Farm Diva Potatoes

I can never seem to get a photograph of these potatoes before the dish is half gone.

Whenever there is an occasion for a rich and tasty potato side dish or simply an urgent need for a fast and simple side dish, this is my go-to recipe. It is perfect with breakfast, brunch, lunch, and dinner. It works on buffets or served on the plate.  It can be served from a large casserole dish or in individual baking cups.  It’s another one for which I’ve never really used measurements, because I was never given any… and they aren’t really necessary.  My sister got the recipe from her mother-in-law, Ginny, which is how they came to be known in our family as Gigi Potatoes.  Since you’ve probably never met Gigi, you can just call them yours.

Ingredients

28 oz. package frozen hash browns

1/3 stick butter

Lowry’s Seasoned Salt

Onion powder

Pepper

12 oz package shredded Colby Jack cheese

Paprika

½ cup half of half

Preparation 

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. 

Butter a 9”x13” baking pan and place the hash browns in the pan.  

Dot the hash browns with butter.  

Sprinkle Lowry’s Seasoned Salt evenly over the top of the hash browns. (The more you add the saltier it will be, so don’t overdo it.) 

Sprinkle onion powder evenly over the top of the hash browns. (Use about the same amount of onion powder as you did salt.) 

Sprinkle pepper over the hash browns.  

Cover the entire dish with the Colby Jack cheese.  

Sprinkle some paprika over the top. 

Pour half and half over the entire dish.  You may wish to add more or less depending upon how wet or dry you would like it. I use glass baking pans, so I  usually add half and half until I can see it pooling at the bottom of the dish.  

Place in the preheated oven and bake for about 25 minutes if thawed potatoes are used or for 45 minutes if frozen potatoes are used.  You may want to take a little bite before taking them out to make sure the potatoes are tender. 

Lamb and Mushroom Pirog

Lamb and Mushroom Pirog is one of my favorite dishes to cook around the holidays. It’s a great seasonal choice for Easter, but it’s hearty enough for winter celebrations. I usually make it for Christmas parties. It is one of those dishes that looks complicated to make, but in fact it is very simple.  Best of all, it can be made ahead and frozen, which makes it perfect for dinner parties.

This dish always inspires me to fire up the samovar, which is the centerpiece of Russian hospitality. I usually serve this with a potato dish, dilled cucumbers and cold borscht. Our family cold borscht recipe is also very basic, but amazingly tasty with just beets, sour cream, green onions and pepper. (I prefer cold borscht to hot even in winter time, because the chances of splattering or spilling beet juice is so much higher with hot borscht.)

I'm including the pirog recipe here.  I borrowed it years ago from my mother, who had the recipe in a cookbook.  The cookbook is long gone, and I don't even know the name of it.  The recipe is probably very close to the original, so if anyone recognizes it and can send me the name of the cookbook I would be grateful. Otherwise, I hope you will try it and enjoy this wonderful, warm comfort food.

Lamb and Mushroom Pirog

Dough Ingredients:

½ cup warm water

1 package yeast

½ teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons sugar

½ cup butter at room temperature

3 ½ cups flour

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 egg yolk

Filling Ingredients:

3 tablespoons of butter

2 pounds sliced mushrooms

2 tablespoons flour

2 teaspoons chopped fresh dill weed

½ cup sour cream or plain Greek yogurt

1 ½ pounds ground lamb

Make the lamb filling:

Melt three tablespoons of butter in a four quart sauté pan.  Add the mushrooms and cover and cook at medium heat for about five minutes, stirring occasionally.  Remove cover, turn up heat and cook off the liquid.  Mix in the flour, dill weed and sour cream.  Stir and cook until heated through and blended.  Pour into a large bowl and set aside.

Rinse pan and add the ground lamb.  Brown the lamb and break up the meat.

Drain off the fat and add the mushroom mixture.  Salt to taste.  Cover and chill.

Make pastry dough:

Place warm water in a large bowl.  Add yeast.  Wait five minutes.

Grease the inside of a large bowl with the olive oil and set aside.

Stir in salt, sugar, and eggs.  Cut butter into small pieces and add to liquid.  Add flour and mix until moistened.

