MommyCoddle

worth sharing

Yesterday morning, cleaning up breakfast dishes in the kitchen, I found myself thinking, "I can't remember what kinds of things I blog about." I think we all go through these blog-phases where it doesn't seem like there is much to be said. Although this seems to contradict my thoughts just a few posts ago...hmn. 

But if I really stop to think, there are plenty of things each day worth noting...

*I'm beginning week 4 of no oven. It's a challenge, let me tell you. Someone wrote and said they hadn't used an oven in two years. That blows my mind. Especially when I'm itching to revisit my Artisan Bread book after Erin's post, and cookies just don't turn out well in the toaster oven, and I'm really wanting to whip up a good scone recipe, and make granola and, and....  Dan said to me last night, "Why don't you just try using it again? What's the worst that could happen? You blow up the house?" Yes, exactly. I'll wait for a new one, thank you. (He was kidding, of course.)

*We got a little snow yesterday and of course my chore companion was still happy to join me to let out chickens and feed the cats. The chickens weren't as fond of the snow as she was. You'd think they were walking on fire, the way the avoid stepping in the snow. Poor things.

*I went to the "baby doctor" yesterday. The baby is breech. And I'm measuring almost 36 weeks instead of 32. She also told me to "take it easy" after some "incidents" the week before. Taking it easy isn't so easy. Dan said maybe we should think about starting to get prepared... What!? The one measly sweater I've managed to knit for this baby isn't enough?? How am I ever going to fit in the knitting of this blanket I'm dying to make?? 

*There are new faces over at habit. 

*I'm really liking the discovery of the NewYorkTimes skimmer. For someone who doesn't (often) read the newspaper and never watches the news, it's a quick and easy way for me to stay current. 

*I found this article about snacking yesterday. It was really eye-opening and interesting to me. 

*Does anyone have a good solution for crazy-static-y child hair? My girls' hair is crazy and it's driving me crazy.

*The final season of LOST is here. I remember thinking when it started, "There's no way I'll last all the way until 2010 to see how it ends!!" Yet here I am.

*I'm inspired by Rachel's "thrifted wardrobe" set on flickr, once I get out of these maternity jeans.

*After a brief hiatus around the holidays, I'm back to collecting goodness on tumblr. Go take a peek. (And click on the "following" link. You may see what a few familiar faces and names are "collecting" as well.)

See? I guess there were a few things worth sharing. As always, friends, hello and thank you for stopping in here. 

deep sleep

As I sit and write this post from the comfort of my overstuffed chair in the corner of the living room beside the woodstove, two kittens are tumbling up and down the stairs just outside the room. I can hear their thundering paws as they tackle and roll and skitter away from each other. 

Somehow in the last few months, the line between our "outdoor mouse-hunting barn cats" and "indoor house cats" got very blurry.

This morning, my wake up call came from Mary, who had sneaked downstairs and outside to find these two little kittens waiting for her. I think they've caught on to her routine. She came to my bedside, the sound of loud purring coming from her arms : "One for you. One for me." as a pile of fluff was dumped on my chest. She slid in the covers beside me, tucking her ball of warmth under the comforter.

My children have this way with kittens. They get so much attention and love, mixed with just the perfect amount of patience-forming teasing, that I believe they end up to be the perfect pets. I know these two kittens, when they find the perfect home, will make sweet additions to some little family. 

Between you and me, Columbus is my favorite, though Panda wins the cute award. Columbus has the motor of diesel truck and at the first stroke of your hand down his back, it kicks in. Sometimes just the anticipation of it, gets him going. 

This weekend, he fell sound asleep in my arms and the girls grabbed the FLIP so we could record his purring. But there must be some stage of sleep rhythm for cats that inhibits purring. He was so sound asleep we could barely get him to show it off. I always thought cats were the lightest of sleepers, but Columbus seems to be proving us wrong. 

