Well, Hello!

It's been nearly a year since I've posted here and I just couldn't let the year mark pass without stopping in for a chat.

A lot has changed since last we met.

While we still have our dilapidated little farmstead in northern Arizona, it's no longer our primary residence. We returned to Gilbert, in the Phoenix Metro area, where I'm working at my old PR & marketing agency. I won't bore you with the why's and wherefore's -- we're here, we still have the old farm, we're all doing great. You're caught up.

We have lots of good things in our life here in the Valley (Valley of the Sun, for those who aren't Arizona natives), and we're glad we're here. This is a good move for us. What makes it OK for my heart and soul is knowing we've kept our little farmstead up north and are going to continue to love and nurture it so it will become a verdant little sanctuary for us and our future grandkids to enjoy far into the future.

What we don't have in Gilbert? Chickens, ducks, a garden, farm dogs, stubborn goats, grapes, honeybees, pigs, asparagus patches, fruit trees, lilac bushes or a clothesline.

We don't have our old horse Buddy in the neighbor's pasture.

We don't have fresh eggs.

What we do have: our old dog Sadie and two of our farm cats, Peter and his mother, Ophelia.

Awwwwww. This is Sadie in her younger years. 

She's 10 now and is showing signs of age. She's the reason there is a U Haul moving blanket path from Tanner's room to the back door, since she slips on the wood floors. We're going to be getting her booties that are used to protect dog paws from hot Arizona sidewalks, to see if that helps her get a grip. Then, she'll be able to move freely about the cabin, and I'll be able to see our beautiful floors again.

What we do have that helps me connect to our old life? My aprons!

I still love my aprons. This is one my Aunt Carol gifted me for my birthday one year on the farm. I wore these for countless canning marathons, wheat grinding and bread baking sessions, and general gardening and cooking. Donning them here in the Valley makes me feel connected to home.

The other link to our old life that brings me joy?  Farmers markets!

I just went this morning to the year-round (yeehaw!) Gilbert Farmers Market. It's a fantastic market, with produce, baked goods, scads of locally made food products, and an arts & craft market across the way. The whole shebang is under a water tower downtown. I love this market.

Food trucks line up at the market. I love the niches these truck vendors decide they're going to commandeer. Whether it's waffles, wings, or gourmet soups, there's always a great selection of offerings.

These little guys were at the market this morning sporting their Home Depot aprons.

They had all kinds of ideas about what their dad should pick up. He took their advice and went away with a nice haul.

Wrapped in those plastic bags are my 2nd favorite thing about this time of year -- fresh roasted green chiles! I may have been born on the shore of Lake Erie, but I've lived in Arizona since the summer I turned nine and green chile is now part of my DNA. Seriously. I think if someone looked closely, they'd find a chili molecule on my DNA strand.  

Tell me, who doesn't salivate when this is going on in their cast iron skillet?

These are the chiles I brought home from the market this morning, along with the fresh roasted garlic I bought from the same farmer.  And the already sauteed market onions. I wish I could share the aromas.

This is the farmer who was selling the chilis and garlic. (Don't mind me; I'm just going to keep toggling between chile and chili until I decide which spelling I prefer.)

I don't know his name, but I was glad to take some of his produce off his hands. 

Here is my little haul from this morning:

My pan and oil were already heating up on the stove so I needed to hurry and catch a photo then get right down to chopping veggies, which is my excuse for this poorly composed and blurry photo. Sorry about that. I'm a little out of practice.

This turned into a quick batch of green chile for huevos rancheros, and I also made fresh salsa. (My trusty blender died on me a few months ago, so I had to blend up these veggies with my stick blender. It was a little clumsy, but it worked.)

Remember how I said chiles are my 2nd favorite thing about this time of year? Well, here's my very favorite thing -- homegrown tomatoes!

I love just picked tomatoes. They are so flavorful and nothing like what you get in a store. We're heading up to the farm next weekend to water our trees and bushes and I'm hoping to score a couple bags of tomatoes that I can bring home and can. I can't express how much I miss our canned crushed tomatoes. While store canned tomatoes are good, again, they don't begin to measure up to home canned. 

As soon as I finish this post, I'm slicing up the squash, onions and garlic to sauté for dinner.  The tiny melons in the upper left corner will be chilled before we each get a few bites from them. We haven't tried them before but they smell wonderful, so I expect they'll be good.

I don't do it often, but I took photos as I made my green chile so I may post the recipe later. I'm not going to do it now, because I don't want my first post after our long hiatus to go on for six miles. Nope, I'll end it here. 

It's good to be back. I've missed hanging around these parts. I'd like to promise that we'll finally update my 64-year-old masthead up at the top of this blog, but I don't want to make promises I can't keep. For now, it'll have to sit still.

Hope all is well with you, and that we'll see each other back here again soon.

Love from the city,

Teri

Loosening Up

A surprise awaited me when I stepped into the chicken coop a couple days ago.

Laying there atop the straw in the middle of the coop was a big white duck egg. We haven't seen a duck egg around these parts in a very long time. I don't know the last time Doris laid an egg; she's been freeloading on feed, water and shelter for some time now. That's OK. We still love her.

Because a few of our hens are laying some nice fat eggs these days, you may not see as big a difference as you typically would between the size of our duck vs. chicken eggs. But that dirty lighter egg right there in the middle is the sign that either Doris is back to laying, or one of our newcomers is finally loosening up a little. (Side Note: I gathered the eggs a little early in the day; we're getting 6 to 7 eggs per day from our 9 hens right now, which is allowing us to share with family and neighbors. I love the abundant laying season.)

Kristi, who we got the ducks from when she had to move to another town, said her little duck gang was laying regularly and she got eggs from them every day. Unless they've been burying eggs beneath the straw somewhere the last several weeks, they've been holding out on us. 

Today, though, I found two duck eggs, which tells me it isn't just Doris who's in on the action. 

