Where did August go?

I don't care and I don't know! But I am sure it will be back with temps in the 90's or so. Man on man, this weather is so mild it has me "waxing poetic" as they say. Seriously, this weather is more like late September. It was an incredibly perfect day today. Mild temps, partly cloudy skies, and whispery breezes all the day long. The MOTH got quite a bit done toward leveling the old homeplace and I worked in the room that will be our library/office space. It is now ready to start priming and painting. I don't know what kind of stuff the previous owner was into hanging on the walls in this particular room, but I pulled out at least 40 nails and there are probably another 40 or so nail holes to be spackled. That's a lot of holes in the wall, even by my standards. Later in the day, our neighbors, Stan and Mary came up to visit us. We love Stan and Mary. They are the epitome of good neighbor's. They have their fingers on the pulse of everyone in our little rural community. They know everyone's schedule and who should be where at any given moment. If things should vary by the least bit, they are on it. Case in point. When the youngest left a few weeks ago to get married, I was driving her car because mine was in the shop. One morning during that time, Isabella (who we were watching while her mom was away gettin' hitched), and I headed to the farm to gather eggs. We did our thing, walked around checked things out and then jumped back in her mother's car. As we pulled out of the drive-way and rounded the curve, we met Stan, sitting military straight in his beloved Kubota,  very concerned, and very stern looking. I couldn't imagine what he was so concerned about, so I pulled over and gave him a big, "Hey Stan, how's it goin?" His countenance immediately relaxed as he explained that he had never seen this particular vehicle in the yard of our little farm before. He said that it looked decidedly suspicious. The trunk was up (my chicken coop shoes were stowed away there) and the car was missing its hubcaps. I guess by country standards, that is a very ghetto look. Anyway, he was glad it was just me there collecting eggs and I was extremely glad I was not a somebody with nefarious reasons to be at our little farm because Stan was on it! And Stan is usually packin' if you get my drift.
So back to my point, Stan and Mary came rambling up the road in their Kubota. They come up at least once on the week-end to check on us and our progress. They can't wait for us to get moved in. Eventually conversation steered toward another family that was building a farm/homestead on  the mountain. The next thing you know, the MOTH and I were perched in the back of the the Kubota and we were headed up English Mountain to see the new homestead. This was the best ride up the mountain we have ever had. It wasn't on paved roads, but up two-laned paths. It was spectacular. English Mountain is about 11 miles long not including all the nooks and crannies that any mountain worth its salt lays claim to. Stan took every little path that a 4x4 could possibly take. He knows something about every path he takes too. Mary rides beside him and she knows just about as much as he does. It reminded me of those golden days when Uncle Carl would pile all of us kids in the back of the pink Jeep that Uncle Kelly had  donated to the family compound in the Ozarks. There was no road or no creek that Uncle Carl would not cross if he thought it would give us kids a thrill. So there was the MOTH and me, grinning ear to ear and bouncing along in the back of Stan and Mary's Kubota and I don't think either of us has been that happy and content in a long while. The only reason Mary cut the ride short was because, A. the Kubota's gas tank was almost empty and B. they weren't packing. I can understand both points because let me tell you, the places we were could definitely have bears and wild boars at every corner.By the time the MOTH and I were deposited back at the farm, we were wondering if maybe a Kubota just might be in our future?

Squatter!

Look who I found squatting in my pot of orange mint tonight! One of the Evil Eyes, previously known as Elvis, Medea, and Selena. Now, they all look so much alike, and are all so stinkin' aggressive, that we just call them by the collective Evil Eyes. At least he will smell minty fresh after sitting in my mint pot. His companions were already on the roof of the run, but I guess this guy hasn't figured out that he can fly up there too.

