Pretending to Farm

Anthony vs. Destructo Boy

Anthony, adorable and usually mild-mannered toddler, is fighting a Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde battle with his alter ego, Destructo Boy.  Anthony better damned well win soon or Gramma will end up walking down city streets with a shopping cart full of empty cans and tattered blankets, wearing an aluminum foil hat and talking to no one.

Anthony happily sits on the sofa with his grandmother and watches Backyardigans; he occasionally giggles at the funnier scenes and dances to the abundant and fun music.  Destructo Boy will not sit still but instead stands on the furniture, screams, and practices his raspberries (I think this is where his secret power lies.) 

Anthony plays with his Thomas the Tank Engine Duplo set.  Gramma sets up the tracks and he joyfully pushes Thomas and the other cars around them.  Destructo Boy kicks apart the train tracks seconds after Gramma assembles them, and continues to scatter them across the carpet, making clean up challenging at best. 

After quietly listening to Gramma read three or four books before nap time, Anthony goes down for his nap without fuss and sleeps for a good two and a half hours, giving Gramma time to knit and farm.  Destructo Boy will not listen to stories but instead grabs all the books in his arms and will not let anyone else touch them, much less read the things.  Instead of sleeping, he stands up in his crib, tears off all his clothes, and pees on his sheets. 

Anthony ate a good lunch today, building his strength for defeating Destructo Boy.

Please let him win.  Please.

And now a few recent photos (I knitted the the tan and red pullover.):

Late Blooming

Being the physically uncoordinated person that I am, and also being an avid knitter and voracious reader, I have always attempted but mostly failed in my efforts to knit and read simultaneously.   If the stitch pattern was an easy one (stockinette, knitting on one side and purling on the other, or garter, knitting each and every row), the yarn a non-slippery wool or alpaca, and the reading material simple (weekly junk rag “People”) I could manage somewhat.  Mostly, though, I sucked.  At the least, I did both things exponentially slower than they could be done separately, and at the worst, I ended up screwing up my knitting, dropping stitches like Pamela Anderson drops husbands, and missing half the book by skipping important plot points tantamount to understanding the premise of the manuscript.

Still, I persevered and wonder upon wonders, I actually finished a book, in fact a very good book, The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, while knitting various items that demanded more than the more rudimentary stitch patterns.  There is hope for me yet, though I don’t think this means I’ll be juggling fire lit torches on star search anytime soon.

“Vogue Knitting,” one of the twenty thousand knitting magazines to which I subscribe, recently had an article on the many books that either feature or mention knitting in them.  Most famous of all was A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens complete with the ruthless and infamous Madame DeFarge.  Less so were two by Debbie Macomber, The Shop on Blossom Street and A Good Yarn, both about the lives of women revolving around a knitting shop.  Although there were more, these appealed to me the most and, perhaps foreseeing my newfound ability, I went to Amazon, which is in no small part responsible for the fact that my children’s college funds are paltry at best, and ordered them.  Bubbling over with newfound confidence, I am ready to tackle them now, maybe even while doing intarsia (hieroglyphic knitting involving charts and symbols.)  I hope it wasn’t a one time thing; I really need to finish the Christmas gifts and I am in desperate need of mental stimulation after watching one too many kid shows. 

Don’t worry, gentle readers, I am not getting overly confident.  In fact, I have asked for an IPOD for Christmas in order to listen to audio books and knit at the same time.  Until then and longer if I do not receive one, I hope my newfound coordination holds out.  If not, I am really sorry everyone; you’ll get your gifts sometime in April.

No Secrets Between Neighbors

I have been writing this blog for seven months now and, as of today, have received 4,174 visits to my site, plus the however many people who read it via Feedblitz email at each posting.  Many of these visitors are repeats; a lot of people know a great deal about me.  Some might say I over-share.  My mother says I bare my soul, that she knows me better now that when I lived at home, but also that she cannot believe I say some of the things I do.  Well, I enjoy writing; it’s therapeutic, creative, and thought provoking.  From what people have told me, through letters and comments, most think I do a halfway decent job at it.  I like sharing our farm-y lives, and if I occasionally slip in a gynecological tale or spill my hangover guilt, well, so be it. 

