Pretending to Farm

I've Been Gone Too Long

 

But I'm coming back!

Bless me Readers for I have been absent. It's been 17 long months since my last post. 

Where have I been? Location-wise, still here at Rancho Laurena doing many of the same things I had before, housekeeping, knitting, farming, being driven slowly out of my mind by children that I sometimes wonder why I had until I remember how much I love them. 

For some of those 17 months, I blogged on a site called Open Salon. If you want to look me up there, I was/am the Pretend Farmer. For a while, it was great. Unlike here, I got LOTS of comments! And, since I am nothing if not an attention whore, I stayed put. I exercised my writing chops slightly differently than I had here, broadening my horizons a bit. Since few knew my true identity, I sometimes wrote about more private things than I did here. I even penned a little fiction. Also and most importantly, I made friends, many virtual friends, some of which have become friends in real life, friends I am going to do my best to keep lifelong. 

Unfortunately, as often happens in this convoluted world of ours, things went south. The ability of a reader to remain anonymous while commenting on a blog post turned certain participants' remarks nasty and personal. I don't know about the rest of you but I have enough real drama in my own life than to ask for more from a group of strangers. For this same reason I have no desire to watch The Real Fake Housewives of Any Place, Jon and Kate Plus Screaming Children and Tabloids, or The Bachelor and a Group of Slutty Women Doing Their Best to Undo Decades of Work for Women's Equality. My posts slowed down, then stopped, and I have been blog-free for six months. Long enough break, don't you think? Shall we get back to tales of farming and family, exhilaration and heartache?

Starting tomorrow, I shall do my best to catch you up on what you've missed, what is happening, and what we've planned. The Grim Reaper in the form of bobcats, mountain lions, lightning, and illness has unfortunately visited; yet, On We Farm with glee and gusto. We have ruminant shearing, chick rearing, and garden growing to look forward to as well as cheese-making, yarn spinning, and menu concocting. Also, Rancho Laurena is going co-op! City dwellers and suburbanites alike will be able to adopt their own farm animal(s), learn about their comings and goings, and partake in their output, scat included. Woot I say, 2010 is shaping up with excitement and glee!

Yes, Gentle Readers, I am back with determination. Please join me on this journey we call farm life.

Feelin' Hot Hot Hot

Despite our valiant efforts, the poisonous Arizona summer sun has destroyed most of our vegetable garden. In its previous location where the chickens, ducks, and turkeys now dwell, we had installed shade cloth and misters to prevent this; but, as our new garden is just south of the kitchen and is visible from the house, we decided doing this again would not be aesthetically pleasing. Well, guess what? A bunch of dead squash and melon plants aren’t very pretty either.

The stalwart living exceptions are the hot pepper plants. Originally sown in an unsuccessful attempt to dissuade predators from the pumpkin and melon plants with which they shared the beds, they alone have survived. Lovely and colorful, they serve as the only decoration among the dead vines and pack a very hot punch in the kitchen.

The Thai peppers are the loveliest, the flowers of the garden. I wouldn’t suggest getting a big whiff though.

Don’t try to smell the habaneros either. They are one of the hottest out there.

Though considered spicy by some, the jalapenos are the mildest of the hot. Despite this, don’t rub your eyes after chopping them. Experience is a great teacher; it taught me this quite well, thank you.

The peppers that we cannot use fresh are being strung up and dried for our very first homemade chili powder, Rancho Laurena Something. I’d love some name suggestions from you clever people out there.

While I was photographing the peppers, Zorro took a dirt bath and then leisurely sunned his wing. He appreciated the dry soil the dead garden afforded him. I appreciated the empty shoulder break.

And just outside stood the main reason the pepper plants were planted in the first place, waiting in vain for new greenery to munch. I guess I owe him a thank you.

Filthy Furry Thieves

When we first moved here to this convection oven known as the Sonoran Desert, one of the first things, other than the scenery, that caught my admiring eye was the plethora of rabbits. “Oh, they are adorable,” I said. “Aren’t we lucky to live somewhere that cute little bunnies hippity hoppity all around our yard?!”

Well, let me tell you, ladies and germs, those days are over. The Elmer Fudd in me has come out of his den. Pretty soon I am going to carry a rifle, talk with a lisp, and set up a large stew pot in the yard with a roaring wood fire blazing underneath it.

