Wagon's Ho!

Sometimes, things just happen for a reason.
No, really.
I have come to believe when you're on the right path, doors just fly open. Most of the time, when I've felt like this, I've just turned around and just walked, no, run away. This time, I'm determined to walk -- maybe even barge -- right through every door.
There is a group of people in town working on getting a Cowboy Poetry Gathering rolling. They kicked off the event last year and had a good turn out. This is the 2nd year and, once again, they're bringing in top names in the business to our town of, what 1500 people? I like Cowboy Poetry, and think it's a good thing for the community, but never got involved with the event.

The other day, my brother-in-law came over about 9:30 at night a dropped a pile of paperwork about the event on my lap. He doesn't do stuff like that very often so I figured I'd pay attention. Turns out, a wagon train is happening to kick off this year's gathering.
"You can help these people," my husband's brother insisted. "They're doing a good thing, but they need your help to get the word out."
I no longer write for the local paper and I wasn't sure what I could do to help this group. But, what the hell? I figured I could check it out.
The next day, I gathered more information. The trail ride would leave the center of town and head north to a ranch about 3 miles from my house. There would be a campfire there, where everyone will eat and circle the wagons for storytelling and supper. The next day--a trip to a local tourist attraction. Then back to town where a square dance will welcome the Cowboy Poets and their fans.
Well, all I could say was, "You had me wagon train."
Then, I started to paniic. What I know about horses would only get me in trouble. I don't own a wagon. How am I going to charge my phone, camera and iPod on the trail?
I figured if it was meant to be, it would work out. Maybe I could "hitch a ride" -- see I'm already using trail humor.
Oh, and there's this pesky little fear of horses I need to handle before the wagons pull out in a month.
The next day, I was chatting with my next door neighbor at the coffee shop where she works. I told her I wanted to go on the ride, but wasn't sure how to make it happen.
"You should talk to my step-dad. He has a wagon and he loves that stuff."
Within seconds of her giving me his number, guess who pulled in the driveway?
I presented my plan to her step-dad, Dick.
He was interested, but had a few questions for the trail boss. Would the fees cover the cost of feeding the horses? Will we be traveling on dirt or pavement? Apparently traveling in a covered wagon with wooden wheels isn't fun when traveling on pavement.
"But don't worry, I have a rubber-wheeled wagon we can pull," he said. "I'll throw a couple of straw bales on the back to sit on and it will be real comfortable."
Three days of riding on a straw bale does not sound comfortable, but what the hell? I'm game. If my great-grandparents could come west on the Oregon Trail, then I could handle 3-days on a straw bale. Maybe.

I tracked down the trail boss. Yes, the cost of feed was included. We would be on dirt trails.
Dick was in. I now had a ride. In a freakin' covered wagon! How cool is that?!
I told the trail boss I'd like to chronicle my ride. Update from the trail. I'd help promote it as much as possible.
I figure I'll post it here and on my Facebook and Twitter accounts. I'll also probably post it at Southern Idaho Living's website.
Tonight I stopped in at the local antique store. (this is where all the cool people hang out around here). While I was there, the trail boss, Lundy, (perfect name for a trail boss) came in.
He was just as interesting as my brother-in-law had described the night he came by to tell me about the wagon ride. Lundy is a kind and generous soul. He values history and hard work. He's a cowboy singer, an artist, teacher and builder. In an hour of discussion I learned the basics of his life story, laughed until my cheeks hurt and he sang two songs.
Perfect.
And here's the most important thing: he's bringing a nifty little gadget on the trail ride -- one that will charge the batteries on all my electronic story telling necessities. Bonus!
So, off I go on this grand adventure and I'll hardly be 10 miles from my home!
Looks like it's meant to be...