Shape into a ball and place on a floured board.  Knead until smooth and elastic.

Place dough into the greased bowl and turn over once to coat with oil. Cover and let rise in a warm place until double, about one hour.

Assemble:

Grease a baking sheet and set out a second ungreased baking sheet.

Knead on floured board to expel air bubbles.  Pinch off about 1/2 cup and set aside.  Shape the larger piece into a ball and place on a floured surface.  Roll dough into a rectangle about 10” x 18”. Lay the pastry across the ungreased baking sheet.

Spoon cold lamb filling onto the dough at one end.  Shape the filling into a compact rectangle leaving space around the three outside edges..

Fold the exposed dough over the filling and pinch the bottom edge up over the sides.

Place the greased baking sheet face down onto the pirog.  Supporting with the lower pan, invert the pirog onto the greased baking sheet.

Roll out reserved dough to create decorations.

Baking (Immediately):

Let rise about 20 minutes.  Brush with egg and water mixture.  Prick top in six to eight places with a fork.  Bake at 350 degrees for about 50 minutes.  Serve hot, cutting into squares.

Baking (Make Ahead):

Cool the unbaked pirog.  Wrap and either freeze for several days or chill for 24 hours. 

If frozen, remove from freezer about eight hours before cooking. If it thaws more quickly you may move it back into the refrigerator until you are ready.

If chilled, remove from the refrigerator and let sit for about 40 minutes at room temperature.

Brush with egg and water mixture.  Prick top in six to eight places with a fork.  Cover loosely with foil and bake at 350 degrees for 50 minutes.

Per Serving: 319 Cal (46% from Fat, 23% from Protein, 31% from Carb); 18 g Protein; 16 g Tot Fat; 8 g Sat Fat; 6 g Mono Fat; 1 g Poly Fat; 25 g Carb; 1 g Fiber; 208 mg Sodium; 122 mg Cholesterol

The Glaring's Limoncello Dedication

Every year we dedicate our limoncello to a special dog, but this year the cats took over the house and the dedication goes to The Glaring. If you want to make your own limoncello follow this link.

2017 -- The Glaring's Limoncello

It’s 3 a.m. and five month old Sprite is pacing between the pillows mewing and purring. It’s time to eat, but she is being ignored. Tommy Lee, the all-occasion-cat, is waiting at the bedroom door, saying nothing. The humans will not stir for another hour, but when they do Tommy Lee will add her short, delicate “Me!” to the Sprite’s call for breakfast.
The soprano is warming up.
When the kitchen light turns on it’s time for Richard Parker to come upstairs. “Meh,” she yawns. The cat flap clacks as Lucy returns from the morning hunt, dropping her spoils at the door in anticipation of breakfast. She announces herself with a “Maaw!”
As coffee is made the kitchen comes to life. The cat dancers glide around and away from one another in an intricate quadrille. Their tails swish and eyes flash. Their distinctive voices sing rounds with a common chorus until at last the dishes are dropped in their separate corners. One by one the choir rests.

And the dogs? Where are the dogs? This is too much chaos for dogs. They will stay in bed until the coast is clear. The cats have taken over.

2017 -- The Glaring

2016 -- Tallulah

2015 -- Ratchet (No photograph available)

2014 -- Calicocoa

2013 -- Griffen

2012 -- Zamboni

2011 -- Milo

2010 -- Maggie

2009 -- Parker

2008 -- Rocket

2007 -- Zero

2006 -- Roland

Farm Diva's Braised Rosemary Chicken

This is one of my go to recipes for nights that I don't have a lot of time to prepare dinner. I make variations on it, depending upon what I have in the house. Sometimes I use Zinfandel for a little spicier flavor. Sometimes I use white wine, because that is what I have open. Sometimes I use yellow onions for a sweeter flavor. More tomatoes will make it sweeter too. Adding extra rosemary makes it more fragrant. I've used turkey broth and goose broth, because that was what I had in the freezer. Sometimes I throw all of the ingredients in a crock pot and forget about it for the day.

It's such a versatile (and forgiving) combination that I don't even measure anymore. Nonetheless, this version with the red onions and Cabernet Sauvignon is by far my favorite. I hope you like it too.