And for the record, the heavy breathing is coming from Columbus, not from me. 

i wish

i wish...

i'd brought my binoculars to get a closer look at the pair of hawks sitting shoulder to shoulder in the sycamore.

i'd brought a tissue, two in fact, for my nose and the nose of the little one holding my hand.

i'd brought my camera to capture the ice on the stream and the kittens frisking under the forsythia.

i'd brought a magnifying lens to look up-close at the patterns on the underside of the bark.

i'd brought a zoom lens (if i had one) to catch a picture of the bright red cardinals in the bare branches of the trees. are their colors getting deeper as the temperatures get colder or do they just stand out more against the backdrop of winter?

i'd brought a warmer pair of mittens.

Instead, it was just me and Elizabeth. Morning chores. The collecting of wood scraps to stir up the woodstove. A trail of cats in front of us, a line of chickens behind us. And lots of stopping along the way to notice, to look closely, to guess, to admire. 

And sometimes, that's perfectly enough.

2009 : in photos + words : march

: 23 March 2009 :

| How We Do Things |

 :20 March 2009 :

| Family Stories |

These boxes are full of family stories. I sorted, tried to make out faces, noticed how much someone's children look exactly like they did, when they were that age. Marveled at my grandmother, poolside--a handful of kids splashing in the water, a few toddlers watching from wooden playpens in the grass. Children spread around long wooden tables on the patio, covered in newspaper, dipping eggs into colored water. Girls bareback on horses. Weddings on the front lawn with green tents, bright yellow table cloths and daisies. Volkswagen buses and BB guns ....

: 31 March 2009 :

| Five Senses |

So now after all this, I'm not sure if my girls know more about their five senses, or more about how fun it is to blindfold each other and make them stick their hands into unknown bowls of food ....

2009 : in photos + words : january

For the next twelve posts, I thought I'd take a look back at 2009, a month at a time. I'm going to pull a favorite picture or two, a few words from a post I want to remember and cherish. I feel like it's a good way to reflect, and a good way to go forward into the New Year. 

To celebrate the good things, the hard things I thought I might just not make it through, the "seasons" that have passed, the funny moments and the joys of 2009, before I wish her so long.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

: 15 January 2009 :

 Befriending a Rooster

I've got this thing with roosters. It goes back to my childhood growing up on a farm. There was Friendly, the rooster who did not live up to his name ....

: 13 January 2009 : 

: Cue The Doves : 

This morning in a sleepy stupor, I heard the rustling of children downstairs. Moments later, I woke to hushed giggles beside my bed and opened my eyes to a dove, preening her feathers on my pillow ....

: 05 January 2009 : 

New Year, New Project :

Habit was born out of a desire to capture little bits of our everyday lives--nothing staged--but real life moments we experience every day. It was meant to stretch us ....

neighborly

We survived our first big storm of the year. They were calling for all kinds of exciting things like two feet of snow, high winds and blizzards. But we woke up this morning to sunny skies and about a foot of snow on the ground. 

The girls were out in it first thing yesterday morning, after the first six inches had fallen and winds and snow were still swirling. The youngest two didn't last long. Elizabeth was in tears, but it was still a battle getting her to give in and come back inside. 

I've been on house arrest, as my husband seems to disappear outside in all MY snow gear--my boots, my big warm down jacket. So while he's been watering chickens, and searching through blizzards for missing cats, I've been inside keeping a steady supply of hot chocolate at the ready. And keeping some semblance of order in a house that is getting a lot of action while we're all hunkered down inside. 

During this storm, I've been overwhelmed by the kindness of neighbors. A family friend showing up, hours before the storm with a box full of hand-me-down snow pants, down jackets, hats, mittens and boots. There was something in the box for everyone. Last year's handed down snowsuit from Emily, just happened to fit Elizabeth perfectly. Everyone had something for the snow. (Well, everyone except me!) 

And this morning, as Dan started shoveling out cars and driveways and paths to the sheds, Mr. Dorsey showed up on his tractor. A neighbor with a tractor is a good thing to have. 

