Telling stories.

Wonderful day in the Queendom of Karmalot.
My spectacular friend Shelley and her darling daughter Emma joined me on a simple and sweet adventure north and west of the castle to the tiny (and I do mean tiny) burg of Hill City.
Another friend of mine, Ione, is in the process of renovating an old store and bar there. Ione wasn’t there, but she told me where to find the key and turn on the power. I guess it was last open consistently in the 70s although it looks like it was used at least partially in 1990 – as there are signatures on the wall of the bar with that date.
Ione had said that walking into the building was a bit like stepping back in time. They had just shut everything down and locked it up 30 some years ago. The tiny post office in the corner of the store is a testament to that. Truly,it looks like the post master went home from work one day and never came back. Postage meters sit on the counter.  Mail remains in a sorting station. The boxes, complete with combination locks still in tact, still have the assigned names taped to the back.
I’m still doing some research on Hill City and will post more, along with the pictures I took, at a later date. It sits along a highway that serves and as the main passage way between Boise and the resort community of Sun Valley.Thirteen miles east of here is a small town called Fairfield. There’s a ski hill here too, along with several businesses that support the community along with agriculture.
It appears there were a couple of stores here at one time. None exist now – all boarded up. Ione plans on opening this place up as a convenience stop and bar to serve recreational travelers who are commuting between the resorts and snowmobiling sites during the winter, and bird watching, fishing and explorers of the summer.

She’s looking for area artisans to put some art in for sale, so Shelley and I figured it would be a good opportunity to see if we’d like to hang some of our photography or art here. I’m hoping to sell a few eggs. Maybe I’ll come up with some baked goods or something. We’ll see.
Shelley and I took bunches of pictures of the building and its contents. I shot on film, so it will be a few days before I post, but I’ll share Shelley’s when she sends them to me.
We then made our way down to the Centennial Marsh. It’s a great place to watch birds and in the spring, the camas lilies are in bloom in an incredible shade of purple. More about Centennial Marsh. 
Shelley and I covered all sorts of areas of conversation. I love spending time with her as we have a kindred spirit, I believe. We spread out a picnic near the marsh and while Emma made friends with a caterpillar and looked at the crystal blue sky, Shelley and I talked about  truth.
It’s no secret “the truth will set you free”  -- we’ve all heard it before. In the last few years, both Shelley and I have come to appreciate the truth in who we are and in those with whom we choose to spend time. For me, I have finally realized that I’m not interested in being anything but what I am. I’ve spent far too many years trying to live up to other people’s idea of who I supposed to be. I should be more accurate – I spent a lot of time trying to live up to the expectations I thought other people had for me.

The truth is that many times what is said and what we hear are two different things. We “hear” what we “think” we hear and then choose to not only believe, but to make those things our personal story.
Here’s an example. Growing up, what I “heard” my family telling me was that I fat and un-athletic. Now if you were to ask members of my family, they would tell you they didn’t say that. What I know is that is what I heard – not just from my family, but from television and other forms of media.
My sophomore year of high school we were required to take P.E. and within that class we had to run.  One morning we had to run along the canal bank near the school. I remember loving how I felt while running. The wind in my hair. The strength in my body. The feel of my feet hitting the ground and then lifting up again to take another step. It felt amazing. Then I found myself passing another girl in my class. A thin girl. She was really struggling. In my head, in some distorted voice, I heard myself say, “This can’t be right. She’s thin and I’m fat. I can’t be doing better than her.”
I stopped and walked with her a while, but my body was screaming to run. So I ran and then later signed up for the cross country team. I was intimidated by the cross country team. They were champions and a close knit bunch. Besides, I still had it in my head that I was not an athlete. But I loved to run so much and I wanted to be part of this team.  Within a week or two, I mentioned to my dad that I had practice and he said, “You’re not built like a runner.” Took the wind right out of my sails.
For some reason, I internalized that and quit the team. From then on I told myself, and anyone else, that I wasn’t a runner, much less and athlete. When we played soccer in P.E., I loved it, but did not pursue it. I’m not an athlete. Right?
Fast forward another 29ish years. After telling myself that for so long, I have become the story. While I’ve entered 5Ks and walked them with pride, I have realized that I entered those to prove something to everyone else, more than myself. It was a form of rebellion. “You keep telling me I can’t do this, so watch me.“
The problem is, it’s temporary. Once the races were over, I’d be in search of something else and when I couldn’t find anything I liked, I stopped doing anything physical at all.
Finally, I’ve realized that what I love is running. I have dreams about running – running along trails. Running along the roads. These dreams are reoccurring and for I while I thought it was my subconscious telling me I was running from something. I think now, I was just running in those dreams.
So you know what I’ve been doing? Running. Now, I can’t run much. Really I just shuffle, but I run. And it feels great. Amazing.