I wonder if the girls are simply getting settled in and used to being around chickens, or if it's just because the weather is warming up and all farm animal systems seem to kick into gear at this time of year? Either way, I'm happy to see the new eggs showing up.

While I'm not as fond of duck eggs for fried eggs because the yolks are a bit sticky, I will include them in omelets with chicken eggs and they're fabulous for baking, somehow making everything you bake a little more special. A new bakery is opening in our town and I'm going to approach the owner to see if he's interested in buying duck eggs, since I know they are eagerly sought by pastry chefs and bakers.

One thing I can tell you for absolute certain -- I do not believe for one second that the eggs are coming from Mallory. I don't. No one's going to trick me on that front again. 

Love from the farm,

Teri

A Pot of Yum

Before I started trippin' the other day, I had planned to tell you all about the veggie concoction I had simmering on the stove top while I was wreaking havoc in the chicken pen, and how it was a delightfully fresh taste of the garden amidst the heavy foods of winter.

I was going to tell you about how, yes, I was silly and bought "summer" squash in January, along with eggplant, but I balanced it with the robustly flavorful tomatoes I canned from our very own vines, and zucchini I decided to freeze from the garden this year. Let's face it, "fresh" tomatoes make up for just about anything, so this ended up being super flavorful.

Now, before you look at the ingredients and think, "I could never get my family to eat this -- too many weirdly colored vegetables," I have to tell you, I know of only one kid of the 40 or so people I've made this dish for who hasn't loved it. Somehow, all the flavors magically come together for yum in this recipe.

Usually, I bake this dish, but I needed to throw together a quick meal for Mike before he headed out one night to work, so I made this on the stove top and it was still fantastic.

Ingredients:
1 large eggplant
4 small/medium summer squash
3.5 cups of zucchini (probably 3-4 small/medium)
1 large onion
1 qt crushed tomatoes*
3 T olive oil
4 cloves fresh garlic
Lots of:
Basil
Oregano
Salt
Pepper

Parmesan cheese (when serving)
Mostaccioli or penne pasta

Slice or cube squash and eggplant, dice onion. Combine all ingredients except tomatoes and parmesan cheese in a heavy pot. Cook over medium high until vegetables begin to soften (about 10-15 minutes). Pour in tomatoes and simmer for 30-45 minutes, depending on desired crispness of vegetables. 

Serve over al dente pasta and sprinkle generously with grated parmesan cheese.

Oven variation: Bake covered at 375 F for 45 min - 1 hr.

* In summer, I bake this dish, and the last 15 minutes, I remove the foil and cover the surface with a layer of slightly overlapping thinly sliced Roma tomatoes. (Omit crushed tomatoes from recipe.) My husband and kids don't like fresh tomatoes (WHAT?!?) but all agree this MAKES the dish.

Oh, and Macy says "Hi."

Love from the farm,
Teri

Three's A Crowd



Meet Wyatt. See him there? All black and white with glossy green tail feathers, just hanging with one of his ladies?  

 

Wyatt is the cock of our walk, the King of the Coop. He's the man.

He's our one remaining rooster.

See, we had three roosters. And three roosters among only eight hens is two too many. (Too bad I couldn't have figured out a way to work in "to" in that sentence, too. That would have thrown any of you who are just beginning to adopt the King's English. Who doesn't like a challenge?)

Anyhoo.

There is keen importance attached to the ratio of roosters to hens in a flock. Just ask the girls. I'd show evidence of that importance, but I respect my sisters and know I wouldn't want to be pictured when I look so bedraggled. Suffice it to say that when there are too many roosters forcing their attentions on too few hens, the girls show the wear and tear. Feathers ripped from their heads, shoulders, lower back and the base of their tails (I don't know what that's about. I've seen the roosters yank their heads back unceremoniously, or grab on tight with their talons dug into the ladies' shoulders, but not sure what the heck is up with plucking their lower back. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.)

Beyond the overuse, though, we had a bigger problem. One day a few weeks ago, my mother-in-law Sharron stumbled on a gruesome discovery behind the coop. Our hen Blackie was dead, appearing to have had her neck broken and the back of her head and neck pecked, well, to a pulp. We considered all the options - had the dogs gotten into the pen? No. Could a predator such as a raccoon or skunk have crawled in under the fence and killed her? Perhaps, but they most likely would have left evidence of a fight (feathers) and drug her away. A coyote? Don't see how one could have squeezed himself into the coop, first of all, and it's more typical he would have a) drug her off to devour at his leisure, b) created a pile of feathers from her initial fight, and/or c) tackled more than one hen, creating loads more carnage while he had a captive audience in the pen. Given the lack of evidence Blackie had put up a fight alongside the aforementioned considerations, we were left with the conclusion that the roosters did her in. A few days later, Sharron saw a rooster hop on one of the hens, then the other two boys came running up and started pecking on the hen's head while the first guy was still...umm...involved. Sharron shooed the other two away and our suspicions were confirmed. Blackie's death was murder.

We hadn't planned on having three roosters, but it was the luck of the draw at the Feed & Seed when we picked up our baby chicks this spring.  We didn't know until the little boogers started getting bigger what we had.

So what happened to other two roosters, you ask?

Well, this.

 

 

Sharron , the fast learning farmer, "took care of" (that's farm speak for "killed") the other two, with Mike's help, while I was off editing film for a video project. Mike helped her with getting the right heft behind the, well, "whack", and she did the rest -- scalding, plucking, eviscerating, cleaning and cutting up the roosters. It's the first time we've killed and eaten any of our own poultry.

 

Before we get into how that was, let me tell you why Wyatt was selected to be the surviving fella.