Otherwise, I have a feeling Dan would have been out there shoveling until dusk. That's a lot of snow to move around. 

And once again, I'm thankful for a stash of Christmas cookies in my freezer. An impromptu thank you at the ready. Mr. Dorsey lives alone with no family around, and I'm pretty sure he enjoys a little home-baked goodness in exchange for a quick plowing of the driveway. I even caught him "inspecting" the cookies, as his tractor lumbered back up the road towards his farm. 

Good neighbors, good friends are certainly a gift.

ONE Simple Question : No. 8

It's been getting harder and harder to find willing souls to help with chores around here. But I don't blame them--it's cold, the wind is whipping, it requires dressing in multiple layers, finding hats, mittens, scarves, boots...coming back with runny noses, purple hands and chapped chins.

But there's one little soul, rain or shine, freezing temperatures or mild ones, who's always anxious to come along. Her boots go on before the pajamas come off, and she knows the routine--cats first, throw down food to the chickens, shut the shed doors, walk to the coop and let the chickens out for their dash across the yard to their grain by the garden shed. She also knows how to keep warm--one mittened hand pulled inside her coat the other hand in mine and shoved into my coat pocket. She makes for great company.

On the nights when I find myself alone--doing the evening lock-in by myself, a warm cup of tea in my hands makes for good company, too. But not as good as Elizabeth, of course.  

  

As for my simple question...I'm looking for some ideas. Christmas day breakfast is on my brain. I'm looking for a good recipe for something I can make the night before--either in the crockpot, or something to put in the oven Christmas morning. Something simple, something yummy. 

Specifically, I'd love to find a recipe for baked french toast. I've heard "rumors" of one with thick-sliced bread, apples, cinnamon--something prepared the night before, refrigerated and baked the next morning. I'd love to find a recipe for something like that. Otherwise--I'm open to inspiration. I want Christmas morning to be relaxing but special. I don't want to be standing over the stove flipping pancakes, but rather savoring the morning with my family. But I still want something yummy for the ten minutes I can get my children to gather around the table. 

Recipes? Ideas? Traditions? I want to hear them. I'd like to upgrade from fried eggs and boxed cereal for this special morning....

tiny tim

Hello, friends. Wow, it's seems like ages since I've been in this place. I feel like I'm still catching up from our holiday weekend away.

My sister and I basically house-swapped for the holiday. She came here for Thanksgiving and managed to take care of our chickens, dogs and cats. While we went her direction, where my mother also lives--and took care of the animals on her farm. (Though she left us more animals to take care of, she had a more "annoying" situation--as our older Lab wandered the valley the whole time we were away...) Things are never problem-free when you go away, are they? 

To top things off on Sunday morning, little Mary woke up unable to move her right leg. She was in excruciating pain--couldn't move, couldn't touch her skin and it took us two hours to finally get her moving and out of bed. But by mid-day she seemed back to normal.

Monday morning she woke up again with the exact same problem--this time it took me almost three hours to get her up and able to move--and we hobbled straight to the doctor's office.

She'd had a very bad, sore and swollen tick bite at the base of her hairline the week before and in my mind I had the strong suspicion that she had Lyme's Disease. But there was no "bulls eye" rash, and it was very early for symptoms to start to appear.

After a very frustrating experience at the doctor's office--where I felt like he wasn't recognizing the fact that Mary was faking health and lack of pain in order to not be embarrassed in front of him, he did blood work to determine what was bothering her--(yes, I was the mother of the hysterically screaming child in exam room two)--but basically the doctor thought we were looking at "morning stiffness". ??

She continued to go down hill that afternoon and by dinner, I broke down and called him back--convinced that she at least needed to begin a round of antibiotics--something I'm never quick to put my children on--while we waited out the four days for her test results to come back. It's horrible seeing your children in pain, especially when you don't know exactly what is wrong with them or what to do to help.

