Down at the Ole Watering Hole

daphne on July 3, 2009

Life was busy on the farm in North Carolina.  But after the horses were ridden and the eggs were collected, it was time to relax.  The kids grabbed their poles, hit the pond,

and terrorized the local teeny-tiny trout population.

After all of the baby fish had been caught and released, we left them to recover and joined the cows who had mosied south for fresher pastures in South Carolina.  Everyone was thrilled with the new digs, which were rustic, near the cows,

and close to the old watering hole.

The kids were as happy as cows grazing on organic grass.  While there may be no creature quite as content as frisky old Fernando, I’d wager that these heifers were just about as happy as, well, as happy as children playing for hours down at the watering hole.

The Proffitt farm is the source for grass-fed beef in the Charlotte, NC area.  And for the three days that we were lucky enough to count ourselves as locals, we partied like carnivores.  I’m not typically a meat-eater, but eating grass-fed beef is as much like eating conventional meat as a rain puddle is to the Pacific Ocean.  It’s a totally different experience, for the cows, for the carnivores, and for the earth.  Visit their site to learn more about the benefits of eating locally raised, sustainable grass-fed beef, some of which include lower fat content and higher omega-3.

It tastes a whole lot better too.



The Facts of Life, thanks to the farm

daphne on June 28, 2009

Just minutes after we were officially welcomed with a beautifully carved sign, mountain views and clean restrooms–

we got our REAL welcome to life on the farm–

There it is, the facts of life in your face.  You might be thinking, especially if you recall what happened over winter break, that I bring out the frisky in animals.  Perhaps I do.  Either way, it provided a fitting conclusion to the conversation that I recently had with the girls; THE conversation.  The one about eggs and sperm and making babies that, in retrospect, I might have left a little open-ended.  Thanks to Fernando and Bovina for the visual that effectively fielded any remaining questions.

Kira watched the action, observed the cow’s blase demeanor despite the considerably-sized bull behind her, and wanted to know “does she even know that he’s there?”  Take another look at that picture. Talk about your high expectations.

I can only assume that’s what these crazy kids discussed on their first date. Sure that’s my eight year old being driven around by a boy, but hey, life on the farm follows it’s own timeline.  And when he asked her join him on a jaunt to spread manure in the fields, Kira leaped at the chance.

While the eight year olds pondered life’s deeper questions, back at the barn…

Acadia got friendly with the horses,

and helped feed the chickens. They even convinced the hens to give up a bunch of eggs too. I’m starting to think that I haven’t been fulling utilizing the farming capabilities of these girls.

We frolicked with fish, moved the cows, and mucked the muckity-muck from the horse stalls.  But still, my heart belongs to the true wild child of the farm, Rasta Chicken.  I know looks aren’t everything, but try telling that to this fine looking lady —

Superior hair style not-withstanding, my little Rasta Hen isn’t getting her fair share of the lovin’.  Most of the time she sits alone in a corner, missing out on the hen-house gossip and the attention of the resident rooster.  I’m no farmer, but look at that gleam in her beady eye.

This lady knows her birds and bees. Just give her a chance to prove it.

Moving Right Along, Good Times

daphne on June 23, 2009

Well, we made it to Kansas.

We haven’t seen hide nor hair of Dorothy or the Great and Powerful Oz, but as we eased on down the road we did see something that surprised me.  And filled my heart (this is the heartland you know) with hope. Miles and miles of power generating wind mills.

We also passed a giant turtle and a buffalo mama and her baby on the side of the road, but the images, taken from my window as we zipped by, were merely blurry blobs on the shoulder of life’s great highway.

Next stop, St. Louis, where I got to visit with my college pal Jennie as we waited for our turn to go up to top of the arch.  I don’t know why, but she passed on the chance to join us on the journey in this tiny tin can of a tram.

It was cozy, in a stop the spinning pod I want to throw up kind of way.

For the record, 2 days down and no plugging in of the children into the electronic media.  Our road trip mantra:  so far, so good.  And so we press on.  Next stop: North Carolina to see our friends the Eagans. There are cows to be milked, horses that need a’ridin’, and chickens to be fed. Or something like that.

Hit the road, jack

daphne on June 19, 2009

It’s time. We are ready to hit the road, Jack.

Heck yeah we’re bringing Jack; who’d you think was going to do all the driving and the refueling and the feeding and entertaining of whining kids?  OK, not really.  It would be delightful to have imaginary handy Jack along, but it’ll just be the four of us cruising the country’s roads.   As you’ve probably guessed, I am busy teaching the girls the lyrics to such classics as I Ate a Peanut, and She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain.  It’s going to be just great.