 

We spend time among our little flock and we observe their habits and characteristics. And, we've been around the block a few years now and have a sense of typical rooster behavior. We observed that one of the two ill-fated roosters was a bit "touched." That's genteel Southern speak for a little off your rocker; simple; oh, let's just say it, stupid. Stupid Roo (we didn't call him that while he was alive, swear; I just came up with the handy moniker for the purpose of distinction during this tale) would sort of wobble around the place, a little off kilter, stumbling here and there. He did not command any respect from the ladies, who would routinely run him off when he came around. Not King of the Coop behavior, whatsoever. Worse, he would dart in to do something mean to a hen if he got a chance, then would run off, occasionally looking over his shoulder and stumbling as he made his get away. Not exactly primo characteristics to be contributing to our future feathered gene pool.

 

Bully Boy, our other now gone rooster also not named that in life, was a meanie. He was more tolerated by the ladies, but he was just rough. He didn't have adoring girls who hung around him; they'd just let him bully them around as he did his business and then would have nothing to do with him.

 

Now, neither of these boys' character flaws were enough that we would have put them down if our rooster to hen ratio was acceptable; they just made the decision easier when it came down to who would get the axe. Or hatchet, as the case may be.

 

Where Stupid Roo and Bully Boy got it wrong, Wyatt gets it right. He has a little group of ladies who hang around him all the time; he's protective of his girls, keeping an eye on them throughout the day and calling to them when it's time to eat or go in for the night. Trust me, the girls like these qualities in their man.

 

Happily, we appear to have made the right decision. Our little flock is calmer and quieter. The ladies are looking less bedraggled. We aren't seeing any signs of unnecessary roughness. All is well.

 

So, how did it go eating the roosters? Well, we left it a little long. Ideally, you want to eat a young chicken. While the roosters just hatched late March, early April, that's still a little old for eating. You want them at 6 or 8 weeks old if you plan to eat them fresh. The chicken and dumplings made from these roosters were tough and stringy. We got a little grossed out and couldn't finish our bowls, but we had some happy dogs that evening.

 

While we boiled the meat for the dumplings, we pressure cooked the other meat that was used the next day in chicken enchiladas. That meat was more palatable. But, I think if we find ourselves eating older poultry again, we'll pressure can it first, which cooks the meat a lot longer and is supposed to take care of the toughness factor. I'm not sure we'll ever do much regular butchering on our farm, as it certainly hasn't been a regular occurrence up to now, but it's good to be learning the ins and outs of regular farm life. (I say this, having been in a nice clean television studio while the deed was done, but still.)

 

Well, there you have it. Another day in the life. How about you? Done any killing around your place lately? No? OK.

 

Love from the farm,

Teri



Thwarted Plans...And That's OK!

(WARNING: There are a startling number of parentheses in this post. I'm not sure where they all came from, but they appear to have hijacked this entry. I hope you'll make it through OK. T-Dub)

Today, I was going to A) sleep in, then B) can up a bunch of chicken and beef I bought on sale this week, then C) go into the office and write a few articles for Wednesday's paper.

That was the plan.

I did Part A.

Then I jumped into Mike's truck, ran to town, grabbed the family a dozen donuts and myself two sodas (one for now, one for the fridge) through the drive-thru at our local donut shop, and got back home without anyone finding out I left home in my jammies. (Except the drive-thru girl, and I think she'll keep it between us.)

All set to start on Part B of today's plan, I went to the refrigerator only to find no chicken. Not a single breast. What happened to my chicken? Then I remembered...I'd put the chicken in the freezer because I didn't want to chance it beginning to get even a little "off" before the weekend. I bought it from a grocer I don't usually buy meat from and I just didn't want to chance it being anywhere near on its way out, you know?

Anyway.

As much as I was looking forward to putting up the jars of meat for the year (we're down to our last pint of canned chicken), I admit it didn't take me long to decide to use the time I'd planned to work on Part B of today's agenda another way.

I hopped back into bed with my favorite Christmas present.

OK, technically, it's Mike's Christmas present, but it is one of my favorites.

I caught up on updates from a few of my favorite blogs on the magical glowing Kindle.

And, now, I'm going to again crawl back into bed next to my slumbering husband (he worked from 6p last night and got home after 7a today) and do a little in-depth studying of a subject I feel the need to master:

Nothing like snuggling up next to your sweetheart on a blustery winter's day, and learning the fine art of letting things rot. So excited! (And by the way, I'm not kidding when I say blustery. I've been watching leaves swirling outside our front picture window the whole time I've been writing this. I love swirling leaves.)

Where was I? Oh, I was excited. Very excited...I can't wait to become a master composter.

(See the little glimpses of bedding surrounding the Kindle and book? That's my VERY favorite Christmas present this year...a beautiful quilt made by my Aunt Carol for Mike and me. I LOVE it! Not only because it is exquisitely crafted -- I'm fairly certain she won a ribbon at the county fair for this, this fall; I'll have to check -- but it's made with love and care, which she imparts in all of her handmade creation. She is such a lovely lady...I adore her. Thanks again, Aunt Carol. It makes me happy everytime I look at it. Every single time. So happy, in fact, for the first time in our 15 years of married life, Mike and I make our bed every day. And, I'm sure that makes my Mom happy, too. And Mike's mom. Our messy bedroom is pretty much legendary. Aunt Carol had no idea how many lives she would touch with this quilt.)

Anyway.

Before I go back to bed with my Diet Pepsi from Donuts Plus (there's an oxymoron), let me leave you with a shot of this little sweetie.

Macy was bringing in firewood and picked this little guy up and brought him in to say hi.

Hi, little rooster boy, who hatched in our home a few weeks ago. Glad to see you! Do you remember this place? Smell familiar? No? That's because you and your aromatic sibs aren't living in here anymore. Still, we love you dearly and are glad to see you growing like a little weed. (Note the lovely natural color variation in Macy's hair. Remember those days, ladies? The days of free color highlights? Those were the days.)

OK, we've covered a lot of territory this morning. I'm going to leave you now and go crack my book open for the very first time.