I often write about finding silence. Stillness allows you to hear your own voice instead of all those others, well intentioned or not, rattling around in your head.

Today was that kind of day. Silence in the tall grass of the marshland. Silence in the history of an old building and comfort in the company of a good friend.Within the quiet I hear my truth and that’s the only truth I really need to hear. And the truth is, I want to run.

Trail Ride Day 3–Finally!

It’s a week late, but at long last here are my thoughts on the last day of the trail ride.
It’s not like my dad hasn’t been trying to tell me this my entire life! In the summer sun of southern Idaho, you’ll stay cooler if you were light colored clothing and big hat rather than as little clothing as possible and sunscreen.

CJ listening to Richard on the wagon.

Here’s the thing. I’m watching all these cowboys and cowgirls and they, for the most part, have long sleeves on  -- often with a neckerchief – and the requisite cowboy hat. Oh, and long pants.
When I’d show up to hoe beans or paint bee houses or help around the farm, my dad would get after me for wearing cut offs and a tank top with no hat. (This, by the way, is still my preferred apparel until I am forced to switch into a sweatshirt and jeans) I was convinced I would stay cooler and have an awesome tan.
So day three, I figured I give this whole long sleeved thing a try. I’ll be damned. Now, it didn’t get that hot on Day 3 so I wasn’t able to try this experiment in the heat of the day. However, I had a long sleeved shirt on and a big, quite ugly, floppy hat that had been stuffed in my suitcase for several days. By golly, I didn’t feel overheated. Who would’ve thunk it?

Poet Jessica Hedges, dressed like the cowgirl she truly is!

I learned quite a bit by watching the cowboys. Real cowboys take care of their horses first. They might grab a smoke and a cup of coffee, but they feed and water their horses before they do anything else in the morning. Real cowboys make sure everyone in the party is together. They wait to make sure the stragglers are OK. Real cowboys might carry a gun on the ride, but they rarely carry them in public. They don’t pack heat just because they can. Real cowboys have manners, a sense of humor and a spiritual appreciation of the land they ride.
I also over came my gigantic fear of horses. Horses are, in fact, amazing creatures. I now understand why people are so obsessed by them. They have personalities and intellect. Something I’d heard about, but never witnessed the way I did this week.
In a new development, my brother found his copy of the transcripts of my great-grandfather’s wagon train diaries. I’ve only made it through the first few weeks of the journal, but already I’m seeing a few similarities.
First of all, on a good day they average 10 – 15 miles. On a really good day they might go 20. That’s about the extent of what we did. They are traveling between stops where they can rest and water the oxen and  horses. While we were close to home, Richard had to stop frequently to let his horses rest. The trail boss had planned the route so there would be frequent breaks. Getting over-tired doesn’t serve anyone, human or horse, well.

The thing that stands out the most so far is the friends my great-grandfather makes along the way. Sometimes, they’ll work to pass other groups making the trip. Others they avoid. But, more often than not, they make friends and join forces with other travelers. I know I’ve made some wonderful friends along my short trip. As we went into the three – day Lost – n- Lava Cowboy Poetry and Music Gathering, we shared a special bond. The performers on the trip mentioned us as they introduced songs. We shared private jokes with the poets. When we got home the Facebook “friend requests” flew. Pictures were posted and our new friends “tagged”.  In three days, we created a bond – one I don’t think will be easily broken.

My new friend Silky

Will I go on another trail ride? Absolutely. Next time I might even try to ride a horse!

Trail Ride Day 2: May peace be with you

I found myself wanting to disconnect today. I’m not entirely sure why.