The critics say we are crazy to attempt this trip sans electronics. Concern is so high, in fact, that I have already declined, politely, three separate offers to borrow mini-DVD players.  Last night, Dave came home from work with a loaner.  His co-workers were worried about our caveman-style approach to car time.  I remain committed to old school.  How can we sing about all those bottles falling off the wall if the children have battery-operated alternatives?

I might be wrong, so to be on the safe side I will keep my mind open and the charged DVD player in the trunk.  You know, just in case Disney is the one thing that keeps me from going completely nuts.

Speaking of nuts, there’s the issue of food on the road.  Though I deny my children all the good stuff 360+ days of the year, travel time is treat time.  I’ve been loading up a box with all the means to make the trail-crossing pleasant; we’re got nuts, yes, and trail mix heavy with m+ms and licorice whips and potato chips, and more.  If our wagon loses a wheel, I am confident that we’ll stave off starvation.

And what about the garden?  Sadly, those berries did not ripen despite my repeated requests and explanations about the tight calendar.  In the interest of research, we threw more seeds in the ground, set out a drip line, and are hoping for the best.

Here’s what’s happening now, as I callously leave my fresh fruit and veggies behind in the dirt and ply my children with sugar instead:

After the first round of sprouts keeled over, I tried again for cucumbers.  Here they are, just poking up through the earth–

Dave apparently had a similar thought, so he went right ahead and dug in a baby tomato. Right on top of my squash.  See what happens when spouses don’t communicate?   It will be a fierce battle (but seeing as my squash has all her sisters and she, I don’t think his puny tomato has much of a chance.)  Only time will tell which veggie will prevail (Go squash Go!)

The potatoes trees are out of control.  What?  You didn’t know that potatoes grow on trees?  Perhaps you’ve heard otherwise, but then how do you explain this–

It’s a potato jungle out there.

We won’t be here to see all the changes in the garden over the next six weeks, but we did get to witness one marked change this week.  Ahh, Acadia.  What would a vacation be without a stopover first for some xrays?

Here she is at the beginning of the week, the happy-as-a-clam swimming cowgirl.

And here she is yesterday, noticeably sadder.

Her boldly attempted ceiling-slap-from-high-leap off the bed resulted not in a gold medal, but in a hairline fracture in her foot.  Kids!  Aren’t they a kick in the pants?

Strawberry picking in the pouring rain

daphne on June 13, 2009

The hazy images dancing in my brain of what life on the farm, in particular, life with my family on the farm, looks like, may need a bit of adjusting.  Last year, everything went according to plan.  We set out for the farm to pick strawberries, and after a few glorious hours of basking in the sun and snacking on warm berries, the sunset bled down on my happy golden girls.

This year the scene was a little different.

It was chilly and wet, and there was a threat of a serious thunderstorm that we had to out-pick.  On the plus side, we were the only nutjobs people picking on this stormy 50 degree day.  And that waving wheat sure smelled sweet as the wind blew in before the rain (Oklahoma fans in the house?)

Our little farm hands were game and smiled, at least for a few minutes.  That’s about how long it took for the first drips of cold rain to trickle down their necks and into their shoes.  But we pressed on.  There was no time to stop and taste the berries; we had a box to fill before lightening put an end to all this farming fun.

Maybe I was a little tough on my pickers, what with fingers turning blue and lips chattering, but I had this idea in my head, this sunshiny, farm-freshy ideal to be lived up to.  Besides, I wanted those berries.   So no, that thunder clap was not too close.  And no, that cow is not mooing extra loud because he got hit by lightning.  Less questions, more picking.

Cold day aside, we were lucky for the chance to pick berries, albeit in the snow, up hill, both ways.  Just days after we picked, the farm got drenched with almost 3 inches of rain, decimating the berry patch and forcing other, less hearty CSA members to go strawberry-free.

Meanwhile, we lucky ones dried off, warmed up, and bellied up to a box filled with the delicious fruits of our labor.


Rain clouds, rhubarb and cowboy boots

daphne on June 7, 2009

On the plus side, the unexpected plethora of water falling from the sky has turned our arid yard into a backyard jungle.  It’s just been a bit unfortunate for my little swimmers, who have been turning blue with cold while dodging thunderstorms at practice.  Acadia addressed the issue by pairing her swim suit with cowboy boots. That girl isn’t just trendy, she’s practical as well.

Sure it’s muddy and chilly, but oh how the garden does grow.  Check out this rhubarb plant from the Cretaceous period–

It’s not really prehistoric, but I do think it was sizing up my children for its lunch.