But the doctor stood fast, and didn't want to start any meds until we knew what was exactly wrong. I hung up the phone frustrated.

Thankfully, the next night, her test results came back earlier than expected and my suspicions were correct--she has Lyme's Disease. And while I hate to see Mary have it, I'm glad we know what's going on and how to help her have some relief.

So now, she's walking around the house like an 80 year-old woman with bad hips. One morning she requested two croquet mallets to help her get around--which has led us to refer to her as Tiny Tim.

The antibiotics haven't kicked in yet, but I can tell she's relieved to be getting something to help her feel better. She also loves the fact that I'm offering her unlimited amounts of yogurt--to help restore some of those good bacteria the antibiotics wipe out. 

As my aunt said the other day, "It's always something, isn't it?" But we're hanging in there. Relief is around the corner. The sun is out today. Emma is horseback riding. The girls have a "baking date" in the afternoon. And I have some crafty plans up my sleeve.

Each day holds both it's own trials and it's own treasures.

when all else fails, go to the stream

Each day, as part of our morning routine, I have the girls write a few things in their Gratitude Journals. I've found that it helps them reflect on their day and remember that they have many blessings and much to be thankful for.

Lately, I have to confess, I've been wallowing in some worry. Letting it get to me when my worry can do nothing to help or change the situation.

And it struck me on Monday, that I needed to be keeping a gratitude journal of my own. So I traded in my teacher hat, and became a learner, just like my children, spending a few quiet moments attempting to refocus my worry into what gifts and goodness I already had in my life.

Armed with my new attitude, and inspired by a much-needed day of sunshine, we blew off much of our typical school work and headed outside to the stream.

I packed my camera, my FLIP and we headed out to a newly-discovered spot in the stream--accessible now that the cooler temperatures have dried and pressed down the once long and overgrown grasses and vines. A turn in the stream that has been catching logs and debris for quite some time. It makes for a magical spot. Slightly nerve-wracking for the mother on the shore, but still quite a place to explore.

A little musical montage for you to enjoy....and lest you think that all is magical and perfect here on Thomas Run--allow me to let you in on the behind the scenes:

The movie is set to music because Mary was crying desperately  in the background since I wouldn't let her cross over the stream on the tree trunks without my help (in her very slippery, new cowgirl boots).

The movie is spliced together in order to edit out one child who wasn't completely clothed after needing to "use the facilities" once we got down to the stream, which subsequently led to each child needing to "use the facilities" Funny how that always happens.

And the littlest and probably the most fearless in my brood explores the edges of the water without any care or knowledge of the consequences if she were to fall into the water. (You'll notice the camera lurch when she slips on the shore, and I prepare to dive in and save her.)

Enjoy.

Happy Wednesday, friends. What are you thankful for today?

I should go away more often

There are two things in my kitchen that are lacking : (practical) working counter space and electrical outlets. So when we first moved in, the toaster had only one home--tucked underneath the counter right beside the stove. I'll get back to the toaster details in a moment.

The people who lived in this house before us, "fixed it up." There were two shades of carpeting throughout the house--baby blue and rose pink. And no two switch plate covers were the same--cows, sunflowers, hummingbirds, morning glories, pigs, pineapples. There was lots of gold and oddly ornate (gag) mantle pieces. And we won't discuss the "hillbilly wiring" that ran all around our farm--bare wires tucked into PVC pipes and run underground out to barns, sheds and workshops. 

So their kitchen "remodel" involved lots gold knobs and white-plastic-y covered cabinets.

We discovered the plastic covers on our cabinets thanks to the location of the toaster. After several weeks of use, the toaster heated the cabinet doors, which in turn melted the plastic laminate covering on the cupboards and caused it to pull away from the wooden cabinet frame underneath.

Soon, I began to discover places all around my kitchen where this white cover was peeling away from the cabinets. It was like a nasty hangnail--so tempting to pull off, but painful (to look at) if you did.