Let’s look at the reality. I was in a field approximately 4 miles from home. In my neighborhood, that’s practically next door. We had many of the luxuries of home – it’s not like we were truly roughing it. My phone had plenty of service. There was a porta-potty with a sink in it for Pete's sake. I could have gone home if I needed anything.

But it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere.

Maybe I was too tired as I hadn’t slept well. My sister’s claims that  her bed roll was really thick and comfortable turned out to be a lie. So I slept  on a hard surface and I’m too old for that, it appears.

It was  so entirely peaceful in that field. The creek (ok: canal that sounded like a creek) bubbled in tune with the breeze that blew in from the hay field next door. At  night, the full moon lit the way from the campfire to my tent. Had I not known better, I would have thought I was 100s of miles from home on a range far, far away.

Day 2 meant heading through the desert to a local tourist spot. In the distance, I could see the power line that follows the highway, but I chose to ignore it. While the day before I had three cameras for recording the events, Wednesday morning I just rode in silence. The horses were interesting to watch.The wheels of our reformed Dodge-towing-porta-potty crunched over the lavas with Richard guiding the horses with only the slightest of motions.

I watched the riders on horseback – how they paired up, how they treated the horses, how they went off trail. It became clear which were the experienced horsemen and which were not.

As we rode through the desert I was able to just. “be here” – just as Richard had instructed his horses. Be here. Every so often I felt obligated to connect electronically. Part of my role here is help generate “buzz” for the event and the Lost –n-Lava Cowboy Poetry and Music Gathering that follows. I’m also a Facebook junky and sometimes I need a fix.

For the most part, I’m proud to say, I was able to breathe in the sagebrush and fresh air. As a writer, I kept thinking I should be able to come up with a word more original than peace. I couldn’t. The day was peaceful.

We spent some time at Mammoth Caves, which is just off Highway 75 north of Shoshone. There is simply no way to describe this collection in the museum there – artifacts from nearly every era of recorded history. The cave is deep and fascinating on it’s own.

We took the long way home and came over the butte and steep hills. Again, it felt like we were a million miles from home, yet, in the distance I could see the dairy and knew I was really close to reality. It was hot – as we came through the last field and neared camp something happened that made all the heat and dirt worth while. The trail boss allowed my son to ride his horse.

He’d been asking all day, but a long trail ride is not the best place to start riding. Anything can spook a horse and the lava beds provide no soft place to land.The dirt of the canal bank offer a safer landing.

C.J.s smile could not have been any wider unless he had surgery. He sat up straight in the saddle and listened carefully to instructions from the cowboys riding next to him.

This little boy who usually won’t do much outside of playing video games had to coaxed off the horse.

“This is better than Disney World.”

We spent another night around the campfire with songs and stories from the performers in our group. My girls and husband joined us for dinner and roasted marshmallows in the moonlight. I sat with friends old and new and counted my blessings.

One of the musicians that joined us on the trip. Monlight Ride… is my favorite…

The moon was often covered with clouds as one of the musicians strummed a song called “Moonlight ride”.  The stars were out. The fire crackled and I snuggled with my kids and swayed to the music.

If ever there were peace in my life, this is it.

Trail Ride Day 1: Be Here

At 6:30 in the morning, my nine-year-old son can’t stop talking. I’m guessing that means he’s excited. I've been afraid he’d be bored out of his mind. At this point, I think we’ll be OK.

We check in at the fairgrounds. My chariot awaits. Built on the chassis of a 1974 3/4 ton Dodge pickup, this wagon will provide a “real, smooth ride” – at least that’s what our drive, Richard, “Dick” Barney assures me. He’s got the bench seat covered with what appears to be a Holstein cow hide. At least I’ll feel at home.

This appears to be a loosely organized group. We had been told to arrive at 6:30, but others were told 7 or 7:30.  The “cookies” are here already with a Dutch Oven full of sausage gravy. There’s a bag of biscuits nearby. A good sign, I think.

Somewhere around 8:30 the party leaves. As it turns out, we are the only ones with a wagon.Everyone else is horseback. Looks like there is a good mix of beginning and experienced riders. A retired teacher. Several members of the band in town to provide entertainment for the week. My new friend, Lanita. Another photographer. An EMT. There’s a couple from Montana and one of the cowboy poets brought in for the Lost – n- Lava Cowboy Poetry Gathering to be held this weekend.