4 Servings

Ingredients:

1 medium red onion, chopped

4 chicken thighs

2-2.5 cups of fresh tomatoes, roughly chopped (1.5-2 cups Canned or frozen tomatoes will work also. The more tomatoes are used the thinner and sweeter the sauce will be.)

2 tablespoons of minced fresh rosemary

4 tablespoons rosemary olive oil (You can infuse your own by combining fresh rosemary sprigs and olive oil over low heat for 15-30 minutes.)

1.5 cups of chicken broth

1 cup of Cabernet Sauvignon

Flour

Pepper to taste

Salt (optional)

Preparation:

Pre-heat the oven to 425 degrees.

Heat two tablespoons of rosemary olive oil in a cast iron pan or dutch oven on the stove top. Dredge chicken thighs in flour and place in the pan. Salt and pepper the chicken to taste. Brown on each side. Remove chicken from the pan and set aside when the skin is just crispy.

Wipe the pan and add two tablespoons of rosemary olive oil. Heat the oil and add the chopped onion. When the onion becomes translucent stir in the rosemary, tomatoes, broth, and wine. Once it reaches a simmer, place the chicken back in the pan and scoop some of the sauce over the top.

Place the cover on the pan and move the pan to the oven. Bake at 425 degrees for 45 minutes.

Per Serving:

351 Calories

17.4 g Total Fat

3.8 g Saturated Fat

0 g Trans Fat

60 mg Cholesterol

351 mg Sodium

17.9 g Total Carb

2.9 g Dietary Fiber

4.9 g Sugar

Grilled Cobb Salad with Asparagus and Prosciutto

This recipe is adapted from one that appeared in Sunset Magazine in May 2017.  The original can be found on myrecipes.com or you can try this version with jammy grilled eggs.

6 servings

Salad without Dressing has 391 calories per serving
Dressing has about 107 calories for two tablespoons


Dressing ingredients:

• 1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
• 2 1/2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
• 3/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• 1/4 teaspoon salt (optional)
• 1/4 teaspoon ground pepper 
• 1 garlic clove, roughly chopped or pressed
• 2 tablespoons green onion leaves or chives
• 2 tablespoons Italian parsley

Salad ingredients:

• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• ¼ teaspoon of salt
• ¼ teaspoon of pepper
• 3 bunches green onions
• 2 pounds asparagus
• 2 heads butter lettuce
• 6 large eggs (older eggs will peel more easily)
• 5 ounces prosciutto
• 2 avocados
• 5 ounces Gorgonzola crumbles

Preparing the dressing:

• Finely chop the green onion leaves and parsley in a food processor. Add the remaining dressing ingredients and process until blended. 
• Set aside at room temperature.

Preparing the salad ingredients:

• Place one tablespoon of olive oil and ¼ teaspoon of salt and ¼ teaspoon of pepper in a large plastic bag or container.
• Rinse and trim the green onions and place them in the bag.
• Trim the asparagus and add it to the bag.
• Toss the onions and asparagus in the oil mixture to coat.
• Slice the avocados into eighths or bite size pieces as you prefer.
• To save time at the grill, lay out the prosciutto slices on baking trays so they do not stick together.
• Separate the butter lettuce and wash. Then lay out the leaves on the bottom of a large platter.

Grilling the salad ingredients:
(You may want to grill the eggs while you are preparing the other ingredients for the salad in order to save time.)

• Place a grilling tray on your grill and heat the grill to 450. The allow to cool to 350 degrees.
• Once heated, place the asparagus and green onions on the grilling tray. Close your grill cover and bake for 2-4 minutes to soften slightly. 
• Turn the vegetables and lay the prosciutto and eggs over the vegetables. Close your grill cover.
• Cook for ten minutes at 350, checking occasionally. The asparagus and green onions are done when soft and slightly braised.  The prosciutto should be brown.  When ready, these can be removed from the grill and set aside in a foil wrapper to keep them warm.
• Slightly jammy eggs will take ten minutes, but if you want a harder yolk leave them in for an extra four minutes. Plunge the eggs in cold water after grilling.