Bits and Pieces

I like to write and I like to blog, but sometimes I get caught in a trap of What do I blog about today? Is this really blog worthy? Why would anyone want to read this? So, often, I just don't blog at all.  I sometimes forget one of the reasons I blog is to keep a semi-regular record of day to day stuff for myself. The bits and pieces that fill the hours, make me sing just because I am loving what I am doing or maybe rub my back, because while loving the task at hand, there is no denying the exertion required.
Yesterday was a day filled with some of my favorite bits and pieces. See that yarn up there? What an unexpected gift! A few days earlier, I had received a call from a friend in a panic. She was test knitting a pattern for a designer and had gotten herself in a bind and couldn't find her way out and was wondering if I could come by and help her if I happened to be in town. I was happy to help if I could. I knit, but am in no way an expert. We put our heads together over the troublesome project and soon had her on her way again. This friend just happens to be a spinner too. Her house is nirvana for anyone who loves fiber, especially wool fiber. Her coffee table holds a bowl full of wool roving in all colors waiting its turn on one of her wheels. On the hearth is a basket heaped with newly spun yarn equally as colorful. As I walked by and was admiring her efforts, she told me to choose some yarn. Well, I didn't need to be told twice and as I admired this beautiful blue she told me to take both skeins! I couldn't believe she was giving me this. It is the loveliest shade of almost robin's egg blue that just faintly blushes to pink all throughout.  I put it on my swift and wound it into balls and then parked it beside my chair. Sometimes I pick it up and smell it. I love the smell of wool yarn and am waiting patiently for it to tell me what it wants to be when it grows up. A scarf? Fingerless gloves? Hat? Oh the potential!
Yesterday's bits and pieces also included canning. I love my freezer, but I am a visual person and opening up the freezer to all those flesh-toned frosty plastic-wrapped parcels is not nearly as eye appealing as looking at rows of crystal clear glass jars in every color and hue filling my pantry and making me feel oh so domestic. Talk about eye candy.  Besides, I just love to can. I have a friend who also loves to can and a daughter who does too. I'm working on the other daughter. When we can-can girls talk about our endeavors we get all giddy and silly talking per pounds pressure, time, the best canner for the job, how many pints or quarts we got. Yeah, I know. It sounds a little un-canny. Chortle, chortle.
While the canner was whistling and rocking gently, I spent a restful hour garbleing the herbs you see in the not so good picture above. What's garbleing? That's a funny word to describe the process of stripping leaves and blooms from herb plants. Earlier in the day I had gathered some herbs down at the farm and needed to prepare them for drying. I now have several bundles of Sage neatly tied off and hung up to use in the Thanksgiving dressing. Lots of Lemon Balm to use in a tincture that is said to help with migraines. I have plenty for tea also. Lemon Balm tea with a sprinkle of sugar and splash of milk has a faint taste of Pez candy to me. I love it in the winter time. Finished off with Peppermint. Good for the tummy. Plus, I just like to grow it.
At the end of the day I headed to the farm to put the chickens up for the night and gather eggs. I ended up sitting in a rocking chair looking at our young fledgling orchard and the few raised beds and the pumpkin patch I have growing. I really just meant to sit there, but I kept thinking about the small fall garden patch I really want to grow and the next thing you know, I had out the tiller and was fighting Bermuda grass and rocks as I made a few rounds, all the time keeping my eye out for one the three evil-eyed roosters who are free-range since flogging one of my grands. One of them likes to follow behind me and I can just imagine him aiming for my backside. The tiller finally ran out of gas and I decided that I was out too. As I made my home with my small clutch of eggs, I was smiling at what a great bits and pieceful kind of day it had been.

I'm cutting a lot of these and drinking a lot of this.

Summer rages on with days so hot, my solar oven is almost a sun-powered microwave. The heat shimmers and vibrates through the air til just walking to the mailbox feels like a slog through hot molasses. The gardener in me appreciates the fact that the cycle of life is dependent on the heat to get those big juicy red globes from the tomato vines and all the other veggie delights springing up from the soil.And, of course, the flowers, petals almost translucent under the relentless glare of that yellow ball of fire. But the blue-eyed, fair-skinned, use to be red haired me? Not so much. I totally wimp out when the temperature goes past 70 so these days of 100's have me in the house admiring my bouquets and sipping just slightly sweetened iced tea and daydreaming about Autumn.

Now They are Three

The youngest got married recently. We are adjusting to being empty nesters (again) and they are slowly getting their nest all feathered. They both love to nest, so I am sure they are enjoying it. Isabella is loving being a town kid, even though she still loves to come to the farm and check on the chickens. It is such a good feeling to realize that all your daughters have married men who are motivated to care for their families. Actually, it is a blessing.

It's been a group effort....