We have 10 miles or so to go today. Dick figures we’ll cover 2 – 3 miles an hour. We weave through town with the help of local law enforcement holding back traffic on the state highways that run through town.My ride is amazingly comfortable. I had planned on walking part of the way – but at this point, I see no reason to leave my perch atop the Holstein hide.  CJ starts out up here as well, but like the gentlemen he’s quickly becoming, he moves to a camp chair on the wagon in order for Evelyn, the band’s photographer to ride with us.

The weather is cool. Thank goodness. The lava rock is pretty unforgiving as it is. When it’s hot, it’s miserable. Even a few drops of rain join the wagon ride. Dick calls it a “4-inch rain – 4-inches between the drops.”

Cj is stretched out on his perch. Perfectly happy. Excellent. Not one complaint.Even better. I offer to have someone drop him off at school. “No, thank you!.”

I asked his teacher if he could afford to miss 3 days of school.She said yes. “He’ll learn more on that wagon than he would sitting in my class.”

Just over a mile into the trip, we stop for a quick break. People use the bathroom. Cj learns his fist lesson. Cowboy boots have slick bottoms for a reason. As he tries to hope off the rebar that makes up the step up to the wagon the lug soled boots he’s wearing get caught. He falls. In front of everybody.

“That was a bad idea,” he laughs as hops up and brushes himself off. The crowd releases a collective sigh of relief. No one wants to spend three days with a cry baby. He didn’t fall hard and was fine.

He then learns the next lesson of the trail. Cowboys give ya shit. The more shit they give ya – the more likely it is the actually enjoy your company.

C.J.is asked to help distribute water and pop at the next break. The trail boss comes up to the wagon and looks at C.J.

“Are you Lil’ Mary?” 

C.J. has a confused look on his face. “No. I’m C.J.”

“Well, Lil’ Mary is the person who helps all around the camp and you look like Lil’ Mary to me.”

My heart stopped. My son doesn’t handle getting teased well. I prayed he wouldn’t explode.

“It’s a good thing. C.J.,” I said. “He’s just asking you to help.”

Still unsure, C.J. handed out the drinks dutifully.

Later Dick explains cowboy lore to him. Legend has it there is a person, usually a kid, who helps around the camp, cleans up and is the “gopher” – that person is Little Mary. If they’re calling you Little Mary they’re seeing if you’re a team player – that you aren’t afraid of work. You’re earning they’re respect and trust. It’s a compliment, really. 
C.J. is ready for the work. 

The damp sagebrush releases its fragrance. There are still a few bright yellow wild flowers in bloom. Juxtaposed with the deep burgundy of the lava and the dark blue of the stormy sky, it’s beautiful out here. Breathtakingly simple and quiet.

Just before 1 p.m. we roll into camp. We’re north of the city of Shoshone, just a few miles from my house. The clouds have rolled back to reveal a searing sun. It’s hot. Too hot. And not a bit of shade to be found. We’re on a large ranch. Orginally the plan was to camp in the shade near the ranch house, but an over-population of mosquitoes made that option null. The dry spot will offer little shade, but much relief (we hope) from the angry mobs of insencts.

It is blissfully quiet at camp. Some folks are on a trail ride. Others are napping. Soon the camp will come alive with tall tales and music but for now, we’ll wait out the heat of the sun.

I watch Dick manage his horses. He and his son Eric remove the harnesses and bridles and brush the sweat away. Eric takes them down to the creek for a drink of cool water. I’ve been fascinated in how Dick manages the horses. He talks to them like I imagine he speaks to his grandchildren. Very calm. Quiet. Simple, direct commands and encouragement They’re two Percherons. He says the breed originated in France.

“They’re from France, but sometimes they like to think they’re from Russia, “ Dick says with a smile. As in rush-a.

Silky is a dapple gray lady. She’s the leader. Anxious to go and always at the ready. Joe is a “bay” – a dark, reddish brown male. Dick says they have distinct personalities.