Don't even get me started on how much I like to crack open a new, never-opened-before book.  Or snuggle next to a sleeping husband. Much as I like Mike's Kindle, I'm a bonafide non-virtual book girl, through and through.

I'll get to Part C of the plan a little later on. Part B was going to take hours. No sense abandoning the plan altogether.

Love from the farm,

Teri

Best Laid Plans

It all started so beautifully...

The jars were sterile and sparkling....

The peaches were plump and blanching...

 

See? Plump? Ripe? Beautiful?

Only marginally distorted in color because I don't have the Nikon and

am using my Droid instead?

The lids were in water ready to simmer....the sugar water syrup was boiling on the stove...the water bath canner was bubbling, awaiting jars of beautiful sliced peaches....

Then, I peeled some peaches and noticed they looked funny. So, I hazarded a taste.

Then I hazarded another taste, just to be sure.

They were gross.

They were slimy, pulpy, flavorless mush.

Ugh.

I was so excited that I was going to fit in a batch of peaches tonight, but it was not to be. Mom had picked up the peaches from a grocery store. They had been good eating peaches, but they went bad....real bad...after the blanching.

So, I placed a call to  my friend Karen who owns the local Feed & Seed and asked if there was any hope of my getting my hands on good peaches this late in the season. She said that it's just possible there may be an extra box or two on the truck her husband is bringing back from Utah this Friday.

Did you happen to hear the faint hum of angels singing earlier this evening? Or notice a flutter of gossamer wings out of the corner of your eye?

The heavens were rejoicing in honor of the news that my peach canning dreams are not thwarted for the year. Not only will I have peaches, but I'll have Utah peaches. Yum.

What is fall without fresh canned peaches, after all? Well, it's just not fall.

So, while I'm disappointed that my hour of preparation was for naught, and that Mom's investment in the lug of peaches went to some very happy chickens, I'm grateful that I have hope of having gorgeous sliced peaches on my pantry shelves by this weekend.

Tomorrow - apples.

Wish me luck.

Love from the farm,

Teri

September

"The breezes taste

Of apple peel.

The air is full

Of smells to feel-

Ripe fruit, old footballs,

Burning brush,

New books, erasers,

Chalk, and such.

The bee, his hive,

Well-honeyed hum,

And Mother cuts

Chrysanthemums.

Like plates washed clean

With suds, the days

Are polished with

A morning haze."

-John Updike, September

A friend gifted me oodles of apples from her tree. In the next couple of days we'll be canning lots of sliced apples, to be used in apple crisp, fried apples, apple pies. All the best fall treats.

I love fall. I love September. I'm grateful for this beautiful winding down season.

Love from the farm,

Teri

Happy Father's Day!

Look what I Mike got for my his birthday belated Father's Day gift!

It's a new canning camp stove! Aren't I Isn't he lucky?!

Look how pretty my lovely red cast iron pot looks on my Mike's new stove.

But wait, what is this?

Well, what do we have here?

Why, it looks like a friend for my very favorite cooking friend.

 
It's like Christmas in July. Well, actually, it was a birthday present in July, from my kiddos.

Am I loved, or what?

Wait, weren't we talking about Mike's Father's Day gift?

I've gotten a little confused.

Maybe it's a good time to go canning...er, camping.

Camping, that's it.

Love from the farm,
Teri

In the City

We're in the Valley this week - that's short for Valley of the Sun or Phoenix Metropolitan Area for those who don't know the lingo.

It's a busy week of doctor appointments: Tanner's kidney check up; my sister Lynda's thyroid surgery follow up ("So, where's this pill that's gonna make me glow for 3 days?"); her "how-do-I-function-without-a-thyroid?" appointment; a little school on the road; and a bit of recreation.

My sweet husband is home on the farm all alone while we take care of all this business. Before we left, he, Adam and I had an onion planting sprint - I'd say marathon, but the whole point is that it didn't take us all that long. We were on a deadline so we had to hustle. It was an impressive sight, I tell you.

Mike ripped up the onion bed with the as-yet-unnamed tractor. I got my first ride on the tractor. I hadn't been on one since I was a kid. It was awesome. I forgot how great it is to just dangle your legs as you rumble back and forth, back and forth. I already got it that Mike loves his little tractor. Now I really get it. Seeing my little chicken boots hanging off the side of the...whatever part they were hanging off...not thinking of anything, just along for the ride. Bliss.

But back to the sprint.

So, we ripped up the ground, worked in some bags of good potting dirt, wet the soil **guffaw laugh, chuckle, snort, grab side, guffaw laugh more, snort, hiccup, choke**. Oh, sorry, it's just that there's no way that sandy, terra cotta-colored substance is soil. It's not. It's going to take a few years. But we're in the gardening corner and we have to talk the talk, so we'll call it "soil" and I'll just try not to blow snot bubbles while I hold it all in.

Anyway.

We ripped the ground, worked in the dirt, wet the soil, marked a little grid and planted 300 onions, all in a little less than 3 hours flat. I kid you not. I have the sunburn across my lower back and throbbing fingernail beds to prove it. We were flying. We had to get those onions in the ground because there was no way they would have lasted until we get home this Saturday, and I wasn't going to ask Mike to plant them all on his own while we were gone.

Getting the first crop of the season into the ground is always monumental for me. Can you be gleefully serene? Because I was so excited every step of the way - seriously, even walking from the house to the garden was jubilant that morning - but then as I sat back on my heels (for which my thigh muscles and knees still haven't forgiven me) and saw those little green blades poking hopefully up out of the dirt, I was just so darn happy and, well, serene. I can't help it.There's something about the smell of the earth and digging and mounding dirt around young stems and watching the water darken the soil *heheheh, really I can't take it*, that gets my granola on.