See these little brown ovals? Yep, they came from one of my birds. Seems I have an over-achiever in my little flock. Everything I've read says to expect your first eggs at around 20 weeks. At fifteen weeks, one of my girls hasn't been reading the literature because last week one of my grandaugters and I were making the rounds; feeding watering, when I happened to glance in the nesting boxes and lo and behold-an egg! I was so excited, I started yelling to anyone who would listen (that beeing the MOTH as he was the only other person around), "I got an egg! I got an egg! Somebody laid an egg!" I swear, you would have thought I had pushed out that little brown treasure myself, I was so proud.All these weeks of taking care of, worrying about, and just plain enjoying my birds had finally paid off.  Granted, it is small, but they will get bigger as the bird matures. I was caught totally off gaurd. But I did some reading and discovered that my red hens, which are Golden Comets generally lay earlier than most chickens. But fifteen weeks old? Wow! I am not sure which hen it is, but she is getting very regular with this egg business. Everyday when I check on my flock, there is that egg waiting for me. I have four more birds waiting in the wings (I know, bad pun) and I am mentally counting up how many eggs I should be getting each week. Probably shouldn't do that. There is a reason someone coined the addage, "Don't put all your eggs in one basket" and the other one, "Don't count your chicks before they hatch". I tell you, we sure owe a lot of our common sense expressions and wise words to live by to chickens and other farm related business.

Old Sol cooked my dinner tonight.

This is my new sun oven. I have wanted one for a while. There is nothing I like better than a new gadget or gizmo. I thought this would be good to have in case of an emergency, not to mention the fact that I don't heat the kitchen up on hot sunny days. You can do everything but fry in it. Around noon today I put together a chicken dish that had tomatoes, red wine, greek olvies and other good thing in my dutch oven. I had set the oven out about 30 minutes earlier. When I went to put the casserole in the interior had reached 350 degrees! Two hours later I had something delicious and piping hot. Next I put in garlic rolls and let them bake. Since I also made a jar of sun tea, with the exception of the pasta that I cooked on the stove, everything was cooked by passive solar energy. Isn't that just the coolest thing?You can even cook a turkey in it! And as long as the sun is shining, you can even cook in it in the winter. In fact, the Sun Oven has been used as base camp on Mt. Everest! I can't wait to try other things out now and with the temps we are supposed to have this week, I should have ample chances.

She's Crowing!

This is Blanca. Well it was Blanca. Turns out she's a he. My neighbor, who is much more informed regarding poultry than I am informed me a few weeks ago that four of my ten birds were male. Never mind that they came out of the pullet brooder, I got me some boys. She/he started with his adolescent crowing a few days ago. It was definitly croaky and uncontrolled. But in just a few short days it has changed. Now my bird puffs out his chest, ruffles his neck feathers and bursts out with operatic finesse that any baritone couldn't help but envy. Guess I will re-name ny beautiful white chicken, Blanco. If my daughter is correct that is the masculine form for the word white in Spanish. Whatever, I just like it.

See what I got today?

It's my birthday gift from a very dear friend. No, it's not my birthday. That was in April. Months ago my friend was visiting us at the farm and spied this old chair in what used to be a blacksmith shop on our property. She asked if she could have it because she had an idea for a birthday gift for me. Of course I said yes. I knew anything she made would be  beautiful and was more than willing to wait as long as it would take.

I worked out in the sun today and being a total wimp when it comes to Summer I got a headache and had come home to cool off and crawl between my icy cold sheets with the fan blowing on me hoping to nap that ache away. The phone rang and it was my friend saying she was on her way with my present. I jumped up and combed my hair and had the iced tea waiting when she arrived. And my oh my! Isn't my gift beautiful? I am going to put a solar tea light in that sweet little lantern. I have a thousand places I want to put it and will probably move around several times before deciding on a home. I love belated birthday gifts.!