That Brontosaurus rhubarb plant isn’t one of mine.  We admired it in the yard of artist Tiffany Koehn, who gave us a personal tutorial on glass blowing.  She makes gorgeous jewelry and lamps in outrageous colors like these–

She let the kids pick out colored glass to create their own charms,

and even gave them each a chance to take the blow torch for a spin.  No, Mom, I’m kidding. Tiffany kept a firm grasp on the torch while we watched from a safe distance.

Meanwhile, back at our ranch yard, the potatoes have been eagerly soaking up all the rain.

I can’t imagine what’s doing beneath the dirt, but a few more days of precipitation and we’ll be climbing those potato stalks to a castle in the sky.  Not far behind are the strawberries, which are still rock hard and green, but crazy plentiful this year.

I have told them that we’ll be hitting the road soon and I expect ripened berries within the week. Likewise with the raspberries, which are all abuzz with bees but remain curled up in small green nubs.  They also seem determined to ignore my schedule and start ripening just about the time we load up the car.

Come on garden.  I’m not asking for much.  Just a taste of your sweet fruit before we leave town, and a little bit of respect for my schedule.


Yup, it’s me; all cool-like and laid-back

daphne on June 1, 2009

Ok so I’m starting to lose it.  School days are done and summer is upon us and I’ve got three weeks of swim team and jump practice to coordinate before packing up the car and turning our (station) wagon west east not to mention figuring out hotel stops and food and oh yeah, I’m losing it.

Have no fear. I’m working on a new me.  You can tell I’m all new by the mellow look in my eye and the way I saunter to and fro with nary a care in the world.  I’m laid back.  I’m cool.  I don’t need a petty calendar to tell me where I’m supposed to be and who I’m supposed to be picking up when.  If I forget a kid I’m sure she’ll call (note to old self — write cell number inside kids’ shirts.)

With such a blase attitude towards juggling life and kids, you can imagine that the disorder of my garden isn’t ruffling any of my feathers.  Oh no.  I am hip and if the squash wants to wind itself around the tomatoes and the potatoes are fraternizing with the cucumbers, I don’t mind.  Who am I to enforce something as dull as tidy rows of planned vegetables?

Sure I spent hours toiling away beneath a punishing sun, lining up seedlings and painstakingly pulling weeds, but all that’s behind me now.  After all, the roly polies have settled into the neatly groomed spots vacated by the vegetables-to-be and they seem quite happy.  And you know what they say–when a gal’s got happy bugs…well, I imagine they have something to say about that.

Ok. Ok. You got me. I like my garden in rows.  And I like my days planned.  But I’m facing a mutiny in the garden and a couple of weeks before setting out on the open road and so I am embracing a new attitude.  I’m throwing caution to the wind and trying out days without a plan.  (If my hands are shaking and I seem a little hyper-ventalatey that probably just means I need more coffee, right?)

I can do this.  After all, I learned my lesson last summer and I am more than ready to toss out the crazy and embrace the lazy in these my dog days of summer.  So here I go.

I’m putting down the calendar.

I’m breathing in.

I’m breathing out.

Look at me! I’m so totally relaxing.

(Ok, can I have my calendar back now?)

Not so great expectations

daphne on May 25, 2009

So it looks like I planted the spinach a little too late.   And the lettuce.  And the cucumbers were perhaps to fragile as tiny sprouts to withstand my man-handling of them into the garden.  Either way, as far as veggies go so far, looks like I missed the boat.

The boat I was trying to catch runs on an extremely complex tide table.  Here’s the thing– I want a couple of productive harvests this summer.  The first should come in right about  June 10th, and then I’d like another healthy haul near the middle of August.   All I’m asking is that the sprouts take a nice siesta for the six weeks that we will be gallivanting about the country, cruising up and down the coast and then soaking in sunny Des Moines while our Jr. Olympian breaks all sorts of jump-roping records.

Too much to ask?  Maybe for the leafy greens, but the raspberries and rhubarb seem game.  Ditto the strawberries, which are producing fruit in a frenzy.

The potatoes, a first attempt for us, are also good with our game-plan.  The plants are sturdy and beautiful, and from what I hear they are content to hide out underground through the hideous heat of July.

In the vegetable’s favor, I did fall in the tomato patch, and that spill seems to be paying off.  There is a sprinkling of healthy looking sprouts of unknown origin coming up in a haphazard sneeze.  Cucumbers from a spilled seed packet? Squash from un-composted seeds?  Only time (or a more seasoned gardener than I) will tell…

I’ve come around to the fact that we most likely will not get to eat any home-grown greens before we hit the road. I’m really ok with it, especially since all the ingredients for summer desserts (cobblers, pies, crumbles) are returning on their own in spades.