Putting it all together:

• Arrange the asparagus and onions on top of the lettuce bed. 
• Add the prosciutto and avocado.
• Peel the eggs and add slices to the salad.
• Sprinkle with Gorgonzola. 
• Serve the dressing on the side.

#farmdiva

Doorstep Delivery

One of our neighbors has some mobility problems making it a big hassle for them to pick up the morning paper at the end of the drive. They requested that the delivery person bring it to the front steps. For years our carrier could be seen around 3:00 a.m. tossing our paper at the edge of our property then driving at break neck speeds down the neighbors' driveway and back before disappearing down the road in under two minutes.

When a new carrier took over, the doorstep delivery stopped, and a number of phone calls to the newspaper went unheeded. Day after day our neighbor's newspaper would wait in the snow until one of them could manage the trip down to the end of the drive.

Always thoughtful, Salt began picking up their newspaper and walking it to their doorstep. He had to walk to the end of our drive to pick up our paper anyway and walking the driveway is about the only leisure time we have.

My neighbor had recently prepaid for some eggs this weekend. Usually, she stops by late in the day, but I thought to save her the trip and deliver the eggs with the paper. When I told Salt that I would walk the newspaper over with the eggs, he said, "You should take the bike like I did yesterday. I delivered it like a real paperboy."

I had misgivings about the idea. "I haven't been on a bike in years," I said. "I don't think I want my first time on a bike to be with eggs in a basket."

We may not have a basket on any of the bikes, because he said, "Who needs a basket?"

"You want me to try doing it with just one hand?" This sounded like an even worse idea given the fact I am so out of practice.

"You need a hand to throw anyway." He explained.

"You want me to throw the eggs too?" It took me a moment to figure out he was joking. We had a nice chuckle about it.

Needless to say the eggs and paper were safely delivered on foot.

#farmdiva

Watermelon Agua Fresca -- Country Style

Step One: Cut a watermelon into slices and separate from the rind. Set aside the rind.

Step Two: Puree the watermelon pieces and strain the puree.

Step Three: Pour the watermelon juice into a glass of ice and cut with water or soda, to taste.

Step Four: Pick a spring of mint, for garnish.

Step Five: Toss the rinds to the chickens.

Step Six: Put your feet up and enjoy the chicken mayhem in the yard while sipping a cool drink.

Follow the Farm Diva on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/PonderosaPlains/

#farmdiva

Homestead Tourists

At Home in the Spring

It seems like just yesterday we were taking down the Christmas tree for kindling and placing orders from seed catalogs.  Then I got sick and struggled through a very snowy spring to put in the garden before we left for vacation.  There were a million things to do before vacation and being flat on my back or snowed in did not help. There were seedlings to nurture and plant, beds to prepare, repairs to make and an irrigation system to reset. In a flurry of activity, we managed to get everything ready the night before we hopped on a plane to get away from it all.  

It was a busy spring indeed, and a vacation was well deserved. So where does a diva farmer and her dashing handyman go for vacation?  Of course, we chose a homestead in Alaska. Before I go much further I need to explain that “homestead” has a specific legal meaning and then there is a more colloquial sense of a self-sustaining farm. I am referring to the latter.

View from the Homestead

While I don't know how tourists find a homestead to play at sustainable living for a week in Alaska,  I just visit my family and add in some hiking and horseback riding*. 

Yes, I have family in Alaska; and yes, that is a fantastic conversation starter at cocktail parties. I often stand around sipping pear martinis telling droll stories about the amazing things people do without wireless internet access. As you know I am not and have never been a self-sufficient frontierswoman despite my familial link to the quintessential pioneer experience, so much of my life was spent hotfooting it away from such foolishness.  I come by my ineptitude at all farm related activities honestly.  The rural communities of my youth were by far more civilized than Alaska. Even though I was frequently at my grand parents’ farm growing up, I considered myself a visitor, proprio.

Now that I am by far more impressed by sustainable living than I was at sixteen, I am quite keen to go somewhere out of cell phone range and dig around in a garden.  Fortunately, my step-mother, a proper homesteader, lets me express my new found zeal by watering her plants between excursions.  I would honestly have been content to spend the whole vacation tending her garden and fishing had I not been intent on giving Salt his first real Alaskan experience.  