Brittainy came over this evening with Hilary and Hudson to pick blackberries. Our little farm is covered in wild blackberries and raspberries. It was hot and within minutes we were all drenched in sweat. Hudson went at it full throttle. He plunged right into the brambles saying, "Ow! Ow! Ow!" picking berries and cramming them in his mouth as fast as he could. Within minutes his face and hands were berry-stained. See the bit of raspberry on his nose? He thought it was a booger and he is trying to get it off. Hilary, on the other hand, was a tad more careful, donning leather gloves and mostly just holding the bag and pointing out the plumpest fruit to us pickers. She really didn't want to get into the fray. She was not nearly as sweaty or sticky as the rest of us at the end of our picking session. I think it is going to be a good season. We have already picked several quarts and just last week tucked into a delicous cobbler. In case anyone else would like to enjoy a fruit studded pastry, I thought I would share my recipe. It is super easy and super good!

Blackberry Cobbler
1/2 c. butter, melted
1 c plus 2T sugar
1 c water
1 1/2c self-rising flour (I like White Lily)
1/2 c butter
1/3 c milk
2 c blackberries

Place melted butter in a 9x9 baking dish. In a saucepan, heat sugar and water until sugar dissolves, set aside. In a separate bowl, cut flour and butter together until coarse c rumbs forms. This is much easier in a food processor. Add milk and stir until dough leaves sides of bowl. Roll out into a rectangle. Spread dough with berries, and roll up jelly-roll style. Cut into 1-1/2 inch slices. Place in pan on top of melted butter. Pour the sugar water over all. Bake at 350 for 45 minutes. Sprinkle with remaining sugar. Return to oven for a few minutes. Serves 4 to 6.

It's Dad's Day and so I thought I would share a favorite memory of my daddy. I don't think anyone loved life as much as he did and he was always trying to make life good for those around him. There was nothing he liked better than a road trip. As a child, I thought our road trips were just a spur of the moment event. Of course, that wasn't true. Daddy always had it planned. He just didn't tell us until it was time to get in the car.

I will never forget our first roadtrip to California. Talk about brave. One man, five females.No video games or personal DVD players then. Mama (who did not love roadtrips as much as Daddy) in the front seat with my youngest sister in the middle. My memory of her is all the way from Missouri to California, she wore a carcoat with the hood tied tight under her chin. In those days, if your car had air conditioning all the vents were in the front and in order to keep the occupants of the backseat cool. it was all vents full blast. She was a scrawny little thing and I guess that coat kept her from turning fifty shades of blue from the freon-laced air. In the backseat was my big sister and her best friend. Daddy was smart and he knew that if you wanted to keep a teenage girl happy, bring another teengirl. I sat between them. Being the days before seatbelts, I sometimes stretched out in the backglass watching the world from a backward point of view. But mostly I sat perched on the edge of my seat right behind Daddy and asked question after question after question. All the way from Missouri to California and back again. And every question I asked, Daddy answered. Mama wasn't too happy with me and when she could take no more, "Why? What? How?" would "slip me a micky" as they say. It was some sort of little green pill that made me conk out. On my sister's lap. Drool and all. Gosh! How did she do it? I guess she preferred the drool to all the chatter.

What memories we made! Every night Daddy would pull into a "tourist court" as he called them that had a swimming pool so that we could play in the water. I suspect he was hoping we would work off some energy after sitting in the car all day. We would have dinner in the attached restaurant, go to bed, eat breakfast in the same restaurant, and pile in the car for another day of seeing America. This had to be an extravagance for a man who made his living as a farmer and I guess Daddy had determined beforehand the way to save money was to provide our daily noon meal himself. Everyday at noon he would find a picnic area or a nice scenic pull-off, get out, pop the trunk and make our lunch. It was Vienna sausage and crackers. Everyday. Those little pink cylinders of who-knows-what made their appearance from Missouri to California and then back. He must of bought cases and cases of the things.  I think it is a testament to the fun we had that I really don't remember anyone fussing too much about the repetitious nature of our noon-time meal. But I don't think anyone in my family is overly fond of Vienna sausage. I admit to having a few cans in my emergency stash of canned goods, but who am I kidding? The only way I am gonna eat those wiggly little things is if I find myself trapped in a bunker and none of those little green pills to lull me to sleep.

RIP Big Girl

Margaret Thatcher, my big meat chicken passed over to chicken heaven yesterday. She was 12 weeks old and as far as a chicken's life is concerned, I think hers was pretty good. When I placed all my little babies in their brooder, this particualr chicken headed straight for the feeder and the other chicks quickly followed suit. Hmm. good leadership qualities, I thought. The name Margaret Thatcher immediately came to mind. As the first few weeks went by I noticed Margaret getting bigger much quicker than the others and began to think "she" was a rooster. I figured if that were true I would just call him Marge. I began training him/her to perch on my shoulder. Oh I had plans for this big bird let me tell you. MT was obsessed with eating and took on a short, round, plump appearance. As she grew, so did her legs. Getting much bigger than any of the others. I mean this gal had some seriously big gams.