“She’s a happy camper. He’s just campin’”

Throughout the ride he has to coax Joe to keep up.

“Come on Joe, help her out.”

“If you work with her, she’ll help you out.”

He uses a willow stick to gently nudge Joe’s behind. “Joe – she’s doing all the work.”

Silky, on the other hand, remains a step ahead. Literally chopping at the bit.

Dick has to remind her to slow down. Save her energy.

“Silky ,slow down. Be here.”

Be here. He’s reminded his horse to be present.To enjoy the journey.

Perhaps that’s good advice for all of us in this face-paced world. Look at the world around us. Enjoy the view. Be a part of the journey, not just the destination.

Slow down
Be here.

Uncovered wagon.

Richard Barney, my guide for the next 3 days

It turns out my wagon is not covered. It's a modified Dodge pickup.
"It'll be real comfortable," my guide, Richard "Dick" told me. He explained he built this wagon on top of an old 2-wheel drive pickup that was made "back in the 70s and 80s when they were still comfortable to ride in."
Well, I signed up for an adventure.
Turns out after checking out our route, Dick decided the actual covered wagon wasn't stable enough for the trip. This wagon is much safer, he says. His horses are more comfortable on this wagon and then there's the most important reason; this trailer has a hitch and we're in charge of pulling the "hooter" -- also known as the porta-potty.
Fun and function. Perfect.
My son is joining me on the trip. In 4th grade, he's learning Idaho history so I figured this would be a good experience for him. Today we got him outfitted with a new hat and gloves. Dug out some jeans. (My kids wear shorts year round, so jeans are hard to find). I looked at him today and saw the face of a young man instead of my baby boy. He's 9 and just beginning to transition from one stage to another. He looked like my brothers today, which is nice. Sometimes my kids look so much like their dad it's hard to see that I had any involvement in their creation. He's very excited. We loaded up a bag of books. I keep trying to tell him that it's going to long, hot, boring and slow. I'm afraid he'll be bored quickly and whine the rest of  the trip. I told him that if he started, he'd have to finish. We'll see how this goes -- but I think he'll be fine. I don't call him Adventure Man for nothing.
I've packed enough to last a week. It's a bit ridiculous because I'll never be more than 10 miles from home. My husband can bring me anything I need. I'm hoping to be self sufficient though. It would be nice not to have to call home.
I'll be posting here, on Facebook and Twitter as much as possible and then writing more extensively when I get back. Stay tuned -- it's not every day you can Twitter from a wagon train...

B.Y.O.P.–Bring your own pitchfork

Paul and Jake Sluder watch the combine run.

When I told my husband I was going to a threshing party, he laughed.
“We’ve been trying to get away from doing things the hard way for 100 years and now you’re going right back to the old way. And you’re doing it for fun?”
Yes. That is exactly what we’re doing. How could we not?  Life in Karmalot is an adventure – and when was the last time you were invited to a threshing party? 
My friend Laura is a sheep producer and farmer. She raises the sheep for meat and milk and then sell the meat, cheese and yogurt at area farmers markets. She works very hard to ensure her farm is sustainable. She uses Belgian horses (Those are giant work horses – similar to the Clydsdales you might see pulling the Budweiser wagon)  to farm whenever possible.
If you ask her way she’ll tell you it’s to lessen her reliance on fossil fuels and I think that’s true. Above all else, she thinks it’s fun. It’s insanely hard work. Physically exhausting. Hot. Dirty. She’s been working for weeks to gather the equipment to get this done and making sure she had a few people that knew how to run it – and those people are few and far between.
All for five acres of barley. That, is terms of today’s farming scene, isn’t much.
The first part of the process is to cut the barley. A “binder” drawn by 3 horses cuts the stalks of barley and then bundles them. Traditionally, the bundles are stacked in groups of 4 or 5 and left to dry for several days. We didn’t do that today.

Cutting and binding the barley

The next part of the process is to remove the barley kernels from the stalks.

Izzy Sluder holds a few grains of barley

The chickens will love this come winter!

A large kerosene and water powered tractor – 1926 Rumley – powers the belt driven combine. The kernels are removed and spit into a container on the back side of the combine. The stalks are shot out the end of the combine and will later be baled
.