These creatures I once went all awwww over? Let me tell you; it is all a Sylvilagan act. That cute little thing they do with their nose and whiskers? Deception, that’s what it is. Don’t turn your back on them; they will destroy the bounty created from all your hard work and perseverance.

First of all, rabbits have no manners and no concept of boundaries. See this hole? One of the ruder cottontails dug it under a perfectly obvious good-fences-make-good-neighbors barrier. This is the third one I have found. Our counter attack?
Blocking the holes with rocks. We are a bunch of tree-hugging wimps but that’s all about to change.

Look at this! It was a Japanese eggplant, covered with leaves and blooms. I had planned on using its yummy produce to create my favorite Sichuan eggplant recipe that I would have posted for you, gentle readers, to share in all of its deliciousness. But no, no Japanese eggplant and no recipe. See? They are not just hurting me; they are hurting you. They are a virus spreading throughout the blogosphere.

Green beans, anyone? I went to harvest this morning and found this. I love green beans. Can anyone say favorite vegetable? Filthy furry thieves, that’s what they are.

Luckily, they haven’t found the honeydew

And haven’t bothered the muskmelon/cantaloupe.

However, I take nothing for granted anymore. I have research to do, rabbit repellent to mix, perhaps even traps to set. I’ve never eaten rabbit but there is a first time for everything. Rabbit Cassoulet, anyone? I need to replace that Sichuan Eggplant recipe with something.

Sowing the Seeds of Love

Since the initial preparation and subsequent sowing and planting of our wee garden, the Pint has enjoyed getting his hands dirty and morphing into the Pint-sized gardener we all know and love. Admittedly, most of this has involved him pointing at the various flora and me trying to teach him the names of things, this in concert with vainly attempting to train him not to step on the vegetable beds and/or plants. Because most toddlers don’t know weed from watermelon, I have assumed the role of main cultivator and harvester for all but the most basic of plants and he hangs around before getting bored and heading for his tricycle. We’ve gone on this way for a few months now and all has been as it should in our Pint-sized, partially Pint-maintained garden.

This morning, however, I found the boy feeling horticulturally ambitious. With the rising heat, my desire to stand outside and meet the garden’s increased watering needs with the shower nozzle has vanished. So in order to keep the full-of-vitamin goodness reaching for the sky, I have instead begun using the soaker nozzle, periodically moving it from bed to bed in between laundry loads and Pint entertainments.

To keep the boy happy, I changed him into his bathing suit and sent him out back while I ran in and out, folding laundry and cleaning the kitchen in full view of his exploits. He could play on his climbing set, ride one or all of his various scooters, tricycles, and ride-in cars and/or splash around in the baby pool we set up beside the larger one for those times we cannot join him and keep him safe.

Well, all of a sudden I couldn’t see him. Panicked, I ran outside and instead of what-has-become-more-typical toddler misbehavior, I found this. What a good Pint-Sized Farmer!

Sometimes watering the dirt was more interesting than irrigating the plants.

The sky won out a few times as well.

All in all, he did a darned awesome job watering the garden and raising his Gramma’s pride and admiration of the little guy even though I got watered as well. (I truly don’t need to grow any more; I hope it doesn’t happen again.)

Join me in admiring the boy and the fruits (vegetables) of our fun.

By the way, that yellow pepper? Chile de arbol. I have great plans for it but for now, I’ll keep you guessing as to what they are.

A Full Weekend

Every frequently-posting blog writer gets to take the weekend off now and then, right? I truly shouldn’t be feeling the guilt I am feeling right now, I realize, but it comes with the territory and, plus, I missed you guys.

That said, I do have a good excuse, at least for Saturday. I was dadgummed busy! Awesome father-in-law and warm and fuzzy brother-in-law were hankering for a little motorcycle adventure. As the second scary colon (or lack thereof) surgery is on the horizon, the Amazing Matt wanted to do something while he could still travel so the two of them ventured our way from San Diego with a short overnight stop in gorgeous downtown Yuma, Arizona.