After about 6 weeks or so, I figured out MT's true nature. She was a Cornish Roaster. Apparently she was placed in the layers brooder by mistake at the farmstore. Cornish Roasters are bred for meat purposes and reach their peak at around 10 weeks. Being a greenhorn, I was not aware that she was any different from the rest of the little flock I chose back in March.

I did a little research and found out some things I didn't like. MT was destined for a short life no matter what I did. This breed of birds grow so quickly that they sometimes have heart attacks as their hearts can't support the size of the bird. Or their legs break under their weight. I talked to people who knew more about chickens than I do, and most told me the same thing: kill 'er and eat 'er. ARE YOU KIDDING? I didn't sign up for wringin' necks and pluckin' feathers! Eggs and only eggs were my goal. I hold these birds everyday, take them treats, have everyone named.

Still, I was realistic regarding MT. In the last few weeks, her movements had gotten slower, she was gasping for air, and had taken to laying under the feeder to keep the other birds from pecking her. Not so good days for MT. I knew what needed to be done, but no way could I do it. I talked to some fellow chicken keepers who didn't have a problem doing the dirty deed and was getting myself prepared for taking her to one of them. I was dragging my heals on it though.

Memorial Day brought the usual hotdogs and homemade icecream witht he kids and grands. Afterwards, we took the kids down to the farm to see the chickens and the bees. The minute I walked into the coop I said, "Uh oh." For there under the feeder lay MT and she was no longer of this world. Pop, the always resoursful son-in-law asked me for a shovel and then quickly scooped her up and headed outside. Between him and the MOTH, they soon had rigged up a way to transport the big girl on our antique tractor,/ now chicken hearse. Hilary riding side-saddle with Grandaddy, they headed out. With a few wild flowers thrown on for good measure by Hilary, MT was sent on her way. And so my accidental chapter at meat chickens has come to an end.

This bad boy arrived last week and I got take him on a test run yesterday. Canned some bacon that I got on sale.  Oh wow. I know, I am a canning geek, but this thing is a jewel. I have been limping along with a Presto brand canner for several years now. Between replacing various parts and the wild flucutations with the pressure gauge, I was not at all upset when it caused me so much trouble last week, that I retired it. My new All American canner has me swooning and trying to think of all kinds of things to can. Can't wait for the farmers markets and my own plantings to come to fruition so I can put up the harvest.

I Can, Can You?

With a freezer full of chicken and a day all to myself, I decreed it "a canning day". I love to can. Seeing all those jars lined up on the shelf full of homemade goodness brings a smile to my face and a sigh of contentment from deep inside my homesteader wanna-be heart. I especially like to can things that I have grown myself. It's a full circle kind of thing for me. That little seed or plantlet so vulnerable but full of potential that I sink into the ground in April, months later grown into itself and placed by my hands into gleaming glass jars ready to feed us in the dreary winter months ahead. I tell you, there is nothing like it.

I come by my love of canning naturally. Daddy loved to can and once he retired from farming, he reveled in it.  Momma not so much. Although I do remember her doing it. She canned out of guilt. Daddy also loved to garden and all Summer he would come in the house, those burly arms of his cradling his latest harvest and pile it on the kitchen counter. I remember that after he was out of earshot, Momma would grumble about all the work that meant for her as she couldn't let the stuff go to waste. So she'd sling the pots and pans, drag out the canner and get to it. I guess feeling like you have to do something does take the joy away somewhat. Daddy didn't have to can, and neither do I. I guess that is why I love it so. The man didn't know when to quit when it came to tomatoes. For days he would labor over those sweet/savory red fruits filling jar after jar. I can still see the jars lined up like soldiers on the counter. I can still hear Momma grumbling in the background, "That man is gonna kill himself with all that gardening and canning." Momma was always saying that about anything Daddy did that he enjoyed. Never did figure that one out. Those tomatoes were red gold in the cold season when we would use them in soup, spaghetti sauce, or just eat them from the jar. If Summer had a taste, it would be tomato for sure.