The threshing machine itself. The barley is spit out to a container on the far side. The stalks come out the back where they will later be baled. The entire operation was driven by at 1926 Rumley–a huge tractor that runs on kerosene and water.

For the baler, the horses walk around in a circle while attached to a mechanism that trips the baler. There is an arm that comes down and folds the stalks into the bale. It snaps. Sounds and looks dangerous. I’ve heard some people call these arms “widow makers”  -- and it’s clear to see why.

On the back end of the baler, crews push wire through the wooden blocks that separate the bales. These wires are tied to hold the bale together. It’s no easy task.
This baler old-- probably a good 75 years old. There was a man helping run the baler who used to own the machine. He said the last time he remembers a bale coming through, he was 15. He’s 90 now.
After a morning of the back breaking labor, the crew took a break for lunch. That’s where my job started. More on that in the next post.
I’ve been sitting here for 2 hours trying to figure what to say about what the day meant. I was touched to see all the neighbors that turned out to help and watch. It was rewarding to be part of a farming tradition.
At lunch, we talked about the fact that very few people these days know what hardship truly means. We all have so much compared to what our grandparents and great-grandparents had. Our lives are so much easier. Events like today’s threshing party honor them while at the same time I’m sure my grandparents are sitting in heaven rolling their eyes. Why work so very hard when you don’t have to?
Laura and the rest of the crew worked hard all day. Very hard. By noon, they had somewhere around 10 bushels of barley and 4 bales of straw. Had modern equipment been used, the entire 5 acres could have been harvested in less than 30 minutes.
The old saying that kept going through my mind today was “If you don’t know your history, you’ll be doomed to repeat it.” For my kids and me, today was about counting our blessings and appreciating what our forbearers had to do to raise their families and the food that feed them.
Without that hard work, and the values  they instilled in my and those I hope my children will have, I wouldn’t be where or who I am today. I’m quite happy with who I am – and I am in a very good place.

Apricots chopped and ready for jam

Blueberry syrup cooking on the stove

This week I did something I haven't done before: I put cucumbers and cabbage in a brine in an attempt to make pickles and sauerkraut. I'm feeling pretty cool. We'll see how I feel in 3 weeks or so -- when they're supposed to be done. I'll get to that in a second, but I have to tell you how good my blueberry butter and blueberry syrup turned out. Yum. Yum. Yum. The blueberry butter is simply divine on a fresh, warm bagel. I made waffles over the weekend and the syrup was perfect. Here's a bonus: They are both made from the same batch of berries. I'm entirely proud of myself. All the recipes I'll share with you today are from Ball's Complete Book of Home Preserving. It's published by Canada's Robert Rose publishers, but available from my new favorite publisher (aside from the one that actually publishes me) http://www.fireflybooks.com. (My hotlinks aren't working, sorry)
I discovered Firefly Books quite by accident. Actually, I believe it was more by Divine intervention. They ended up on my doorstep as a gift from a vendor, but it took me a few weeks to figure that out. For a while it looked like they just appeared out of nowhere.  They have a wonderful selection of cooking and food preservation books. My goal through the winter is to read through all of them.

Cucumbers  ready to brine

Back to canning. If you'd like the blueberry recipes, let me know and I'll post it, but it's pretty long. For now, we'll focus on my pickling adventure. I picked up 10 pounds of pickling cucumbers at a local farmers market. It was the end of the day and the woman selling them was ready to make a deal.
I have always wanted to try to do pickles in a long-term brine, but for whatever reason, never managed to get it done. I've been collecting old crocks for years. While many of them are cracked and not really suitable for anything but decoration, I have a few in great condition. I cleaned them well and got them ready for action.
I cut both ends of the pickles. Technically you only have to cut off the blossom end, but I figured I'd take of the stem too -- just to make sure I didn't accidently miss a blossom end -- that could lead to some spoilage. The fresh dill and pickling mix is added then cucumber stacked on top. The salt brine is heated then poured over the pickles and then topped with garlic, more dill and pickle mix. A large dinner plate is turned upside down and weighted to hold the pickles down. The whole crock is then covered with a clean towel and kept in a cool place.
I have an extra house -- an old farmhouse we use as my office and a guest house -- so I'm storing my crocks in the bathtub there.