What I had not realized, however, that some of my neighbors read this blog as well.  I should have known.  I write a Pretending to Farm story for our region’s quarterly newsletter, “The RVHA Roundup,” and at the end, I include the website address.  I just didn’t think many of the locals were that interested in what we do here.  Most have ranches of their own, or at least a horse or two, and I did not think my farming, pretend or not, would be interesting to them. 

Yesterday, I found out otherwise.  George, of three houses down, was walking his Jack Russell terrier, Barkley (isn’t that the best name ever for a dog?) in front of our house and, as he is a very nice guy with whom we had not visited in a while, David went out to have a chat.  Suffice it to say George knows everything about me, probably even my menstrual cycle, and, as he was looking at our animals, wanted to know which of the sheep poor Cookie was.  (Remember Leroy needs a six-pack to get it on with her?)  Apparently, he reads every post and enjoys it; he even said I had a good mind.

So dear George, I have to admit I will be slightly embarrassed passing you on the road but I will persevere in my self-deprecation and reveal my foibles at each turn of the virtual page.  By the way, you might think about bringing that charming

New England

accent this way more often.  Hey, you could even try to prove to us that this “Suzanne” person is real and not your imaginary bedmate as we’ve never seen her.  By the way, good job picking a flight attendant as her profession; people will ask fewer questions.

Now, if only one of our neighbors was a publisher… 

Cooking once, cooking twice, cooking turkey soup with rice.

How was everyone’s Thanksgiving?  If it was half as fine as ours, you had a wonderful day.  The tryptophan (or tryptomeem as we decided to call it in honor of my mother) set in early for me as it typically does on turkey day and I headed to bed with Anthony by nine but the drinkers two, who sometimes I think should not drink together, stayed up into the late hours mixing alcohol and eating pie with their hands.  I can’t fault them; maybe I am a little jealous that my throw-caution-to-the-wind days are gone, at least while I try to give this medicine a chance.  Yet, I get the last laugh; I am the only adult (term used loosely) that did not wake up with a hangover this morning AND I have now lost 12 whole pounds.  Twenty to go; I hope to be a shadow of my former self.

Today, I thought I would give everyone a little primer on making soup from scratch.  You can stop reading if you know how to do it but many do not.  There is no shame in this; admitting it is the first step.

First of all, you need bones.  Since you in all likelihood have a half-eaten turkey carcass in your fridge, now is the time to give soup a chance.  Cut most of the meat off the bones but don’t be anal about it; this is not avian surgery, just broth making.  Throw (place) the remains of the bird (great movie) into a large stock pot with a few roughly chopped, or quartered if they are small, onions, 3 or 4 stalks celery, cut into 2-inch lengths and including the leaves, and about the same amount of carrots, trimmed of the bitter tops and tips.  Add a small handful of peppercorns and a mix of herbs (I use McCormick’s Italian Seasoning which has oregano, parsley, sage, thyme, and a few other things.) I also like to add a few slices of jalapeño pepper but that can make it too spicy for some.  Cover the whole shebang with water and bring to a boil over the stove.  Reduce to a simmer and find something to do; this is a two day process.  Wander by occasionally to stir.

After twelve hours or so of cooking, strain the now soft and mushy contents of the stock pot through a colander into a large metal mixing bowl.  Be careful, unless you have the patience to let it cool before you do this, which I do not, it will be very burn-inducing hot.  Cool and chill the stock you have made covered overnight in the refrigerator and save the contents of the colander in the same manner.

In the morning, unless you had an unbelievably lean turkey, the top of the bowl should have a layer of solid fat on the surface.  Discard this; it’s gross.  Finely chop the same amount of veggies (new ones) you used before and, sauté these in a few tablespoons olive oil in the same stock pot you used yesterday, until they are soft and beginning to caramelize.  Add a generous dollop of sherry and cook for about a minute, scraping any browned bits from the bottom of the pan.  Add the stock to the sautéed veggies and reheat on the stove while you pick through the bones and veggies.  You will throw most of this away as the veggies will be too mushy to use but save the now very tender meat for the soup.  Make a wish.  When the you’ve-almost-made-turkey-soup begins to simmer, add all the vegetables you have in the fridge that are beginning to turn but are still good, chopped into bite-sized pieces.  If you do not have enough on hand, frozen peas and corn are nice additions.  Add additional meat to your preference and some sort of starch, such as the more popular rice (very nice), noodles (not oodles), potatoes (technically a veggie and starch in one), or the more obscure couscous, barley (which I think goes better with red meat), or hominy (better with pork).  Remember starch expands (a lot) so don’t add too much or add it in stages.  I have unintentionally made stew more times than I would like to admit.  Add salt (more than you would think), pepper, and even soy sauce if you like and voila, you have enough soup for days, freeing up time for watching all those football games or, if you are like me, watching a toddler and knitting Christmas gifts while viewing said games.