The Queen enjoys a good peach

One of the great things about life in the Magic Valley of Southern Idaho is that pretty much everything grows here. I hear about people going on one of the "100 Mile Diets" and have to laugh. Within 100 miles of my house, the only thing I couldn't eat would be citrus and coffee I think.
Along the Snake River, there are 100s of gorgeous orchards. My favorite is Kelley Orchards. I went to school with Jason Kelley and he's since passed away so I shop there for sentimental reasons.
Yesterday I stopped by the Kelley Orchard fruit stand and picked up a box of peaches.
I grew up canning with my step-mother. We made several trips to River Road in Buhl, Idaho each summer where Kelley and the other orchards sold their fruit. We spent summer days peeling peaches and getting them in jars so we could enjoy the summer freshness all year long.
Peaches are easy to can and the rewards are great. Yes, it's a lot of hard work. Yes, you could buy something at the store. I prefer the taste of home-canned produce. It's fresher and it tastes sweeter after all the hard work you've put in!
I'm sort of a canning junkie. I'm a "Master Food Preserver" through the University of Idaho Extension Service. In typical Karma fashion, I probably read more about it than do it. I really enjoy canning and when I do it, I find it very rewarding and peaceful.
I have the luxury of an extra kitchen in an old farm house about a city block in distance from my house. To get started, I fill a water bath canner with water and place 7 clean, empty jars in it. (I use quarts for peaches) This allows you to boil the jars to sterilize them a bit and keeps them hot, which is important.
I have another pot for the hot sugar syrup and one with boiling water for scalding the peaches.
I set up my canning area so I have everything I need within arms reach.

For this process, I follow the recipe in the Ball Blue Book. (It's important to follow updated recipes). I do make one slight change. The recipe calls for slicing the peaches, treating them with an anti-oxidation agent and then draining the peaches.
I don't do that. I slice the peaches directly into the jar and put the anti-oxidation agent in the syrup. I don't drain the peaches. I like the juice.
But more on that in a minute.

To get started, you need to soak the peaches in boiling hot water for about 30 seconds and then plunge them into cold water. That will loosen the skin to the point you can just pull it off with your fingers.(I just give it just a little twist and the skin with come off.) Once the skin is off you can then cut your peaches. My kids love to help with this.

If you're going to cut them all and store them in a bowl until you have enough for your jars, you should treat them with something to prevent them from darkening. I think the easiest is "Fruit Fresh" available at grocery stores. You can crush vitamin C pills (I think that's too much work) or you can use lemon juice. Your canning books should have a recommendation for you.

I slice my peaches directly into the jars. I have a hot sugar syrup (water, sugar) ready and I put the anti-darkening agent in the syrup following the directions on the bottle of Fruit Fresh. I pour the hot syrup over the peaches, again according to the Ball recipe. You have leave a certain amount of head space at the top of the jar in order to get a good seal. Once filled, there are 2-piece canning lids. (Again, follow instructions on the box of lids) It's also important to remove the air bubbles from the jar. Do this with a smooth plastic spatula or something similiar. Do not use metal, it could chip the glass.

I use an old spatula, but they make special bubble-getter thing for canning. I've lost 3 or 4 of them, so I stopped buying them.
Adjust the lids. One of the mistakes people make is over tightening the lids. You tighten to the point of friction and then just a bit more. I set the jars in the canning rack until I have my canner filled.

Once I have my canner loaded, I lower the filled jars into the water. There should be an inch of water over the top of the jars. I wait for the canner to come to a full boil and then I start my timer.

Water boils at different temperatures at higher altitudes. It's important to remember all recipes are written for sea level. So if you don't live at sea level, you have to adjust your canning time. The recipe calls for a 25 minute process for my quarts of peaches and at my altitude I need to add 10 minutes. I realize I'm starting to sound like a broken record here, but again, there are instructions for adjusting processing times in reputable canning books. Follow them.


After the process time ends, turn the heat off and leave the jars alone. Let them sit for a good 5 minutes. (I let them sit a bit longer) After the rest time has elapsed, take the jars carefully out of the canner and set them carefully on a towel. (Don't forget to use your jar grabber -- tongs specially designed for lifting jars) Make sure there no air conditioners or fans blowing directly on the jars. They need to cool down naturally. As they cool, they'll seal. You might even hear a cute little "pop". The lid will suck in toward the fruit and you won't be able to push it down.

If you have a jar that doesn't seal you can re-process immediately or put it in the fridge and enjoy the peaches for dinner.