So, anyway. Onions are in. I'll let you know how they do. Admittedly, plopping veggies down in "soil" that freshly dug isn't the ideal way to go. I had a little bed all ready for them that I'd filled with lots of good crunchy leaves and grass clippings and manure and bags of soil last year then left to simmer all fall and winter till now, only to realize there was not nearly enough room in that bed for all the onions, hence the big bed we dug the other day. So, I have my toes crossed that most of the 300 will survive. And, I'll find another purpose for that little patch of wonder dirt just aching to nourish...something.

If this were a gardening blog, I'd load you down with the names of all the onions I ordered, but since I don't know what the heck kind of blog this is, I'll just wait till I open a gardening tab on here somewhere to get that detailed. Suffice it to say we have red, sweet, big and good keepers.

Moving on.

Tan's doctor appointment went pretty darn good. His kidneys are doing great these days. Homeschooling during the horrendous cold and flu season seems to have paid big dividends. No general illnesses provoking a kidney response means we're not contemplating chemotherapy, which means Mama's a happy girl.

Now, we did find out that these little fellas aren't producing the way they should, so we're keeping an eye on that for awhile. The immunosuppresant meds Tan is on can cause his white blood cell counts and bone marrow to go awry, so we're testing his blood again in a couple of weeks to see if his numbers go back up. Hopefully, we'll find the dip is an anomaly rather than a trend and we won't have to change anything up. When things are going this good for his kidneys we hate to rock the boat, but we need to avoid causing other threatening issues while we're fighting the good fight for his kidney beans. I don't have that clenched fist in my stomach, so I'm thinking this will either end up being a non-issue or a manageable one, so we're going to enjoy the rest of our visit, by golly.

By the way, have you met Tanner?

Here he is.

And this is Tanner.

Awww...and this is Tanner. And Mike. And our old friend Whitney, who we sure miss.

I suppose meeting Adam, Macy & Karlie is in order, too. We'll do that later.

OK, so now that we've decided that we're not going to borrow trouble about Tan's white blood cells, we're going to get on with our time in the Valley.

After Lyn gets back from the doctor this morning, we're heading here:

To the Chinese Cultural Center in Phoenix. My kids love this place. We'll be having lunch at this big restaurant where they come rolling up to your table with a dim sum cart, and it's really easy to go crazy ordering all those little side dishes.

The restaurant opens out to this little gazebo and pond. And the waiters and waitresses smile placatingly but are very impatient for you to know what you want right away, be ready to order when they get to your table, and enjoy the nice atmosphere, but don't linger too long after you're done. We have tables to turn after all. Somehow, the impatience adds to the charm of the experience. I'm sure they'd love to hear that condescending little statement.

After lunch, we'll be going to the oh-so-Asian sounding, authentic Chinese grocery store:

Here, my kids buy all manner of weird treats and sweets. Adam goes in for some truly disgusting, exotic stuff all in the name of culture. Blech. I'm all for culture, I love culture, but I'll take good tasting, no-offensive-textured culture, thank you very much. This from the kid who doesn't like fresh tomatoes or mushrooms because of their texture. I don't get it.

I'm looking forward to our Ranch Market trip because if you haven't heard the secret yet, I'm about to give it away right here, right now: Asian markets have seriously fantastic prices. I've been wanting to get down here to stock up on cooking oils and coconut milk and other items that you'll find dirt cheap here and nowhere else. Seriously, you can't beat Asian market prices. And that is a statement that is backed up by strict scientific research. Well, not really, but it is true that a lot of people agree with me that anything you can get an Asian market, you should, because it is less expensive there. Swear.

Well, that's a lengthy rundown of what we're up to. Just think, if I were on Twitter, you could have gotten the bite-size version:

"Onions growing. Kidneys good. Lyn to doc. Off to Chinese market. No beef tongue, Adam, NO!"

Oh, and remember those two seemingly unconnected photos I showed you the other day? Well, here's one more.

But, I don't have time to tell you about it now, so we'll get to that later.

Love from the farm, if the farm were in Scottsdale,
Teri

Hello, Again!

Just checking in real quick to let you know we're back! We were gone a few days to take care of my sister Lynda's misbehaving thyroid, but we're back now. And she's zonked on pain killers. So, everybody's happy. Well, Lynda's really happy, if you know what I mean, since those Percocet can be little tablets of woozy goodness, I'm guessing, based on her bleary-eyed smiles.

Know what happened while we were gone?

These arrived! Yes, they're standing right there in my dining room and I'm about to slide them on to go outside and look at the back 40, where the kids and Mike spent a lot of time doing some spring cleaning while I was gone. For those who like to enjoy a good visual now and then, let me oblige: I will be wearing these with my hair pinned back (does anyone say pinned anymore?) and Adam's checkered grey robe. I will be a vision.

You know what else happened while I was gone? The onion sets I ordered came in and are sitting on my kitchen window sill. I ordered what we refer to around here as "Woodruff Onions," because somehow those Woodruff folk grow the biggest, baddest onions around, so I was bound and determined to get in on their community onion order this year. (Does your community have an onion order?)

Wonder how one onion can really differ much from another? Just take a gander.

Now, excuse the poor photo quality but the onion's long gone so I can't grab another shot. The one on the right is your standard grocery store yellow onion. The one in the middle is a "large" sweet onion, again from the grocery store. That big boy on the left is Cousin Jack's Woodruff-grown onion.

So, you understand the choice was clear. I had to order the Woodruff onions. And, once they're grown, I'll have to invite 6 extra people to dinner every night because there's no way on this Good Green Planet that a recipe that feeds our family of 6 will ever call for that much onion. Still, I'll win. My onions will be the biggest on our road, I'll betcha. And that's all that matters.

For those wondering: bigger than a softball, smaller than a cantaloupe.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Don't Tell Uncle Sam

My Uncle Sam is a true blue Georgia boy who traveled the world during his Army career, and eventually landed here in northern Arizona with my Aunt Hazel (my Mom's sister) and their children.