We hiked, we watched birds, we rode horses, and we drove a four-wheeler on what we think was the guide's hunting trip.  We caught halibut and collected rocks.

My Halibut

Our rock collecting was certainly a great amusement to the Alaskans.  Being used to the Outside -- the Alaskan term for the lower 48 -- and all of its rules about not collecting rocks in parks or reservations we were continuously asking with trepid curiosity, "Can we take a rock?" At first the Alaskans wouldn't understand the question.  They would look across the vast expanse of rock beach, then back to our innocent faces, before it occurred to them that we were dead serious. They refrained from openly laughing at us, but the mirth was in their eyes as they explained that we could take as many rocks as we wanted.  I am sure that they are still slapping their knees over those tourists who paid to ship back two boxes of rocks.  Rocks! But the joke is on them, because we would have gladly paid good money for those rocks.

On one night of our vacation, my indomitable relatives gathered for a party.  Alaskans are a special kind of people, whom I won't pretend to know well enough to characterize here.  But they know they are different and they know how they are special.  If you want to get a real look behind the rhubarb thicket into their lives, I suggest a memoir written by my Aunt Joan called "Cow Woman of Akutan," about homesteading in the Aleutians in the 1960s.  (Understand there was no indoor plumbing.) Unlike many memoirs I have read, it doesn't bore the reader with navel gazing.  It's a real page turner with every chapter leaving the reader wondering, "What will happen next?"  Obviously she survived, which is one of the unifying traits of Alaskans, but I will not spoil the book further other than to say that indoor plumbing is much more common now.

Head of the Bay

Another highlight of our trip was horseback riding to the head of the bay.  We watch a lot of "Alaska the Last Frontier" here, because the subjects of this reality show live a few miles from my family.  On the television show they are always riding to the head of the bay to tend their cattle and having to swim the horses across the tidal rivers because someone neglected to check the tide charts.  We did both of these things.  Riding a swimming horse was not on my bucket list, but it should have been, because it was fun... for me, but not for the horse.

Ultimately, though we had to pack up our halibut and fly home to catch up on our own chores at home. Over a month later, we have not caught up on our chores... but then I somehow doubt we ever will. We need a vacation.

Places to Stay in Homer, Alaska:
Katchemak Bay Cabin on Airbnb
Glacier View Cabin on Airbnb

Things to Do:
Trails End Horse Adventure --(907) 235-6393
Alaska Adventure 4-Wheeler Tour -- (907) 235-6393 (Read the signs. Don't touch the dog.)
Rainbow Tours -- (Ferry to Seldovia, wildlife tour, and halibut fishing.)
Grewynk Glacier Hiking Trails -- You'll need to book a water taxi round trip, so try Mako's Water Taxi.

Read Before You Go:
Cow Woman of Akutan by Joan Brown Dodd on Amazon

The Easter Blues

A typical Easter up on the Palmer Divide includes snow. It's difficult to believe that a week ago the grass was green, the trees were starting to bud and I was closing up the chicken coop at night without even bothering to don a jacket.  That was the day before the blizzard dumped 18 inches of snow on us. The subsequent four days of overcast and snow have finally given way to the sun, which is why I bundled up and headed out to the paddocks to dig a path for the chickens.

I looked great, by the way, wearing my fancy galoshes, my burgundy barn coat and my new brown felt slouch hat. Admittedly, I can still be seen in the yard wearing some highly unfashionable get-ups that result from a single mindedness to get to work that makes me all too absent minded about my appearance.  On those days I appear as a diminutive, firebrand hauling my cumbersome wheelbarrow to and fro with great determination, while dressed as a wild eyed bohemian. Most likely my attire is what I pulled out of the laundry that morning so I wouldn't get my good clothes dirty.  Often, I realize half way through the morning that I really should do Salt the favor of reminding him that I am still the fashionable sophisticate he married.