I hope this tutorial has educated in the very simple process of making soup.  This translates to any type of carcass, just vary the spices and vegetables you add to go better with that particular meat.  I love beef and barley, pork with hominy (posole), chicken tortilla, and ham and split pea.  I like soup period.  As I am usually dead tired by day’s end, preparing something well in advance works well for my cooking style.  Perhaps it will work for you as well. 

Ladle on!

So Much Thanks to Give, So Little Time

Well, as the bird is in the oven and the pint-sized farmer is napping, I thought I would take this time to express some thanks and appreciation.  Something about this day inspires me, doncha know.

Above anything else, I am thankful for my family.  Ups and downs hit us like clockwork but we endure and come out stronger from the experience.  I love my husband more now than I ever have.  (Don’t tell him; his ego does not need any more stroking than he gives it already.)  My children are awe-inspiring, except perhaps when they bicker, but even then, I love them dearly and feel so fortunate that they were given to us.  My grandson, the newest addition to our little farmy family, is a gift of love and purpose.  People say to me that they do not understand how I can do everything I do.  Well, I just do, and having Anthony here has forced me to be more organized and efficient, which I greatly needed, and has given me the sense that I am in demand, a feeling that has waned as my own children have grown older. 

I have become more thankful for my extended family as well.  I love my mother and get along with her swimmingly now that we don’t live together and have both matured.  My in-laws have become more special to me as well.  Disagreements of the past are just that, and I am thrilled to look at my mother-in-law as a friend, adviser, and confidante, and as someone I truly love.  I am thankful my father-in-law’s health issues seem to be not as serious as was initially thought so that he can be here for many more years to joke around with me and the kids.  I am pleased that they know what a terrific guy he is and doubly pleased that Anthony will as well. 

On my mother’s side, I am thankful for my Aunt Bonnie, a true angel and blessing from God.  She has helped me through good times and bad and been more than an aunt and godmother; she has been a lifeline.  I am thankful for Cousin Eric, his wife Ann, and their daughter, Josie.  It took a long time for him to find happiness and now that he has, I am doubly thankful. 

Also, I appreciate those who have left but still look over me and love me, my father, grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles.  I know you’re there.  Keep up the good work.

Although this is beginning to sound like an academy award speech, (the music would be playing me off by now) I cannot voice my appreciation for my life without including our many dear friends, most of whom are still in

San Diego

.  We are usually together on this day and I miss them greatly.

Lastly, I am thankful for the farm.  As you all know from reading this mess day after day, I kind of like it here.  The animals have given me unconditional love in spades and deepened my appreciation for our collective existence.  Farming is the life for me, even pretend since we bought our turkey at the store and are feeling a little guilty that we are cooking a relative.  Praise God and pass the gravy.

A Prayer for My Mother's Sanity

Today, November 22^nd, is the semi-annual scrub-bloodhound-slobber-off-all-the-walls day.  The Meem, aka Mimi, aka my mother arrives tomorrow to talk turkey and, even though she always says we should not clean for her, we do.  If we do not, we’ll hear grumbling about “those dogs” and “look what they’ve done to this beautiful house.”  You know it’s true, Mother, don’t try to deny it. 

Every one chips in a bit on SBSOATW Day.  Today was the Anthony’s first time and he did his best to be a part of the festivities.  In a few short minutes, he was elbow deep in my special slobber eraser (vinegar and water) which made him smell a bit like old pickles. He grabbed all the rags I put in the bucket and swung them around, creating large puddles over the slate and drips down the kitchen cabinets.  The old towels I brought out to remedy the situation turned out to be a good thing as I did not have to mop the kitchen after I sopped up all the water.  Despite this little bit of aid he delivered on SBSOATW Day, for the most part, I regret to say, he was in the way.  We now call him Anthony Pint-Sized P.I., as in Progress Inhibitor. 