Dan would often casually mention that he could probably heat the covers off the cabinets and paint them any color I wanted. Some day. I knew this wasn't high on the "to-do" list--seeing as the basement is so wet it causes our living room books to mildew, I still turn on my shower with a wrench and pair of pliers, the door on the chicken coop is about to fall off, and we still don't have enough firewood for winter. 

But it never fails that if the girls and I disappear for a day or two, Dan always gets into some project, like the headboard he made me one weekend when the girls and I slipped over to my mom's house for a visit.

It is always exciting to come home and see how he's rearranged furniture, what pictures have been added to the family wall, how much of the laundry he's gotten done, or what toys have "mysteriously" disappeared.

But this weekend, while I was rediscovering my family's history and he was taking care of three girls, the house, the animals and the cleaning...he also managed to melt off the ugly white plastic laminate and repaint ALL my kitchen cupboards.

I don't know how he does it.

And even though my kitchen still has no great counter space, vinyl floor that always looks dirty even when it's clean and popcorn-textured ceilings, I'm in love. With my husband, of course, and my new happy kitchen.

proud mama duck

Last week marked a milestone for our ducks. We let them in on the big secret we've been keeping from them.

I have to confess I was a little bit nervous. I was worried that if we let them know what they've been missing, they might never come home again. They might find that this new discovery was much better than the bits of dry duck mash and the large black tub that they soak in.

But sometimes, a mama duck (that's me, I'm their mama) has to let her ducklings taste a little freedom.

So we headed down to the stream. We called to them and they waddled behind us, keeping up for the whole, long trip. We almost lost them a few times, to the tasty fox tails and bits of bugs in the grass.

But they always caught up.

And once we turned that final corner, they knew exactly what to do. It was almost as if they didn't believe it.

They got in timidly at first, but it wasn't long before they were ducking their heads, splashing water onto their backs, sitting high in the water and flapping wings wildly, darting underwater and searching for bits of green and slime.

I stood back and looked at the scene before me.

My three girls wading and swimming--in various stages of "birthday suit-ness". Dripping clothes hanging from tree branches on the shore--the "laundry" they were drying. My dogs swimming back and forth into the deepest water, chasing after sticks. And my three ducks wading right in the middle of all the action.

Each minding their own business. Each completely happy.

I was a proud mama duck.

And the best part? Once we decided it was time to go home, we gathered up the clothes and the boots and headed back up the trail. And I called once more to the ducks, just in case they still wanted to come home.

And (much more quickly and obediently than my own children) they waddled out of the stream and back up the trail behind us.

Rooster Chronicles Pt.2 : Is this goodbye?

When I'd last said goodnight to Roosevelt, he was walking up the center line of Thomas Run in the pitch black night. There was nothing we could do. I'd given up hope of his survival through the night.

The next morning at six a.m., I wasn't' awakened by the morning light, or a sleepy-headed child, but I greeted my morning to the sound of a rooster crowing, right outside my bedroom window. Over and over again, he crowed. And I listened as he made his way around the house. Crowing. And crowing. I laid in bed and waited. Waited to hear the sound of little feet and whining voices, awakened by Roosevelt's march around the house. But by some supernatural act of God, they slept through the whole escapade. Thank goodness for sound machines.

By this time, I was beginning to hint to Dan that maybe the rooster wasn't meant to be part of our little farm. That maybe he needed to go back home. We decided to give him a few more nights and if he didn't start behaving, we'd send him back to Mr. Adams.

The next evening, when we locked in the chickens, Roosevelt was MIA. Nowhere to be found, not even in any of his usual, though annoying roosting places.

There was nothing we could do. We called it a night.

That morning, concerned that I was sleeping in way too long and wasting my day, Roosevelt began his crowing at 5:15. And he obviously wanted me, and the rest of the household to know that he'd made it through one more night without the safety of the coop. So he began his crowing campaign around the house. 