Household ablutions had to be attended to, sheets cleaned, floors swept and carpets vacuumed (will these dogs ever stop shedding?) and food harvested, washed, and prepared. We (sniff) picked the very last of the broccoli and low and behold discovered a good-sized head of cauliflower. I harvested a beautiful set of beets and roasted and pickled them (I am sorry for the lack of photos; I was too busy to furnish you readers with any food porn). David the Husband barbecued a tri-tip, along with some veggie kabobs and prepared his master rice. A good meal was enjoyed by all.

Somewhere in all this, I finally got to sit down and watch the Kentucky Derby which I had tivoed thankfully ahead of time. Go Street Sense! I have none.

In between welcoming family, preparing house and hearth, and spinning in circles, I was also morphing into my hair stylist alter ego. Yes, on top of everything else, it was Seaman Recruit Jessica’s prom night and after a good buff and polish, she looked anything but a future Naval cadet.

Her friend Steven flew in from San Diego and the two of them made a dashing pair. The prom theme was “Casino Royale” so of course, being the progeny of the two of us, had to ham it up for the camera just before leaving.
And no, they did not take the airsoft gun and the rifle with them as props. Those things are frowned upon these days, you know.

Then, after broad-as-my-ass hints from David the Husband, we PPV-ed the De Le Hoya/ Mayweather bout and although I did not want to watch it and said about a million and one times how barbaric I found the sport, I found my adrenaline uncontrollably rising, if only because Mayweather was such an unmitigated ass. Watching him strut into the arena in his opponent’s Mexican colors donning a sombrero accompanied by 50 Cent (that name just kills me) was uncalled for and insulting. But of course, the jerk won. He’ll get his comeuppance someday; they all do.

As far as Sunday goes, well I was just tired and spent my time sans David the Husband who joined his father and brother in motorcycle land, Pint watching and teenaged fight referee-ing. As I said at the beginning, I did feel guilty for no post, but fatigue and remnants of dumb disease flare won that thankfully free bout so I hope today’s ridiculously long post will make up for my absence. Or maybe it will bore you to cutting-your-last-home-grown-broccoli tears.

On a Golden Afternoon

I know you people. You’ve had it up to your eyeballs with tales of lambing and resulting photos of the wooly bouncers. You didn’t at all enjoy the little computer program that told you what your ideal job would be (except perhaps Tori who is destined to be a vibrator tester). And you certainly did not appreciate a photo of a not-at-all charming toddler doing a face plant in a plate of rice. You want to hear about the garden; I feel the vibes, man. (Plus summer, as in the global warming we in AZ have been experiencing long before Al Gore started doing PowerPoint Presentations, is just around dead man’s turn and things might not be looking quite as lovely as they are now.)

Please be my horticultural voyeur, won’t you?

Look! I know it’s blurry and rather hard to make out but it is a muskmelon, i.e. cantaloupe seedling that has made it for 48 hours now. That’s a new record. Could I possibly savor the juicy sweetness grown from our own garden this year? I’m not placing any bets on it, but I sure am hoping.

In contrast, here is the zucchini that by summer’s end will have taken over the entire garden. It’s massive. I am warning you people. It’s not the cockroaches living after nuclear holocaust we should be worrying about; it’s zucchini, which, if you recall, I spit-the-yuck-out-of-my-mouth despise.

The squash I enjoy? The Yellow Crookneck? Here it is, trying just to survive the courgette onslaught. Have you seen “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes?” I am getting seriously concerned here. If you don’t hear from me for a while, it’s because I was eaten by a zucchini. I think I’ll name it Audrey II. (“Little Shop of Horrors,” remember?) I just won’t tell him; it will only serve to encourage him.

Now look at this thing of beauty, somehow resisting the bolt that comes with heat. Red Butter Lettuce.

And see? Red Leaf Lettuce?

When I first started gardening and began to grow these greens previously unknown to my I-have-only-ever-eaten-iceberg-lettuce husband, he gave me a lot of strange looks, especially when I put the nasturtium flowers into the resulting salad as well. (Conjure up you best Blue Collar Comedy Tour voice and think his thoughts at the time, “I don’t think lettuce was meant to come in those colors. It’s a daggum sin against nature.”)

Just to let you know, he likes it now, but secretly I think he still prefers good ol’ lacking in B-vitamins Iceberg.

