A Girl By Any Other Name…

daphne on July 27, 2009

A rose by any other name is just as sweet. And so it goes for children, right? At least for our wildly natural, rocky coastline of a kid, Acadia, who got to meet her equally wild, equally rocky, equally beautiful namesake last week–

That’s my girl.  Acadia.  Bar Harbor, Maine was the next stop on our crazy never-ending summer road trip extravaganza.  We packed up the kids and spent four days in a cottage near the park.  Despite a chill in the air and some wet mornings, we toured the park, ate lobster, and went kayaking.

We also logged some serious beach combing time.

Some folks like to watch crime dramas.  Some like to knit.  Some try Valium.  For me there is nothing more relaxing than plopping down and combing the beach for sea-glass.  And there is no place better suited for this than Bar Harbor.

Perfect, sure. Beautiful, yes.  But edible? Not so much.  So when it came time for snack we moved on from seaside to hillside, where the Maine blueberries were just coming in.

I was in my element.  Happier than the clams that were being dug up all around us.  But all the wonder and natural beauty of our surroundings was nothing in the face of a couple of content kids harbor side.

Usually I have no problem remaining stoic where shopping is involved.  But I was powerless here.  What’s the point of having a destination child if you don’t cash on some really cool shwag?

The Eye of the Tiger

daphne on July 19, 2009

Just in case you’ve been wondering, the song looping in my head these days is Survivor’s Eye of The Tiger. It’s become a favorite of Kira’s for jump rope warm-ups.  What worked for Rocky also happens to be perfect for an eight year old girl heading to the Junior Olympics.

Practicing your routine is no walk on the beach.  Or maybe it is if you happen to take that walk upside down.

Not even a picture-perfect day on the beach in Amagansett stopped Kira from practicing.  She cartwheeled and hand-standed her way through her routine on the sand, pausing here and there to build castles, dig holes and jump in the enormous waves with her sister.  Now all I’ve got to do is convince those Olympics folks that the beach is a better spot to host the games. (Though I don’t doubt, as the nice lady at the chamber of commerce promised, that Des Moines is indeed delightful this time of year.)

Grandma has become quite the jump rope enthusiast. In addition to providing a lifetime supply of garlic for her granddaughters,

she leased the use of a racquetball court at the gym down the street, where Kira has been diligently jumping for about an hour every day.  For the record, so has coach mom. I don’t want to brag, but I can hang with her for about half an hour without collapsing into a pathetic heap. Maybe not Olympic-material, but it’s something.

The nice people at the gym have been watching Kira come and go for the past month with curious looks on their sweating face, so Kira indulged them with a preview —

I’ve been fielding lots of question about this sport, and though I’m no expert, here’s how I think it will go down at the big competition in less than two weeks: Kira is competing in 6 events; 3 individual and 3 with her partner.  These include Speed–how many single steps she can do in 60 seconds (think Rocky;) Power–how many times in 60 seconds she can turn the rope double for every single jump, and the freestyle routine.

Big plans aside, Kira unwound with some family time on the sailboat.  Just the wind, the waves, and the time to ponder some really deep thoughts.

Grid, Shmid…We Can Do It All On Our Own

daphne on July 14, 2009

Thanks to Grandmother’s garden, we need never go hungry.  I have eaten more than my fill of salad greens and herbs and snap peas, though they have yet to convert me into a beet lover. (Yes, I know all about how delicious they are.  Now run along and enjoy them and leave me out of it.)  Despite reaping the rewards of a garden well-equipped to feed 976 vegetarians for twenty two years, we felt like we needed a little more.  Lucky for us Grandma’s sidekick was up to the task.

That’s a seven and a half pound fluke being hefted by Grandpa Mikey.  And yes, seven and a half pounds of fish is so big that it pushed all but Grandpa Mikey’s forearm from the frame.

There are a million ways to prepare fresh fish, but it really doesn’t get better than fried.  Here’s how we do it.  Even my kids beg for seconds, and they’re barely bigger than that fluke.

Fresh fish offers more than a great meal.  If you’ve got a retired surgeon on hand, you can use the carcass as a lovely stained glass window.

That’s Grandpa Mikey: world-class fillet master, and a talented boat builder to boot.  Last year he built an adorable little sailing dory for his grandchildren.  Dave took Kira and nephews MJ and Evan for a row around the bay sans mast.

This year Grandpa is trying his hand at kayak-building.  I may be biased, but I think he’s pretty darn good at it.

Grandpa also pulled some strings and entered the girls in a marine naturalist camp. They strolled the beaches, collected specimen, and learned all about life in, on and around the water.  If you have been wondering how to tell the difference between male and female fiddler crabs, Kira is your source (hint: she told me that the males have one big claw.)

All questions about hermit crabs or star fish should be directed to marine expert Acadia.

Fun fact of the day:  A baby oyster is called a spat.

My, What Big Spinach You’ve Got Granny

daphne on July 9, 2009

There is a chance, I suppose, that since I’ve deserted it our sweet little garden has runneth over, but I’m not holding my breath.  I’m visiting my mother, and she has shown me how a real garden behaves.  It’s not that my cute little berry patch back in Colorado isn’t special; it is.  But next to this macho New York garden with its prime beach-front location and vines reaching for the stars, mine seems a bit underwhelming.

Look closely.  Can you find my girls? That’s them being consumed by greenery as they munch their way through grandma’s garden.  My what big spinach you’ve got granny…now how about you get it to spit out the children?

It’s not just the size of her prolific garden, or the fact that it’s situated on a piece of real estate that makes broccoli everywhere envious.  Something about those leafy greens put a spell on our children.  It was all we could do to tear the six cousins out of the garden and convince them to jump in the bay.  The beach? Maybe later; hey, who wants more salad?

The snap peas are sweet and crisp, a favorite along with the cucumbers.  But surprisingly, these kids can’t keep their picking fingers off the fennel (they call it licorice, and save it for “salad dessert.”)  They also chomp with glee through the spinach and chard.  Ok, so for those keeping score, it’s North Carolina for earth-friendly, grass-fed protein, and New York for getting kids and their vegetables together in harmony.

Cousin Emily adored the mint leaves.  And I think Evan owes his Spider Man powers to the hundreds of blades of lemon grass he chewed.

My mother remains modest about her remarkable gardening success.  She suggests only that we place lo-jacks on the children to allow us to pull them to safety when it’s time to give them their ice cream.

You do remember ice cream, don’t you kids?

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.