It's a slow process. My six jars took the better part of 2.5 hours to finish, plus more time for cooling. When I open these peaches in January, those hours won't seem too bad.

Adventures in Karmalot

My Queen name is Queen GivemeBeer. I live in a castle complete with an enchanted forest. I like it people bring me lollipops and I make my own marshmallows.
I'm always late, only moderately organized and am consistently inconsistent.
Join me here as I chronicle my adventures in -- well, just being me. Sometimes, that will mean I share a silly story. Other days I might share a recipe or notes from a road trip. Maybe I'll even turn introspective or write something thought provoking.
If Camelot is that mythical perfect place, then Karmalot is a real place filled with happy and sad, triumph and failure and silliness and stupidity.
Feel free to move into my Queendom for a few minutes each week or so. I have a lovely pub, the Dork and Otter. We serve only my favorite beverages here: beer, Arnold Palmers, beer, Cosmopolitans and Mojitos. Don't like what I have to offer? Bring your own, but you must share as it pleases the Queen.
Silly and preferably large hats are required. I like people that I can burp and fart in front of so feel free to do the same, but for god's sake don't get carried away.
Occasionally, I forget to go to sleep.
I've chosen, after many years of doing the opposite, to accept myself as I am. I am Divine by Design and I think you are too. Let's hang out in Karmalot's Courtyard of Contentment and share a dream or two.

Divine by Design

My chickens amuse me.
I have about 30 young 'uns. About half my flock was killed by a dumb dog last winter so I need replacements. They're about a month old and for the first time this week, I started letting them out their coop.
I couldn't quite get the picture I wanted, so you'll have to use your imagination. I left the coop door open and then stood by the gate to see what they would do. At first, a handful of them stood at the door and looked. I would swear I heard their thoughts.
"What is THAT?" "You check it out." "I'm not doin' it. You do it."
There is one young rooster you seemed to take charge of things. He perched on the threshold of the coop. Turned his neck right, then left, the right again. He touched a toe to the dirt and quickly brought his foot back to the familiarity of straw. Then he put one foot down the dirt. The second. He looked around. He checked it out. Then he went back inside the coop. He stepped out again and then he crowed. A weak, scratchy going-through-puberty kind of crow.
It took a while, but eventually the other young chicks stepped out into the dirt. They scratched at the fresh dirt. They explored.

It was like turning a bunch of middle schoolers at a museum. It's not really cool to have fun at a museum at first, but eventually one of the kids will decide it's actually not that bad and then, by the end of the field trip the kids are disappointed to leave.
Nature is a funny thing. It's easy for us humans to forget we're all part of the same animal kingdom. These chickens and us -- we're really not that far apart in the big picture. Be it biology or God's plan, we're each created with a specific plan or job. It's also easy to try to redirect that plan, but sometimes, we're created to be who we are. We can try to change, but nature or God--however you choose to define it --has a plan.
I've been watching our little "wild" chick Uno and her mother. Just like I've always seen in books and on television, at the first sign of danger the little chick snuggles underneath her mother.
She's puffed out to twice her size. Most of my chickens are narrow through the breasts and hind quarters. Mama hen is a round ball right now.
Most women get a little rounder when they give birth and far too many of us panic. Will we ever get that girlish figure back? Then most of us sell our soul to the diet industry to get that figure back. When it doesn't happen, we beat ourselves up for being failures.
I know I have.

But what if those curves are there on purpose. What if Mother Nature or God designed us like that? What if we need those extra pounds for some reason? What if we just stopped worrying about it and allowed ourselves to enjoy the divine design?
I've been working on this lately and I have to say it's entirely freeing. I take care of myself better (it's easier when your hands are not busy with self flagellation )I see the joy in things like a young chick instead of panicking that I haven't worked out enough or eaten the right amount of vegetables.
I don't know if I've lost weight. I don't actually care. I enjoy my life. I feel better. I appreciate all that I am and all the blessings that have been lavished upon me. I'm thankful for every stretch mark and roll because it's allowed me to see the world through different eyes. I can't sit in judgement, like I used to. I have to find compassion for myself and other in ways I did not do before. I'm entirely lucky to be where I am right now and am passionate about living each day to the fullest.
At the risk of sounding like an episode of Oprah, I really feel like it's time for our society to be nicer to each other and most importantly, be kinder to ourselves. We are all beautiful and unique because that's how we were created. To believe otherwise to hold idols above ourselves and that, we all know, is a waste of time.
So now, instead of chasing a perfection that can never be mine, I'll spend time watching my chickens and it's time well spent.