Uncle Sam comes complete with a love for boiled peanuts and a thick, syrupy accent that I can't get enough of. No matter how he's feeling, he always has a big around-the-shoulders-squeeze for me and a "Well, hello, Babygirl," that just melts my butter.

Uncle Sam has always reminded me of Baloo, that lovable bear from the Jungle Book. I don't know why. He doesn't look like him, he doesn't sound all that much like him; still, I've always made the association.

Anyway.

My Uncle Sam is always happy to see me and my family, or at least that's how I like to think of it. In fact, the only time I ever elicited a look of displeasure...OK, an actual frown...from Uncle Sam was when I mentioned something about having only tried grits once, and that when I did try them, I had put sugar on them.

Oh, he was not happy.

Apparently, hominy grits have a sacred place in the Georgian culture and I had sullied, nay, desecrated that sacred place. Uncle Sam harrumphed and waved his hands next to his head and informed me in no uncertain terms that sugar on grits was not allowed. Any self-respecting person knew that no way, no how do you put sugar on grits. Butter and salt - that's the way to eat grits. Only with butter and salt. Actually, he may have mentioned some other non-sweet options but I don't remember them if he did. What I do remember is the loud and clear on no sugar. Ever.

So, please don't tell him that tonight, while I was scouring the cupboards for something fast and comforting after feeling lousy for the past several days, my eyes fell upon the container of grits, and before you could crack a beer tab and have Billy Carter come running, I was enjoying a nice warm bowl of grits with butter and salt...and cream and sugar.

While I may have Southern blood running in my veins, I wasn't raised in the South so I just haven't been steeped in the customs in the way I suppose I ought to have been. I've never been concerned about it because no one was holding me to any kind of Southern standard - I lived in Ohio and Arizona, for Pete's sake. But I sense that disclaimer may not be a good enough one when it comes to a man and his grits.

I hope that my promise to never darken Uncle Sam's doorstep with that perverted concoction will be enough to get me back in his good graces, should someone spill the beans. Maybe if I show up with some boiled peanuts he'll still call me "Babygirl."

Love from the farm,
Teri

Here's A Revelation

Want a revelation? I have one for you, right here.

Sweet potatoes with agave nectar.

Excuse me. It's fantastic. I've just discovered it and it's fantastic. Now before all you Southern folk flee for the exits, just bear with me. Shhhhh. Trust me. It's worth it to hang in here for a minute.

It all started when I realized last night that I'd run out of brown sugar. Which, for the record, hasn't occurred since roughly 1991. I'd already baked the sweet potatoes. What was I going to do? White sugar? How. Could. I. I couldn't. It would have been sacrilege.

I stood there in my kitchen, dejected, staring at my 'tater. Wondering what to do. Then, I spied the oldest kid, Adam, drizzling agave nectar over his as he stood next to me with his 'tater. Being much younger and not having the benefit of 41 years of yams with brown sugar, he didn't realize the atrocity he was committing. (You can't be relegated to purgatory in innocence, right?) I stared at his plate, mute with disbelief. That couldn't possibly taste good...could it?

Suddenly I flashed to a recent conversation with my friend Corrine who said that she detested brown sugar on a sweet potato, because it masked the flavor of the sweet potato, which was already plenty sweet. "Oh, bless your little pointed head," I thought to myself. She obviously just didn't appreciate the wonders of brown sugared 'taters, that's all there was to it.

There are wonders, and then there are revelations.

What we're talking about here are revelations.

Following Adam's culinary cue (which I'm becoming convinced is generally a wise thing to do; the kid's got instincts) I drizzled a little agave nectar for myself. Then I worked in some butter, a bit of cinnamon and a dash of cloves and nutmeg. I mixed it all together and sat down on the couch with it. And it's a darn good thing I did because the couch kept the swooning from being a painful crash to the floor.

Who knew the salty of the butter with the mildly sweet of the sweet potato and nectar could result in such an amazing burst of flavors? Can I tell you how sad I am that I don't have anymore 'taters to indulge in today? Can I tell you how sad I am that Tanner's only 13 so I can't send him to town to buy more?

That sweet potato was my dinner, in total, last night. Well, that one and the half of the other small one that I split with Adam, who was similarly enraptured by our little orange friends.

I'm telling you, go get yourself some yams or sweet potatoes or whatever you want to call 'em (yes, I know they're different. It's just occurred to me that it was actually yams we ate and I don't want to go back and change everything, so I'm not gonna, since I'm certain the bliss will work either way), and try this today.

You can bop on over to the computer and thank me while your son or hubby or dog walker runs to the store to pick up some more 'taters for you. Because you're going to need them.

Love from the farm,

Teri

Bringing Home The Bacon...& Sausage

We ordered sausage seasonings today in anticipation of trying our hands at our own meat processing late next week. From Columbia Spice company we ordered hot sausage seasoning (for packages of sausage - think Jimmy Dean 1-lb chubs), sweet Italian and hot Italian seasonings. We used the Columbia Spice brands for the sausage last year and loved them. I wasn't a sausage person before we made our own last year and didn't expect to become one, but, oh my goodness, my friends were right when they told us there is nothing like fresh sausage. You have to try it for yourself to begin to understand it. Yum.

I'm still searching for a bacon brining solution. We weren't thrilled with the flavoring we used for the last bacon, so we'll take a stab at another variety this time. We weren't very happy with our homemade hams, either; while I'm looking forward to learning how to cure ham eventually, I'm not going to be able to tackle it this year. So, we'll use the ham pieces and a few of the roasts for canned pork, instead, which is so flavorful and convenient to have in your pantry. (If anyone knows of a good bacon seasoning product, by the way, I'd sure appreciate hearing about it.)

As I've mentioned before, we were thrilled with the quality and flavor of the pork we raised last year (ham and bacon being the exception due to the flavorings we used, not the quality of the meat.) We are eager to enjoy and share the pork that will soon be coming our way, especially in light of the ever-increasing costs of store-bought pork that is shockingly low on flavor. I can't believe the way I had to doctor a flavorless pork roast lately in order to bring any savor to the pot of green chile I was making from it.