Back to my mother.  My mom is the type who hangs on to the now mostly abandoned formality of dressing in something other than sweats and jeans to travel by air.  She looks like she could dine at Le Cirque, thereby outshining all her fellow passengers, which could very well be the point.  However, she is not dining at Michelin’s best rated, she is coming to the Rancho Laurena, home of three of the biggest and most slobbery bloodhounds on earth.  They get to me and I love them.  My mother does not love them. 

When she arrives dressed like this, and if the dogs are in the house, she will not come inside and give me a haven’t-seen-you-in-months hug but instead stands outside the glass front door and gestures.  She grimaces the put-the-dogs-out face and points her fingers in the direction of the big yard as if I did not know where to put said hounds.  She then looks exasperated until I do so.  If by some chance she comes inside unaware that the dogs are indoors, and they discover one another, Mom does a little series of dog avoidance spins in a desperate and usually unsuccessful attempt to avoid their abundant spit. 

Regardless of the situation, the Meem will quickly change into jeans and one of my sweatshirts and smartly stay that way until she leaves, still doing her best to keep the dogs away from her.  She has said in the past that it is best to stay slightly buzzed the whole time she is here to tolerate the madness and that was before the arrival of Anthony Pint-Sized P.I.  It might be best if everyone would collectively say a prayer for her sanity; she’ll need it.

By the way we eventually are the happy recipients of Mimi hugs, as are the kids, and even occasionally, the dogs will benefit from her abundant love.  We are thrilled that she is spending the holiday with us; she has been absent too long.  Mom, I will do my best to put the dogs out- woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.

Ma, The Revenuers Is Here!

Today’s’ post will be a short one; I ate some bad yogurt (truly) this morning and am feeling a little poisoned.  Walking straight seems to be a challenge. Shut up, all of you.  First of all, it is only noon.  Okay, that doesn’t work for those of you who have seen me open a beer at 10 am but I swear it is not due to alcohol.  I have been a non-drinker now for about two weeks as my new medicine, Arava, prohibits imbibing.  It carries a serious risk of liver enzyme elevation so as much as I enjoyed tippling a glass or ten (you think I’m joking), I cannot.  I’m actually embracing this teetotalitarism.  I’ve lost ten pounds; I remember the pages I read in my book at night; and I am hangover free.  Now, if I could just avoid corrupt cultures (yogurt cultures, that is.)

Pint-sized has started calling me “Ma.”  That whole Gram part is so last century.  Being called Ma makes me want to grab a rifle and go squirrel hunting and cook up some vittles over a fire just after I make a new batch of moonshine.  Since we have chickens running around the yard and a cement pond, it’s not too far a stretch.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my head is swimming away and I must catch it before it is gone forever and I become a ghost story.  She ate bad yogurt, lost her head, and still wanders the farm searching for it ‘til this very day. 

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you heading out of town.  Have a great one!

I'm Not a Poet and I Know It

I am taking the day off today, that is as much as a guardian of one active male toddler, two almost teenaged boys, one thinks-she’s-way-older-than-seventeen-year-old daughter, and many animals, farm and domesticated, can.  No laundry, no scrubbing beyond the mandatory, no dusting or vacuuming.  I will not even pick up one, count it, one wooden block.  I’m tired, damn it, so tired that I have lowered myself to writing the worst-poem-I-have-ever-written in my blog and not realizing how bad it was until hours after it posted. 

I will don my husband’s “Don’t Bother Me I’m Crabby” t-shirt, sit on my slightly smaller but still big fat ass, knit (as much as anyone can knit while a very young man grabs balls of yarn and runs around the room with them squealing), and watch Sesame Street and its ilk while the toys pile higher and higher around me.  I will let the pint-sized eat in the living room and stay in his jammies all day; I might even allow him to have candy.  Pervasive fatigue has lowered my standards.

What’s going on in the knitting world, you ask?  Well, I made very little progress on Robert’s sweater yesterday but at least this is the front, which means after this, I have only the sleeves and collar to finish.  I still have the pretty little pink cardigan to sew up; it takes concentration which is in short supply these days.  Come Hell or high water, it will be done by Christmas, that and David, Jr’s gloves, Jessica’s coat, big David’s second sock, and about five other things for various loved ones.  It’s a good thing knitting helps my arthritis instead of the other way around.