And then I sent that email. The rooster must go.

The next evening, was a repeat of the one before, but one thing differed. Around 2a.m, I heard clucking and squawking outside my bedroom window. I clutched my hands over my ears and elbowed Dan, who was still sound asleep despite the ruckus.

"Dan!!! Roosevelt is getting eaten! Get out there and stop it! Please!!"

But Dan, the man of few words (in the middle of the night) and lots of common sense said something along the lines of, "It's too late now. If I stop it mid-way through, then he's going to be hurt and I'm going to have to put him out of his misery. There's nothing you can do about it." 

I slowly inched my hands away from my ears and forced myself to listen to Roosevelt's last clucks which now sounded like they were coming from across the road. I hated to think it, but I figured a fox was dragging him away.

Then, I began to worry about the ducks.

At the same moment, Dan realized that if it was indeed a fox, he needed to get out there with his gun to prevent him from coming back and making a smorgasbord out of the other chickens, the ducks or even one of the cats.

I snuck downstairs to the dark kitchen and watched Dan out the window as he sat quiet and still on the back deck, gun loaded and aimed into the yard. The full moon cast long dark shadows of silver and gray across the grass. It was a perfect night to look for foxes.

Eventually I went back up to bed, hoping I wouldn't hear any gun shots, but anxious to hear that all three ducks were accounted for.

When he came back to bed, he told me that the ducks were fine and that they'd probably be much smarter in the morning. I had no idea what he meant, until he explained that he had taken the kitchen radio and put it out on the deck by the ducks. It was playing a radio station where a deep, soothing-voiced man read the Bible through the wee hours of the night. Ironically, the radio would most likely be our ducks salvation--the sound of a human's voice keeping away any predators.

That morning, there was no crowing.

When my eyes opened and I realized it was past the normal crowing hours, I then knew that Roosevelt had been eaten that night. We knew it was inevitable. In this area, a chicken can only stay unprotected for so long before it is discovered and gobbled up.

I felt a pang of sadness for the way Roosevelt had to die, but I also felt like we'd done everything we could. Our rooster interventions had failed. He didn't want our help.

And now, everything was back to normal. Just six little hens and three little ducks.

However, Roosevelt still had more story to tell.

That afternoon, I was out running errands when my cell phone rang. It was Emma.

"MOM! YOU WILL NEVER BELIEVE THIS! The neighbors up the road just called and said our rooster is running around their farm!"

Apparently Roosevelt didn't get eaten, and whatever frightened him off his roost sent him dashing up the road, across cornfields, through the woods, to a neighbor's farm. I even clocked the distance--it was at least half a mile.

That afternoon, Dan headed up to their house with a chicken crate in the back of the farm truck to find Roosevelt and bring him home. A few minutes later the girls and I followed in case it would be necessary to round him up and corner him somewhere on their farm.

But Roosevelt was nowhere to be found.

We left empty-handed. No rooster. No Roosevelt.

Either Roosevelt now belongs to the people and farms and homes of Thomas Run. Or he belongs to heaven.

And I suppose, that's the end of the story.

I'll keep you posted. Though I wouldn't be surprised to hear a crowing outside my window one of these mornings, when Roosevelt decides to make his way back up Thomas Run to his first home. Or, for that matter, a yellow taxicab to stop at the end of the lane and drop him off.

Poor Roosevelt.

[photo by katie pertiet --who's addicted to photographing my chickens]

Rooster Chronciles, part one

Late last week, I sent my husband an email. The subject line said, "the rooster...". When he opened up the email, I finished my thought, "...must go."

The rooster must go.

But I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up in the story to explain how I got to this place.

Two weeks ago, my husband made one of his typical stops to drop off tractor parts for a local farmer. Before he stopped at the farm we talked, "This will be quick. I doubt he'll even be home. I won't be long." 