My Grandma Potts introduced me to canned pork when I was a young girl, and I haven't had it since my early teens, when I moved away from Grandma's pantry. The memory of how good that pork was has stayed with me, though, and I can't wait to try it again. We do enjoy ham around here, so I'm disappointed we won't be curing our own. Knowing prices may simply keep going up, Mom and I are going to buy some extra Easter hams while they're on sale next month, and I'll can them, using a method I just read about early this week. I like the idea of having meal-sized portions of ham, instead of having to figure out how to use up all the leftovers of a full-sized ham each time I bake one. I'll share the canning recipe and the results after Easter, for those who might be picking up a few extra hams of their own.

The man we purchased our pigs from this year offered to butcher them for us, but let us know several weeks ago that pressing responsibilities had arisen that wouldn't allow him to help, after all. We certainly understand how that goes. The last time we processed pigs, our friends who had some experience, tools and a book on butchering helped us. We're not going to ask them to guide us through the process this year, however, because one of their little guys, a 3-yr-old cutie pie named Diesel (yes, you read that right), just had brain surgery a week or so ago and I'm disinclined to ask anything of that preoccupied family at this time.

So, Mike and I are going to go it alone. And, actually, we did ask to borrow our friends' butcher knives. But other than that, we're going to process these big fellas on our own, enlisting whichever kids are interested in pitching in. We'll haul the pigs over to the butcher next week, he'll slaughter them and chill their carcasses for three days, then we'll pick them up and set to work.

I'm going to ask the butcher to save the fat so we can make lard, and I'll be sure to let you know how that process goes, too. I'm a little intimidated, I have to say. I don't know why - probably just the thought of dealing with all that hot grease. Still, I'm going to forge ahead and hope I complete the process unscarred.

Now, I have to go take a pick axe to the chest freezer so we can get it cleared out to welcome all that fresh, flavorful meat soon. Then, I guess I better check the library for a picture book on butchering.

Love from the farm,

Teri

Kids Who Cook

Yesterday, our oldest son, Adam, came up to me with a big hunk of asiago cheese that my aunt had given us and asked me what I thought he could do with it. "What if I melt it on a turkey sandwich?" he asked. I quickly looked it up and saw it was good in sauces and omelets and such but said, "Sure, give it a try."

So, out came the sandwich press and Adam said, "Oooooo, I'm going to brush the sandwiches with THIS," holding up the jar of olive oil infused with cracked pepper and various Italian seasonings that we'd made a few weeks ago. I was tickled that he thought of it. And even more tickled when he said he'd make me a sandwich, too.

My sandwich could have done with less of the cheese or more of the peppered turkey - whew, I was sweating it a little finishing that strong, rich cheese. Don't get me wrong - I'm a stinky cheese fan. But, this was a little bit much. Adam got the ratio right on his sandwich, though. The infused oil was inspired. Oh my goodness.

Skip forward a few hours and it was Tanner who was standing in front of me with a piece of salmon in one hand and a piece of cod in the other. He wanted the recipe for the honey garlic glaze that I made a week or two ago for the salmon, then said, "I don't think that glaze would be good for the cod, though, do you Mom?" Smart boy. No, I agreed the glaze wouldn't work. We discussed what could be done with lemon and pepper and off he went.

I couldn't help but think of my culinary adventures at their ages: Hamburger Helper at about Tan's tender age of 13, macaroni with butter and salt when I was 19 (admittedly, at Adam's age I was intent on saving my food money to use for gas money to drive to Phoenix on the weekends for after hours dancing at the Devil House. No satanic twist there - it was close to the Arizona State University campus, home of the Sun Devils.)

Anyway, while I was a pretty good cook as a youngster, I didn't delve into the culinary arts. I certainly wasn't turning out anything as scrumptious and beautiful as this lemon tart that Adam recently gifted us with.


Ahh, the joys of having kids who cook. I wouldn't want to enlist them to make dinner every night, because, hey, it's not fair for them to have all the fun. But it's good to know that if I needed them to carry the cooking load, we wouldn't be stuck with macaroni, hold the cheese.

In case you're worried about the girls - don't be. Their culinary gifts are coming along, too. They're taking a cooking class through 4H and having a ball.

Budding chefs, one and all. Can't wait to have this year's garden harvest for family playtime and art class.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Good Morning!

Just a few quick thoughts before I start my Saturday chores:

Remember a few days ago when I mentioned checking into a raw milk source for butter and yogurt making and hubby pleasing? Well, the source said yes so I had a moment of great excitement. Then suddenly, I heard knocking on the inside of my skull and a little voice said, "Uhh, excuse me, Einstein, but isn't your son immunesuppressed, making him vulnerable to any stray little bacteria or virus that the rest of the family's strong immune systems might otherwise scoff at?" So, I figured I better check into whether Tan can have unpasteurized anything (including the goat's milk). Our online kidney guru pulled up a report stating that unpasteurized or raw is on that advisory council's no-no list, and my initial Google search pulled up the same. I'm going to check with Tanner's kidney doctor, who I trust implicitly, and will consider hers the final word. While it would be lovely to bring fresh milk into our home, I'm certainly not willing to take an unnecessary risk with Tan. If we have to wait until he's off the immune-suppressing meds, really, that's no big deal. We'll wait. I'll let you know what we learn.

Gertie let me scratch her behind the horns yesterday. It was fabulous. Then she stomped on my foot. One step forward....

Mike has pink eye. I've been grateful the past few mornings to be able to pop open my baby blues without degooping first. Fingers crossed these clear-eyed mornings will continue.

Adam's missionary application is sitting in front of Church leaders who are deciding where in the world he'll go. Will we be buying pea coats for England or short-sleeved white shirts for Central America? Or a banjo for him to do some front-porch pickin' in Kentucky? We'll know soon!

