is currently climbing a mountain.)  If I had been in charge of corralling the errant birds, I’m sure I would have once again looked like I was recreating a scene out of “I Love Lucy,” foolishly chasing them in an uncoordinated Bizarro World ballet and failing miserably.  My husband, on the other hand, grabbed some bread and, instead of slapstick sitcom, imitated age-old fairy tale and Hansel and Gretel-ed them back into their pen.  Very smart, particularly as he knew his way home.

I’d like to allow the turkeys more room to roam.  I’d like to install a large grass pasture  surrounding a generous pond complete with island on which the ducks could set up coop-keeping.  The turkeys could roost in the tree above the pond as turkeys do in nature.  The pastoral setting would invite the ruminants to graze naturally instead of fight for hay from the manger amongst the seven of them and drink from the pond of goodness instead of from the shared galvanized bucket of well water.  Maybe we could even get a pair of swans; I have always wanted a swan.  Alas, it all boils down to that time and money conundrum and, although we are not “dirt poor” by any means, I have come to understand the origin of that particular phrase.  We are definitely dirt farmers, at least for now.

Thankfully we are some sort of farmer.  I love our animals and cannot imagine going back to the suburban life of spit-in-your-neighbors-windows homes and “normal” living, not that we were ever very normal.  I recently read about a man living in

Chandler

, a

Phoenix

suburb about an hour south of here.  He purchased three hens, no roosters, to raise for their fresh-layed eggs, eschewing the industrially-raised, hormone-laden orbs of Noflavorland.  Well, some grump of a neighbor complained and he has to get rid of them.  I think that’s horrible.  What is the world coming to when one can’t even have three chickens in one’s own backyard?  It’s a crime.  I need to send that man a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag...

... and a realtor.

Post #100!

Here it is, the afternoon after a fabulous afternoon of doing exactly what I wanted.  The Guinness was full of creamy goodness, the bar food was greasy and filling (I had to ask for celery sticks after the nutritious week I had just to tolerate it), and the movie was as campy and fun as I expected it to be.  (Thank you to Teresa who sent me a very funny email from Samuel L. Jackson via her.  I’d take her to the movie if she was here.)  I can honestly say I had a great time.

First an opinion from "The Onion":

Alyssa Kornbluth,
Volleyball Coach
"Cool. What's it about?"

Snakes on a Plane!  I loved it! Part 70’s disaster flick, part “B” horror movie, it delivered ridiculous scene after ridiculous scene, and kept me laughing out loud.  A large crowd of late teens/early twenty-somethings filled the seats in front of us and added to the party atmosphere with intermittent cheers and screams.  When Samuel L. Jackson delivered the now-famous 12 letter word-filled phrase, people throughout the theatre clapped.  My favorite line?  “If we don’t get this plane under control, it’s going down faster than a Thai hooker!”  If someone was looking for meaning and depth, they were in the wrong movie, but if you are looking for good, dirty, gory fun, this is the diversion for you.

Now, after visiting the restroom in the theater twice, and once this morning in Costco, I have decided that all automatic flushing toilets have to be destroyed.  I know how they are supposed to work.  After completing one’s business, rising from the throne and reassembling one’s garments, it will flush away what you left behind, leaving a gleaming cauldron of porcelain for the next user.  However, in my experience, this is not what happens.  Either the mechanism does not seem to know the job is finished leading to ridiculous arm waving and butt shaking on my part, followed by me partially exiting the stall and peaking around to see if said toilet is flushing or the damned thing flushes continuously before the task is complete, delivering the rather unsettling feeling of a strong wet wind blowing through parts unmentionable.  I would think this is a particularly strange sensation for a man.  He could be wondering if things might get sucked down the drain.  It could happen, you know.  If a snake can come up through a toilet and bite a man on the (well, you’ll have to watch the movie and see for yourselves) then the opposite could surely happen.  In conclusion, Automatic Toilets Must Die.  There, I have said my peace.  Now go to the movies and have some fun. 

A Little Meaningless Indulgence

TGIF?

Let’s see.  I have been faithfully dieting and exercising all week long and have still accomplished a one pound weight gain.  My muscles are so sore that I feel about eighty and could truly use one of those bars like they have in hospitals to help the infirm (like me) rise up from the toilet seat.  I think I did one hundred too many squats and could not do just one today if someone paid me.  Well, maybe if someone paid me.  If Robert Redford waltzed by and said, “I will give you one million dollars if I can watch you do a squat,” I would.  But it would hurt me more than it would hurt his bank account.

This makes me want to throw my sore, flabby arms in the air, painfully climb in my truck, and head  to the bar for a few Guinness (and assorted bar foods) and then to the movies to watch Samuel L. Jackson grapple with “motherf*ckin’ snakes on a motherf*ckin’ plane.”  I just might do it.  Hell, it’s Friday and I’m feeling quite the rebel.  Enough with my usual fare of independent, thought-provoking movies and public broadcasting shows about Albert Einstein and Edward R Murrow, I’m going to watch aptly named blockbusters and shallow reality shows.  Well, not the last part, I just can’t; I have tried and it nauseates me.  I know some of you out there in

Internet

Land

faithfully watch “Survivor,” but if I want to watch a bunch of immature, arguing people, I’ll go hang out my kids, thank you very much.

This morning’s newspaper had a large article about these suitably named movies, and which among them were good and which blowed.  Somehow I missed “Surf Nazis Must Die” and “Santa Claus Conquers the Martians,” but I did see “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!” a few too many times (I love the scene when the tomato rises up from the disposal and does in the kitchen inhabitants) as well as “Them!” about giant radioactive ants from the

Nevada

desert.  That was one of those that Daddy and I watched together.  It was great fun, if only because he was so excited.  He loved that stuff.

Life is a balance between fun and responsibility and not everything one does has to be meaningful.  Today, if only for a short while, I will endeavor to indulge in the meaningless.  Farm chores are done, the bed is made, and the children have enough clean clothing to make it a few more days (though not far beyond that.)  We have food in the refrigerator and water in the well.  (Thank God I’m a country girl.)  So until next time…

Sssssssssssss.