The first head of cabbage goes in the crock

My faithful assistant squeezes the cabbage to help get the juices flowing

The cabbage in the crock with weights and ready to be covered.

The sauerkraut is a very similar process. I used 5 large heads of cabbage. We shredded one head at a time and then sprinkled 3 tablespoons of pickling salt over each layer. The cabbage will produce it's own liquid and also needs to be covered with a plate, weighted and covered with a towel.
Each day we have to check the brine in both crocks. As the products ferments, it will create a foam which needs to be removed.
I've been trying to get this posted for about 3 days and having computer issues -- as in the slowest connection in the west. Originally I had all sorts of profound things to say, but am so frustrated right now I can't think of any of them..

My own memorial to 9/11

This morning I boiled 3 whole chickens. Chickens that I raised. Chickens butchered nearby. My neighbor is home right now, making fresh noodles for the homemade chicken soup that will use the broth and meat I took to her house earlier today.

In my kitchen I have two lamb roasts marinating in wine. They were raised and butchered in the neighborhood. I’ve been reviewing recipes all day, making plans for the desserts I’ll make in the morning.

Tomorrow morning, bright and early I’ll go to the neighbor’s farm to take part in a long standing agricultural tradition; a threshing party. Back before there were computer aided combines harvesting crops, farmers used horse drawn machines. My neighbor works hard each year to keep this tradition alive – scouring estate sales and farm auctions for horse drawn equipment. She tries very hard to reduce the amount of fossil fuels she uses on her farm and uses horses wherever she can. She’ll be harvesting her barely crop tomorrow with the help of about 15 friends, family and neighbors.

Each year on Sept. 11, I try to find quiet things to do. Activities that keep my family close together and engaged in something that doesn’t require batteries, or electricity or oil. We don’t always get that done, but we make an attempt in honor of the people who are no longer able to spend quiet time with their families – either because they gave their lives or because they’re fighting against terrorism far away.

I’ll post an update and pictures tomorrow, although I’ll be shooting with good old fashioned film so I won’t be able to instantly upload. I hope of this day of remembrance, you’ll able to share time with someone you love in an activity that brings you joy.  I know I will.

I have not fallen off the planet.
Schedules and a critical lack of sleep have caused me to fall behind.
Now, my computer is making me a little wacky! I have 5 posts in the works.
Stay tuned!

Quick update

I have some great pictures from my canning party, which took place earlier this week. Haven't had a moment to sit down and get everything ready for you, but will effort to get that done over the weekend.
I'm waiting to receive my "Mother - of - the - Year" award for sending my 3 children up an apricot tree using a Sizzor lift and a rickety, 100-year-old ladder. The apricot jam was well worth the risk.
We also FINALLY finished the case of blueberries with some incredible blueberry butter. MMMMM good.
I still have zucchini to finish and found a scrumptious sounding ginger, citrus zucchini marmalade recipe. Yum!
We're started to get tomatoes out of the garden. This has been the most productive garden I've ever raised. We had to get it in late because we had such a cold spring here in Southern Idaho. I woke up yesterday to a serious chill in the air and am now panicked it will freeze before I get harvest the rest of the garden. I will be horribly disappointed and plan a full revenge.
My sister and my neighbor have spent the last week scraping and painting my "guest house/studio/canning kitchen". It's a beautiful old farm house about 2 city blocks length from the main house. It's over 100 years old and we've never rented it out in hopes of preserving it. Several years ago, we re-did the bulk of the inside, but the outside was showing its age and we had quite a bit of water damage in the eves.
We're painting (and when I say "we" I really mean people other than me)it a bright white with barn red trim. It's looking great and almost done. I'll then start the process of redecorating the inside, turning the sitting room into a sewing studio. I'm very excited. I'll post before and after pictures.
I'm still feeling well on my new hormone routine. I have more energy, I sleep more efficiently and I feel less, well, weird on a regular basis. Here's hoping...
I'm headed out of town for the weekend, but will post several recipes etc when I get back. Sneaking off to my cabin for a few days with my kids, my niece and a dear friend. It sounds like I'll have some other friends and family join me there as well. The makings of a perfect weekend!