The violas are still hanging in there. I think it must be because it is still fairly chilly, as into the 50’s at night. To this day, I cannot look at these flowers without getting the song from “Alice in Wonderland” in my head,

“You can learn a lot of things from the flowers,

Especially in the month of June.

You can learn a lot of things from the flowers,

On a golden afternoon.”

You might have noticed AIW has had an undue influence on my life. I blame it on a boss I had who was the spitting image of the Queen of Hearts, “ALL WAYS ARE MY WAYS!!!” So I watched it with co-workers whenever they’d pop by to prove it to them. (I actually ended up understanding and mostly liking her.)

I could go on and on and by the looks of it, I have. The broccoli is forcing us to eat our cruciferous veggies almost every night. The cauliflower hasn’t produced one damned thing (is that why they call it produce? Hmmm…) and I’m about to rip it out. I have given up on the pumpkin patch and am destined to only grow hot peppers in that particular bed.

Finally, on the up side, the beets that are interplanted with the green beans are close to harvest and the bean plants are covered in flower buds which mean yummy organic green beans almost every night. Be still my green thumb.

By the way, how do you know when potatoes are done?

My Mother Told Me So

Before I begin this post, let’s all give my all-knowing, all-seeing mother a collective acknowledgment that she was the one that said I didn’t have time for growing a vegetable garden with everything else that is going on in my life. Happy, Meem?

Vegetable gardening in the desert is a constant battle between me, the elements (as in sun, heat, and lack of water), and the pesky creatures to whom I am willing to sacrifice a wee bit of produce if only because I am a bleeding heart of a person and I know they need to eat, too. It’s not like I am battling Orcs here, just wee chipmunks and wabbits and birds and lizard-lizards and snakes (collectively they are beginning to sound Orc-like, huh?)

As you can see, the garden is going okay. Lushest (not a word, I know; it’s my blog) of all are the potato plants growing in the center where the obelisk lives. That’s because they came from a rotting bag at the bottom of my pantry and cost me very little in effort or expense. Scattered among them are differing types of lettuce, some faring better than others. Oddly enough, I planted the seeds for these back in January when we had (repeat after me) the harshest frost in over twenty years. All of a sudden, they decided to sprout. Go figure, the wonders of nature.

Next in line for outstanding achievement in a soil or growing medium is the broccoli, very leafed out, all growing florets, though some are tinged with yellow which concerns me. If the flavor doesn’t live up to our expectations, I am sure the chickens/turkeys/ducks/sheep/alpaca/ (and particularly) goats won’t mind trying some.

The cauliflower is a close second. Yet, these things have been growing for some time and therefore have had a head start.

It’s the Cucurbita family with which I have issues. I planted pumpkin, muskmelon, and cucumber seeds which all sprouted and disappeared within a twenty four hour period. This does not make me happy; I am willing to give up some, yet not all of these things. I especially like cantaloupe, plain, salted, over cottage cheese; I like its sweet goodness. Therefore, in a most likely futile attempt to dissuade the marauders, I went to Targét and purchased hot pepper plants, the hottest ones they had, habañeros, serranos, some Carribean red pepper that claims to be twice as hot as a habañero, six hot peppers in total. Between the seed mounds, I planted the hot pepper plants (as a warning to the garden Orcs, I stuck the I-am-a-very-hot-pepper tag in front of each pepper; they can all read, you know), replanted seeds, and will spend the next week watering the garden ten times a day (at the least, it’s supposed to be 90 today heading to 93 by week’s end). We shall see. Honestly, it’s the least of my worries right now. Charlotte, remember?

Curiously enough, (Am I the only one with Alice in Wonderland in my head, i.e. curiouser and curiouser? I am beginning to realize how strange a being I truly am.) the non-sweet squash, as in yellow crookneck and zucchini are thriving. Of course, the zucchini takes top honors for overall health and vigor because, you guessed it, I hate the stuff. Unselfish being that I sometimes can be, I planted it for the members of my family that enjoy the bitter courgette. Ugh.

I could go on about the bush beans and the beets that, like the lettuce decided to sprout months after their seeds were sown or the actually-doing-well herb garden or the fact that perchance I should have just planted violas but I have a sheep’s rear end to go gaze upon once again. I don’t think I’ve looked at my husband’s butt this much and we’ve been married for twenty years (not that it’s not a very cute bum hunny because it is and still makes my insides all tingly).