My garden may not bend to any artificially imposed time table, but at least it shares my main philosophy:  Life is Short.  Eat/grow dessert (plants) first.

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And the fun with bugs continues.  Here’s a gratuitous picture:

Girls And Their Roly-Polies

Your Rockin’ Rhubarb Resource

daphne on May 18, 2009

Despite a decidedly rocky start with rhubarb, I have made a remarkable comeback. Even though I was deceived as a child into believing that my beloved frozen strawberries were in fact rhubarb (and therefore off limits,) I have now gotten to a point where things with scary names aren’t intimidating.  Well, except kohlabi.  Anyone in their right mind would be terrified of kohlrabi.   Any-whoo, back to my personal growth.  I am so totally mature.  I not only grow rhubarb, but I harvest and eat the stuff too.  I’ve even been crowned Her Majesty the Rhubarb Poobah (note: position is self-appointed.)

Yes, I am the proud tender of a healthy crop of rhubarb, the successful propagator of little rhubarbarinos, and the baker of some award-winning rhubarb recipe (note: no awards have actually been awarded.)  Acadia and I pulled the first harvest last week–

She is standing in front of the strawberry patch, which has somehow doubled since last year, and behind that you can see the raspberries and the row of rhubarb.  Funny how my spinach is struggling, my cucumbers are wilting, but the pie-friendly plants are chugging right along.  Even my garden knows dessert comes first.

Do you have questions about when and how to harvest rhubarb?  Click here for a refresher on the facts.  You don’t eat the leaves, just the reddish-green stalks seen here–

You can get an idea of their size in comparison to Acadia’s kindergarten-sized hands–

As long as a few leaves remain on the plant, you will continue to get new growth for a couple of months.  This was our second harvest, only a few days after the first.

After I pull the stalks and cut away the leaves, I rinse and dice the rhubarb.  The inside color varies from light pinkish-white to light green.  The more green it is, the more tart it will taste.

I freeze the chopped pieces flat on a tray before storing them in ziplocs in the freezer.  This makes it easy to add to recipes, which I do as is, in it’s frozen state.  Here’s my favorite thing to do with rhubarb. It’s a super easy recipe and it goes beautifully with vanilla ice cream.

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Notes from the roly-poly front:  The girls are starting to scare me with their mandatory round-up of these guys. The forced participation of all roly-polies born in our yard in the fun and games over at the newly opened roly-poly pavilion just seems excessive.

Here they are, not looking nearly as awful as they do in real life, going for a ride in the tuperware to see Kira’s teacher. Kira wants to know why the parents seem indifferent to the babies, crawling willy-nilly all over them without any special regard for the youngsters.  She didn’t like my answer (um, self-preservation in the face of abusive conditions?) and thinks she’ll get further with her teacher.  Apparently second-grade teachers don’t scream or use sarcasm when asked a simple question about the child-rearing habits of a billion creepy bugs.

Roly-poly pavilion now open!

daphne on May 13, 2009

On Saturday morning, while I was busy disengaging the wild raspberries from the strawberry patch and moving weeds to make room for rainbow chard seeds, my daughters had more pressing matters at hand.  The pine needle roof of the fairy home, constructed specifically to allow for shade and breezes, had blown over. At least now we had our answer as to what was keeping the winged nymphs from moving in.

The girls set right to work…but you know contractors.  No sooner had they promised to address the structural issues that had befallen the fairies then another job demanded their attention:  the roly-polies had arrived, and they needed a pavilion. Stat.

Ahhh the roly-poly, characterized by an ability to roll into a ball when disturbed.  Not that I am criticizing.  After all, I’ve got access to happy hour.  Who’s to say that without that half-priced vodka tonic I wouldn’t be curled up in a ball myself?

The girls whiled away the afternoon, attending to the myriad needs of the bugs of our backyard.  Girls will be girls, you know.  And for my girls, even the smallest moth deserves healthcare with respect. Which explains Kira’s rage at her father, who, as she reported to me during my absence, “refused to call an entomologist,” despite her beloved moth’s “near-death state.”

I know. I can hardly believe I’m married to such a cold-hearted snake.  Refused his children the right to see an entomologist?  What kind of monster indeed?

I don’t know.  Maybe it’s my fault for setting the bar too high when I phoned in for back-up from the Humane Society to help out with that baby bird last year.

Or maybe Daddies just don’t understand the special bond between a girl and her moth.