As darkness began to fall and it had been more than an hour since our conversation, I began to wonder. I figured the farmer must have been home after all, and knowing Dan they were deep in some conversation about crops or tractors or what farmers on the eastern shore were up to. Either that, or he was belly-up underneath a tractor, up to his elbows in grease, putting on the parts himself.

A few minutes later, the porch door flung open and Emma collapsed into my lap in tears. She and Mary had been with Dan for his delivery.

"Daddy brought home a rooster!"

I rolled my eyes. "A rooster?"

"Yes! Mr. Adams gave Daddy one of his roosters. He's putting it in the coop with the chickens. I don't want a mean old rooster!"

I had to confess, I didn't really want a mean old rooster either. I already lucked out with our last one. And I was feeling pretty content with our little clutch of hens.

When Dan got inside he explained what had happened, that the farmer had too many roosters, that he offered one to us, that he was such a beautiful, friendly rooster.

Emma told me the story of how the farmer had tucked the rooster's head under his wing, rocked him back and forth a few times in his arms and put him to sleep. She told me how he laid him down in the grass and he just stayed there sound asleep.

I asked Dan where this new rooster was now and he told me he had slipped him into the dark coop with the chickens.

Just a few days before, I had been reading a book and oddly enough the author mentioned her father's technique for introducing a new chicken to the flock. The book, obviously, has nothing to do with chickens. But I had mentioned the technique to Dan and he decided to give it a try. Slip the new chicken (or in this case, rooster) into the coop once it is dark and everyone is roosting. And in the morning, they wake up, see the new addition and figure he must have been there all along and they never noticed. And everyone gets along smashingly.

And I have to confess, the technique worked.

But still the rooster had not won us over. Emma and I were still skeptical and pretty sure we weren't interested in having a rooster.

That is, until the next morning when we heard his faint crowing from the coop. We were both outside when we heard it. We looked at each other, smiled and declared together, "Hey, I kind of like this!"

And then, we went to see him. And boy, Dan was right. He was a good-lookin' boy.

Alright. He could stay.

That evening, when it was time to lock in the chickens, we took a count. Six hens. No rooster. We searched around the sheds, inside the stone barn and couldn't find him anywhere. Finally we found him in the wood shed, roosting on the rungs of one of Dan's ladders. Much to the rooster's distress, Dan carried him over to the coop and locked him in for the night.

We figured he was still learning the ropes and didn't remember how to get back to the safety of his shed.

The next night, same thing. This time, we found the rooster roosting in a different shed deep down inside a box of kindling we'd been starting to collect for the winter. And this time, he wasn't as easy to catch. But we did and he got a personal escort back to the coop.

Third night. Same story. No rooster.

Except this time, when Dan went to catch him, he was absolutely, positively not interested in being carried off to the coop. He took flight. He panicked. He dashed around the yard, under trees, behind sheds, around the house....and finally straight up the center line of Thomas Run.

Finally, as the darkness really began to thicken we gave up. There was nothing we could do. We left the chicken as he ran up the road towards the neighbor's house. I wondered what the next car driving up the road would think when their headlights caught a large red rooster in a mad dash up the pavement.

I went to bed convinced he wouldn't make it through the night, but I had to admit, I didn't have much sympathy for the rooster we'd now named, "Roosevelt.". You can only offer a rooster so much help, but if he doesn't want to accept it, there's not much you can do.

There's more to this story, but this is getting awful long-winded and long....the rest of the story, tomorrow.

spinning

I know I'm going to have a hard time going to sleep tonight.

I just got an update in my inbox from Susan's Martha's Vineyard Fiber Farm blog. Seriously, this might be the biggest-ever blog-land giveaway. You can go check it out, but the nuts and bolts are this: She's giving away a small starter flock of angora goats as well as a custom-built run-in shed, shipped to the winner.

And it's an essay contest.