Now to the spinning world in which nothing whatsoever was accomplished yesterday.  This is from Bill, the angora wether.  I am calling it jumbo loop mohair and think it would look nice as edging around shawl collars and bell-sleeved cuffs.  This is my spinning wheel, stashed in my very messy closet.  Hiding it did not save it from being attacked by the pint-sized.  Unfortunately, I have some challenging untangling to do before I can proceed.

If you are keeping score, from the things I was trying to do during Anthony’s nap time, as I guessed, I was able to complete exactly three things listed on the bad you-call-yourself-a-poem?  I gathered eggs from the chicken coop, cleaned the kitchen, and finished the laundry.  Tame your excitement, people.  Today is another day and I am bound and determined to fill it with creative fibery accomplishments.  Pathetic though it may sound, this lifts my crabby attitude, puts me right again with the world and lifts my standards back to no-candy-for-pint-sized-farmers and eat-your-food-in-the-kitchen.  The blocks, however, will remain on the rug.  My redemption has its limits, you know.

Have a great weekend everyone.

While Anthony Takes His Nap Today

While Anthony takes his nap today

I will write a blog post

Try to be clever and funny

So they will say I’m the most

I will clean out my closet

Donate my fatter clothes.

This being sick and chasing toddler diet

Should be recommended by pros.

I will finish the laundry

Three loads completed but not enough

Pint-sized farmer gets many things dirty

This part I admit is quite tough.

I will try to spin yarn

Before the fiber overtakes me.

Wool, mohair, alpaca abound

In kitchen trash bags aplenty.

I will knit Robert’s sweater,

Move on to the next gift.

Christmas is coming

I must be more than swift.

I will scour the kitchen

Wash glasses, pots, and pans

It’s a never-ending battle

That’s ruining my hands.

I will head out to the farm yard

Check the coop for fresh eggs

Love Cookie and

Charlotte

And anything else moving with legs.

While I am out there

I should clean up more mess

Another never-ending battle

It’s worth it; I’m blessed.

While Anthony takes his nap today

I might finish three tasks listed above

Until the young champion awakes

And showers me with love.

Three Simple Rules

Jessica challenged me on Saturday to come up with three rules for life and my thoughts have been provoked ever since.  What follows are the results of that provocation, valid or not.

Rule #1: Always share your life with at least one animal.

Coming from me, this is no surprise but I feel strongly about it.  A pet forces you up in the morning and gives you purpose when you have misplaced it, furnishes you a non-judgmental someone with whom to share your innermost thoughts and feelings, and presents you with a warm cuddly being to love you unconditionally.  He provides a happy welcome home greeting when you have been away and misses you when you leave.  I cannot convey enough what animals have added to my life and although I do not necessarily recommend acquiring the number we have, adopting at least one furry creature is a must-do.

Rule #2: Do a good deed every day.

I know this sounds incredibly trite and, no, I have not joined the Boy Scouts, but finding a little time in each day to lift someone else up makes you feel as good as or better than the person you helped.  In today’s world, we have become more and more self-absorbed, struggling to care for your own and jockeying for pole position.  Getting out of yourself, if only for a moment, adds clarity and perspective to the fog of life.  Knit for charity, work in a soup kitchen, pick up groceries for an elderly or sick neighbor, let someone ahead of you in traffic, the possibilities are endless.  Just do something.

Rule #3: Make time to treat yourself. 

This might sound like a complete contradiction to rule #2, but it is not.  Just as getting away from yourself to help someone in need nourishes the soul, allowing a little self-indulgence here and then does as well.  We’re busy.  I’m busy.  I care for my family which now includes an active two-year-old, pets, and livestock; I shuttle kids, run errands, clean (really), cook (sometimes), work part-time, supervise home and school work, and wash umpteen million loads of laundry a week.  These days I only sit down during the daylight hours to write in this blog during Anthony’s nap time.  That said, if I don’t make a few moments in each day mine, and this happens a few days in a row, I end up an irritable, and, depending on the time of month, sometimes blubbering mess.  Whether it is quietly knitting, reading, or sitting in solitary silence, I need this break and so do you.  For David, it is riding his motorcycle, bicycle, or hiking mountains.  I’m sure by now you know what your indulgence is; use this knowledge to rejuvenate yourself.  Your friends and family, and the gal at the checkout stand for that matter, will thank you.