Here’s to good ewes (and rams)!

Addendum for the day: >(I guess you can claim this one Beth)

No lambs as of yet. I am doing my best to let go, let God (this is what Aunt Bonnie always tells me to do, my mother as well). Beth has today, April 5th with triplet ewes. Since mom's name is Charlotte, she is being literal, literally, as in the Bronte sisters.

Letting go has never been one of my strong suits.

Perchance the Haboob Threw the Stork Off Course

Last afternoon and evening, we had an enormous wind and dust storm, known as a haboob. I suppose this term is Middle Eastern in origin but I think the local weatherman continues to use it so, come commercial breaks, he can giggle and say, “Ha, ha! I said boob on TV.” (My mother and I have concocted a theory that all local newscasters come from an island somewhere full of shallow talkative people with big hair that are helicoptered out as positions become available.) The winds topped 50 mph and once darkness fell, the whistles and groans the heavy gusts created gave me the feeling of, rather than living in an adobe home in the Sonoran Desert, I was huddled in an old stone cottage on the moors of northern England. I felt as if Heathcliff was going to come bursting in anytime lamenting the loss of Catherine and morosely leaning his heavy head against his arm on the mantle of the nonexistent giant stone fireplace. (Yes, I was alone other than a sleeping Pint; yes, I have a vivid imagination; and yes, I am still taking painkillers.)

This morning many things are placed differently than they were before said haboob. The patio furniture upstairs and down is upside down and sideways. Thankfully, we remembered to close the umbrellas and lay them on their sides unlike the last time when, even though the umbrella was closed, it launched missile-style from the roof top deck and committed hari-kari by plunging point first into the ground and breaking into a million pieces. The inflatable pool toys are no more as they were thrown pell-mell into cacti and, once deflated, ended up in tree limbs and stuck in between fence posts. In addition, all the straw that we had carefully raked into lamb-friendly bedding areas is now on the opposite side of the big yard, covering what little we have left of the sod. We lost the shingles from the original ruminant shelter (we have changed to tin roofs in the construction of all further enclosures) and the goat pen is littered with tar paper and other roof-building detritus. As you can tell, I’ve got oodles of clean-up to tackle and no David-the-Husband today, but since I’ve misplaced my helmet and shoulder pads, I will put if off until I have the energy to find them. Interestingly enough, all the VM- (vegetal matter) filled wool I used as garden mulch stayed perfectly in place, furthering my admiration for its stability and usefulness, as well as its warm and fuzzy producers.

Speaking of which, we are still on Charlotte lambing watch. She’s become weary of my looming presence and of me staring at her private parts, which are noticeably swollen. I have been told this means she is effacing and dilating and lambing could occur anytime. As David the Husband is away for business overnight, it will probably happen while he is gone. At least, that’s his fear and mine. As always, I will keep you posted.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stare at Charlotte’s vagina for the millionth time. Here’s a little something sheepy to keep you entertained while we await the blessed event:

Leaving Molokai for Rancho Laurena

David the Husband says I write differently when I am sick. He’s right; I know this, particularly as I have already fessed up to you gentle readers about the effect illness has on my IQ. I apologize for not being my try-to-be witty self and for any entertainment factor that has been lacking in the blog lately. You have to admit, though, Cookie filled in pretty well with that whole unexpectantly-giving-birth blessed event.

Knock on wood, I am getting better. The Molokai contingent is no longer banging on my door, asking me to join their leper colony. (I kept telling them that I did not have leprosy, that it just appeared that I did but they were a persistent and stubborn bunch.) After spending the past few weeks in a state of simultaneously itching and hurting and on the verge of panic attacks, I thankfully can stand to be in my own skin. Also, I am even beginning to have enough energy to get back on the proverbial catching-up-with-the-laundry and picking-up-around-the-house-a-bit treadmill (what fun!) and have managed to do a little vegetable gardening.