Introducing Uno

Sometimes, I get a wild hair.
In this case, I had a wild...chicken.
I keep about 30 chickens or better each year. I like the fresh eggs and the chickens keep me amused from time to time. You don't need roosters to get eggs. You just need roosters if you want the eggs fertilized. This is a lot like life. Sometimes you just need the men in your life to reproduce, other than that, (although I love my husband) they can kind of be a pain in the ass.
But I digress.
Anywhoo, I have a couple of roosters. If you're looking for a blog writer than can tell you the make and model of every piece of livestock on this farm, you'll have to look else where. I pick my chickens out of a catalog. I choose the ones that look cool and I order them. I get them as day-old chicks and raise them.
I have a black rooster with a funky hair do. He's balding. He tries to make you think he's the boss so when he gets too cocky (ha! chicken humor) I throw water on him or drop kick him. We have a beautiful relationship. I have another rooster. He's beautiful and red. He's very proud but clearly understands that I rule this roost. I have a "zero tolerance" policy for aggressive roosters. Show aggression and you're taco meat. The last rooster that charged one of my kids got his head slammed against the barn wall, tossed in a bucket and hauled up to the dairy barn where my friend "Chewy" took him home for dinner.
Don't f**k with my kids.
Anyway, I had a hen gettin' broody. This is where we get the term "nesting". A broody hen sits in the nest. She puffs up her feathers a little bit and won't leave the nest without prodding. Her biological clock is ticking. So just for kicks and grins, I left 4 eggs in the nest. I marked them with an "X" and didn't collect them when we collected the other eggs every day.
Eggs have a 21 day cycle, so I ignored them for 3 weeks and the hen kept setting. I figured nothing would happen. I have no idea if the roosters have been "gettin' busy".
About 19 days in, there were only 3 eggs in the nest. My daughter and I went through every egg we'd collected that week. No "X". This meant, potentially, that my husband would crack an egg into a frying pan one morning and get -- well, nothing you want to serve with bacon as worse case scenario and hopefully only a 3 week old egg. My daughter and I decided that we'd say nothing and pray one of us opened the potentially fertilized egg. My husband getting a bad egg would be a very bad thing.
Two days later I went down the barn to do the chores. The hen wasn't on the nest and there were no eggs. The hen was on the floor of the coop.
I'm not always very bright and I spent a few minutes looking at this chicken trying to figure out how in the hell she had moved eggs. So I picked up this hen to see if she had those eggs underneath her.
I'll be damned, there was a chick. A cute, yellow chick. Go figure.
Truth be told, I wasn't sure what to do then. Chickens have been having babies for millions of years so I figured the hen could handle this, but should I help her out? I tried to channel my aunts and grandmothers -- those long departed ancestors who raised hundreds of chickens. Based on what I decided was my grandmother's advice, I sectioned off a corner of the coop so the hen and the chick could have their own space away from the other chickens and the roosters in particular. (roosters aren't always the best father figures)
I put some food and water down for them. Mama was very hungry. Then I finally figured out where those other eggs had gone. At least I think this is where they went. That hen didn't leave the nest for the last week. She got hungry. I'm guessing she ate the eggs. I have no idea if that's correct, but animals do what they need to do. I can't explain the missing eggs any other way as there was no sign of a predator getting in the coop.
I know -- EEEEW --- right?!
Anyway, I named the baby Uno and it's the cutest little thing.

Uno has managed to hold her own.(ok it might be a he, but sexing chickens is too hard to bother with)I worried the other chickens would hurt her, but she figured out right away how to get food -- she sneaks between their feet and eat underneath them.
I have to say it was probably one of the cooler things I've seen in the chicken coop. I don't think I'll get in the business of breeding chickens, but it's kind of cool to have a wild chicken around the place.