My friend Debbie said we can go scoop poop from their horse barn. Yee haw!

One of the pigs bit me yesterday. That was a first in two years of having pigs. I was dumping a can of kitchen scraps into their pen and one of the big fellas was ever so excited so he tried to take the can from me and chomped down on my thumb and hand. It was a blunt-edged chomp and broke the skin from the tugging motion, not from any razor-sharp teeth. But the throbbing, fevered, bleeding thumb didn't bug me nearly as much as the gobs of slimy goo he left all over my hand. Let's just say he was primed to properly masticate whatever food entered his strong jaws. Before you think I made some comment like, "Yeah, you'll get yours, buddy!" just know that I didn't. While I'm grateful for the food these pigs are going to be providing us soon, I'm not lighthearted about killing them. I thought being a farm girl now I'd take the butchering in stride, and to a degree I do in terms of not brooding over it, but mostly I just feel grateful for these animals' lives, not entitled to them.

Looking forward to seeing what the heck this "super moon" will look like tonight. It's been really bright around the farm the last few nights, and last night's moon was freaky, because it had a wide red ring around it. Creepy! But really, really cool. Wish the kids had been here to see it. They were in the Valley with family, where you don't see the stars, you see the soft glow of street lamps.

My kiddos are coming home today from their cousins' and my mother-in-law will be bringing them here, so soon our home will be filled again with some of my favorite people in the whole wide world. Guess that means I better go take a shower and get on my chores.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Favorite Home & Cooking Discoveries

I've always loved to cook and do things around the kitchen, but it's only been in the last few years that I've really been able to concentrate any significant amount of time on all things homey.

Here are a few of my favorite discoveries:

• Rubbing your hands with a couple teaspoons of salt then running them under cold water will get rid of painful onion and aromatic garlic oils. Many a time my children have found me, mascara streaming down my cheeks, eyes clenched tight, furiously scrubbing my hands with salt. They've quit asking me if I'm OK; they know that within moments I'll be happily cooking again.
• You shouldn't add liquids to any dry good mixture containing baking powder until the last possible moment before mixing, so whatever you're cooking will have the perfect texture and height. This goes for your pancakes, quick breads, biscuits and any other item in which you include baking powder.
• Baking cornbread in a cast iron skillet. I don't know why I love this so much, but it makes me happy each and every time.
• Canning. Magical. It's hot, long hours, and don't even think about doing the cost analysis between the amount of time it took you to plant, grow and can the food compared to what it would have cost to go to the Piggly Wiggly and pluck it off the shelf. That's not what it's all about. It's about staring at the beautiful jars on your shelf, knowing YOU did that, knowing none of the goodness was cooked out - it's all sealed right up there in the jars; knowing there's nothing artificial or mysterious in those jars. It's love and health and security all gathered under a shiny, sealed tight lid.
• Using honey in place of sugar in cornbread, pancakes and homemade buttermilk syrup means your family will be calling out to you from the table, singing your praises with their mouths full, while you're still pulling the last batch of pancakes off the griddle before sitting down with them. Usually, we wait till we're all sitting down to bless the food, but this is one meal where we bless the food before I'm done cooking, because once the syrup is done and the plate is piling high with pancakes, my crew can't stand the suspense any longer.
• Grinding popcorn for cornmeal. It's beautiful, fresh and so full of flavor. And a cost saver: I never throw away ancient, half-used boxes of expensive cornmeal anymore. I buy regular popcorn, grind a small handful at a time and throw any extra - no matter how little is left - in a baggie and into the freezer. Then, I use the remnants for tossing on a baking stone before popping rustic bread or pizza pies into the oven.
• Oatmeal pancakes. They must be served with homemade syrup, which is easy to whip up while the pancakes are cooking. Served alongside bacon and perhaps fried eggs, it's the best breakfast ever. But you better get those kids off their tushies and engaged in some strenuous project right after they eat, or everyone will be heading off for naps following this carb-packed meal.

While I'm waiting for the cornbread to be done that I'm baking to go along with Mike's beans for work tonight, I'll share our favorite oatmeal pancake recipe. I'll include a buttermilk syrup recipe, too, but I have to confess, it is good but it isn't our favorite. I believe finding our favorite syrup recipe will be a reward the housecleaning fairies will bestow upon me for cleaning off the top of the refrigerator.

But first, my final favorite discovery - not one I learned in recent years, but from my Grandma Potts, when I was a little girl: drop a slice of homemade cornbread in a bowl, cover it in fresh cream or milk, and sprinkle with sugar. It's a ridiculously rustic, country little treat and I've never eaten it without being transported back to Grandma's little single-wide trailer up on the hill in Pottsville, sitting at the rickety table looking out the kitchen window at Grandpa's beloved roses.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Oatmeal Pancakes

1 C flour (we use 1/2 C wheat, 1/2 C white)
1 C quick oats
2 T honey (or sugar if you don't have honey)
2 T baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda

1.5 C buttermilk (I always just add a teaspoon or two of vinegar to regular milk and let it sit for a few minutes to sour)
1 egg
1/4 C oil

Sour milk and set aside. Mix dry ingredients in a medium bowl. Add buttermilk (or sour milk), eggs and oil (and honey, if you have it); mix well. Cook on a hot griddle or frying pan.

It'll Do Buttermilk Syrup
(this is good, but as soon as I find our favorite syrup recipe, I'll replace this)

2 C sugar
3 T honey (or white Karo syrup)
1/2 C butter
1 tsp baking soda
1 C buttermilk or sour milk (see above for how to sour milk)
1 tsp vanilla

Mix all ingredients in a large kettle or saucepan (think deep! The syrup boils up high). Bring to a rolling boil for 3 minutes. Stir frequently. Remove from heat and add vanilla. Serve over pancakes or French toast.