The zucchini, yellow crookneck, and delicata squash seeds have all germinated and, fingers crossed, will not be eaten by any creatures unlike my sunflower seed sprouts which completely disappeared. One day I was admiring them and the next day, they were wiped from the surface of the earth. Damn those animals trying to survive in a harsh climate, I wanted some pretty flowers. Incidentally, if those sprout eating bastards had the patience to wait a bit, the grown sunflowers would have given them far more food than a simple sprout. That was one of my reasons for that choice of flower, making it a double loss. Regardless, this morning, I sowed muskmelon (better known as cantaloupe), cucumbers, pattypan squash, and Zulu daisy seeds. I am happy we did not give up on the garden as we were tempted to do after the combined whammy of the worst frost in 26 years and the vegetable sprout predators. The broccoli looks lovely, as does the cauliflower, and the potatoes we planted have begun sending out vines with the promise of starchy home-grown goodness to come. In addition to encouraging us to eat healthier, the garden gives me a sense of contentment and reinforces my crunchy earth mother status. I love it.

Speaking of things I love, Wee Madeline is even cuter on day three of life than she was as a newborn. I continue to check on her a million and one times a day and give her love and kisses and bum washings (and, so she won't feel neglected, Cookie gets lots of affection as well, just no rear end involvement). The Shetland group to which I belong has assured me the poo thing is normal and suggested coating the area once clean with petroleum jelly, which I did and things seem to be, pardon the pun, moving properly.

All these visits to the ruminant pen and the mysterious goings-on in the ewe-ewe lamb bonding enclosure have made Charlotte, who is heavy with lamb(s), suspicious and uncomfortable. Even though I had tabulated her due date as April 6th, Cookie’s unexpected delivery has us all on edge and spending an inordinate amount of time staring at and examining Charlotte. During one such examination, I felt a wee kick, which gave me the warm and fuzzies. I know I have said it before, but I truly love my sheep…

…and the farm and family and garden and just about everything we can fit into these two semi-rural acres.

Please excuse the mush brigade but feeling physically better leads to improved mental health and causes me to appreciate all the wee and not-so-wee things in life. Hey, as I could be whingeing instead, consider yourself lucky! I do.

The Little Seedlings That Could

As some of you might remember, this past January David the Husband and I decided to give gardening a go- again. We had a lovely, lush garden when we first moved here, that is until the temperatures climbed above 100 by 8am, making the Lauren’s-going-to-have-another-breakdown seismograph start throwing the ink around. I don’t like the heat. Yes, I know I live in the desert. It’s just one of life’s little ironies.

Well, if you were keeping up with things in January, you know that just after hauling multiple wheelbarrows of compost, tilling approximately 600 square feet of garden, and heading to the big orange home improvement box store for seedlings, which we duly planted, we here in the Valley of the Sun experienced the worst frost since 1990. Add to that the wee wascally wabbits and busy bothersome birds which destroyed anything left post-frost and we had beautifully tilled beds of nothingness.

Life being what it has been for us lately, I actually didn’t fret our failure. There are more important toddlers to raise if you know what I mean. In the meantime, the winter rains came and left, the soap opera that is “The Days of Our Pretend Farm” continued, and I didn’t cast even one askance glance toward the lost potential of a garden.

That is until last week, when lo and behold, I happened to look over and double take taken, saw broccoli growing, then cauliflower and Brussels sprouts. Can you believe it? These wonders of nature had been completely destroyed above ground level and they went and played “Little Engine That Could” on me. Granted, they don’t look like anything that would grace the pages of “Martha Stewart Living” but they are growing, darn it. I am so proud of them; I feel so crunchy earth mother right now.

My inner gardener reawakened, the Pint and I decided to do something about the beds whose seedlings lacked the work ethic of the others. I just happened to have a bag of sprouting potatoes in the pantry (sometimes my lack of good housekeeping skills comes in handy) so we cut their eyes apart and planted the pieces in two separate beds. Then we went through the stockpile of seed packets and found a few that we thought would work with the current soil temperatures, bush beans, sweet dumpling squash and sunflowers. Although the Pint needs to learn a few gardening lessons, like not stepping on the seed beds after he has been told a million and one times, we had great fun being farmers together and we look forward to keeping up keeping up.

By the way, the biggest thrill of the morning was setting up the sprinkler. If Anthony’s squeals were any indication, I have a feeling we’ll be using it for a little more than plant irrigation this summer. Sometimes it’s the little so-cheap-it-was-practically-free things that make all the difference, mixed well with Gramma and Pint bonding time, of course.