I remember my Aunt Mac liked to can too. So much so that her husband, my Uncle Charlie built her the ultimate homage to home-canning. A canning kitchen. I loved it when visiting in the Ozarks we'd go in there. Everything you could possibly need for canning was in there. There were shelves and shelves lined with canned goods and hanging from the rafters was all manner of herbs that she had grown or wild crafted in the mountains. To this day, I dream of my own canning kitchen. It would look very much like Aunt Mac's.

I have Daddy's old canner, but it is way beyond using. Rusted, parts missing, but I can't throw it away.I think I will put a plant in it and put it on the porch. Using old stuff this way is all the rage now, so I'll  be stylin' with my rusty pot. I also have his funnel, lid magnet, and jar lifter. I am sad to say I have to retire the jar lifter. All the plasticky rubber stuff is cracked and I had 2 jars slip from its grip today. So I'll buy a new one and put his back in the drawer. I love to re-purpose things, so maybe I will come up with a use for it. I know it's a stretch, but you never know.

Postscript: Looks like I am getting a new canner too. Mine bit the dust today resulting in all my hard work having to go into the freezer. It's ok though. I have had my eye on the Cadillac of canners for a year now, but couldn't justify getting it since the one I have worked. It started making a really strange sound and steam was coming from EVERYWHERE but the top. I turned off the burner and left the room. Just in case. While it moaned and groaned its way to demise, I headed to Amazon and got my new baby. Maye I'll put a plant in it too. Matching canner pots. Canna Lilies maybe? Heh Heh.

Coop Sweet Coop

Yes, finally my birdies are in their coop. And not a moment too soon both for them and for me. Let me just tell you chickens in your library are NOT a good thing, even if you don't live in the house that said library is in. I think I am a little anal about these birds. I carried them a brooder at a time into their new digs and watched anxiously as they acclimated themselves. They ignored me as they went about the business of setting up house, pooping, jumping on the roost, pooping, trying out the new mega-feeder, pooping, gathering around the water cooler, pooping, and talking about me.

 No doubt in chicken speak they were saying things like. "Get a load of our human! Doesn't she think we can handle this? She actually put Gaye-Gaye on the roost herself, like GG couldn't do it herself! Where do these people come from? Let's hope she doesn't plan on sleeping in here tonight. We're not sharing that new roost with her. Next thing you know, she'll be sitting outside the door just watching us! Geesh!" I am embarrassed to admit that yes, I did sit outside the coop and watch them for a while. But dang it, they are just so funny and entertaining to watch. Even if they were talking about me.

Bliss....

We were driving down to the farm to check on the chickens. I looked in the backseat and this is what I saw. Breeze blowing through her hair, smile on her face, I wondered what she could be thinking. I didn't ask; I didn't want to break the spell.

Do You Dribble?

As in when you eat? I have to be the world's worst. I can just about count on spilling something somewhere on my person after almost every meal. I look like a toddler on steroids after I eat. Stout pudgy body, stretchy clothing obviously chosen for comfort rather than style, and food splattered somewhere on those clothes. Eating out is no exception.

Today, while eating out with friends at a favorite tearoom I was enjoying the wild plum muffins and plum jelly they are famous for. We were all three talking at once and oohing and ahhing over the menu as we tried to decide what to get. I had plum jelly perched on the tip of my knife ready to spread on my muffin, when you guessed it, the jelly left the knife in search of a prominent place on my clothes to display itself. First I checked my cleavage, always a favorite place for food of all kinds to land. Nope. Then I checked that obnoxious ring around my middle. It usually comes in second for food's favorite place to land. Nope. Satisfied it had missed me entirely, I looked up as the waiter came over to take our order. He stood perfectly poised, as he rattled off the day's specials. I asked a few questions, then made my request. Just as he left the table, I found the jelly. A shimmery pink glob of the stuff was perched on my chin. Of course, I laughed at myself as I pointed out my gaffe to my girlfriends. They joined me in sympathy and one of them said if she had seen it there she would have told me in time to wipe it off. After all, what are friends for? Whatever. Just wait til the next time she has lipstick on her teeth.

Test post.