And if you've been following my blog for any length of time, chances are you probably know that I grew up raising lambs. And I have a serious sweet spot for them. And of all the things that I want to add to the Thomas Run menagerie--lambs are number one, above and beyond, top of my list. (And for the record, they're at the top of the girls' list, too. Even above a pony. Do you know we often take the long way home, just to pass our favorite sheep farm?)

But these aren't sheep. They're goats. What do I know about goats? Even goats that look like sheep.

But a starter flock?! And a shed?! And Susan will even throw in some consulting to help get you started?!

And did you know there's a spinning wheel sitting up in my grandmother's bedroom?

And did you know that my one goal for this winter was to finally sit down with her and ask her to teach me how to spin? I missed that chance.

But there are still other ways to learn. I know.

But then, reality comes crashing in. And I remember that we still have no fencing.

And we still have no money for fencing.

And we still own that stupid house in Wisconsin that is sucking all the money out of our pockets.

And I think that maybe this just isn't my time.

But I'm still thinking.

Gosh, am I thinking....

Preserving Greatness

I'm dropping the ball.

If I look up from my laptop at this very moment, and cast my eyes across the kitchen, there is  a countertop overflowing with produce from our garden. Tomatoes, peppers, squash, cucumbers, corn....I've lost my canning and freezing mojo. Want to hear a few of my excuses?

It's hot.

I have only one working burner on my stovetop. (sometimes, two on a lucky day.)

I have no freezer space.

I needed some inspiration. So this weekend, I stood in front of my shelf of cookbooks and looked for the one I thought might provide it. I grabbed  The Joy of Cooking , which rarely lets me down, and then reached for one I don't look at often enough, my More-With-Less Cookbook . If you don't have this cookbook, it is worth adding to your library just for all the small words of wisdom tucked around the recipes. It's like having a book filled with your grandmother's notes. The book is filled with the mindset of using what you have, saving and preserving your bounty. It was just the inspiration I needed.

It got me thinking that there had to be another way, besides heating up my little kitchen with pots of boiling tomatoes, to preserve some of this garden goodness that we've been waiting for all year.

That's when I decided to dig deep in my closet and pull out the dehydrator my mother-in-law threw on our moving truck when we left Wisconsin for Maryland, a few years ago. I've used it once. For a large batch of apples, that apparently I was the only one who truly appreciated. 

I read online that the small, sweet and meaty tomatoes are the best for dehydrating. So I went to the garden and picked every single ripe small and meaty tomato I could find.

I washed and topped and sliced tomatoes, loading every single tray in the dehydrator and feeling quite proud of my little discovery.

I carried the dehydrator over to the only plug in the kitchen that I knew wouldn't blow the fuses in the whole house and plugged it in.

Silence.

I jiggled the cord. Smacked the lid down a few times. Banged it around on my counter. And searched for an "on" button, thinking maybe I'd forgotten how it worked.

When Dan came inside for lunch I was disheartened.

"I have this whole thing chock-full of tomatoes and it's completely dead. "

He got that glint of excitement in his eye, only a man can get, and went looking for a small screwdriver. While the girls and I sat the kitchen table eating our tuna fish sandwiches, he sat with the dehydrator across his lap, wires and fans and heating units hanging off in every direction.

After testing it with that little beeping pen that announces the presence of electricity with it's squealing beeps, he knew it was losing power somewhere and there was only one more thing to do with it--take it to my uncle's shop. 

He came home an hour later empty-handed and said something about a "diode" and that it couldn't be fixed.

But...my uncle had the exact same one in his basement.

And so, my friends, long story longer, I have successfully dehydrated my first batch of tomatoes. This may be my summer of the dehydrator. I wonder what other things I can suck the juice out of?

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Winners of the giveaway from Friday:

Cooking Fun goes to:

Gen:

Fantastic books, thank you for the wonderful giveaway.

Crafting Fun goes to:

Sarah said...

Both books look great - always looking for new ideas!

Congratulations! Please send me an email (found on the About Molly page) with your contact information and I'll pass it on to the publisher!