Fashion aside, I need not have bundled up this morning, despite the fact it was 29 degrees out as I chipped away at the densely frozen snow. The plastic snow shovel wouldn't cut the icy pack, so I cut small blocks with a garden spade and pulled up blocks that would have been excellent material for an igloo.  This was a hot and sweaty job laboring in the sun.  I took frequent breaks to catch my breath, enjoying the sparkling glint of the eastern sun reflecting off of the crystalline lake that is a pasture in warmer weather. The ponderosas were still tufted with snow, and the sky was bright blue and cloudless.  The crisp air smelled faintly of mesquite, which is how I knew that Salt had put a brisket on the smoker. 

After freeing the chickens and airing out their coop, I headed inside to reflect a little on the day and, obviously, to blog.  Salt, who could make a profession of reflection if he chose to publish his writing, had already concluded the sitting silently portion of his contemplation time. He had moved on to practicing the harmonica. And so, my appreciation of life continues as he plays the blues with the dogs sleeping nearby and watches the temperature of his brisket.  It feels a little like Easter in a roadhouse, which has its charm.

So here is wishing you all a happy Easter. We are having a day most worthy of celebrating with gratitude: warm sun on our faces, cool breezes in the smoke scented mountain air, dogs at our feet, dinner and family on the way and music all around. Happy Easter!

Small Successes for the Diva Dog

This morning while I was making the bed, Calicocoa -- my diva-dog-in-training-- lumbered into the room and upon seeing me she sat down to wait. An expectant look was on her happy face.  I continued arranging the bedspread and setting the pillows in place.  As I was putting the cover over the last pillow I looked at her and said brightly, “Good girl!” At that she leaped onto the bed and collapsed onto the cushioning comforter and pillow top.  Once settled she turned her face to me, waiting for more praise and petting, which she received. 

It was a gratifying moment to see how far kindness has brought our old girl. She didn't always know that she could trust herself, much less trust us.

I recall when she first came to us nearly two years ago, she would return to bed in the mornings to take a post-breakfast nap. Since I needed to make the bed, I would quietly, but firmly, say “Get down.” This simple, calm statement would inspire fear bordering on terror, as she scrambled off of the bed and out of the room with her tail between her legs. This wasn’t the only clue we had that our sweet Calicocoa had been brought up in an environment where commands accompanied violence. 

For weeks, when I told her to get down from the bed, I tried to say the words “Good dog” before she could rush out of earshot. Eventually she slowed down enough that I could pet her and praise her properly for getting down from the bed. Always, when I finished making the bed, I called her back so she could resume her rest. Finally, she began lingering long enough to watch what I was doing, until she could anticipate when she would be called back.

Finally, she knows that she isn’t bad for being on the bed.  She is good for waiting patiently until I am done with whatever it is I’m doing every day. Now that she understands the rules, she can succeed and it seems to make her happy.

A few months later we trained her to use the dog door.  She senses a trap in every puzzling training moment, so it was slow going for her.  It took a few days to teach her to use the door, but even longer to teach her that the door was there for her to use when she desired it, as opposed to when she was told to use it. Part of the delay was that it took me a few days to surmise that she was afraid to make an independent decision to use the door. Once I understood the problem, I began by showing her a treat, then walking outside with it and calling her.  If she came through the door she received the treat.  After a couple of days of this, I stopped calling her. I could see her big nose poking through the door as she tried to decide if it was worth the risk. Eventually, she took the plunge and received her treat. Three repetitions later, she knew the back garden was her domain. 

Calicocoa has made other improvements.  As much as she detests little Griffin she tolerates his proximity and even takes a defensive posture when “strangers” get too close to him. 

She is still wary of strangers herself, but quicker to accept their presence and with certain rare visitors she warms up enough to be friendly. Last summer she met my cousin and within minutes adopted the demeanor of a cuddly 60 pound lap dog. Most of the time, we have to send her to her special spot until she is calm enough to assess the situation rationally. We may be working on Calicocoa’s stranger issues until the old girl is gone, but her definition of a friend keeps growing broader as she feels safer and trusts herself more. All she needs is love and praise. All she wants is to succeed.

This Mean Old House

Our downstairs is completely torn apart.  The items in the storage closets have been housed in the garage since July.  The furnishings are stacked in the center of the room, covered in dusty plastic. The hallway and bedroom closets have no walls.  Long channels have been cut through the ceilings to expose the floor above. 

The reason for this catastrophe is the installation of the first ever central heating system in our house. We paid dearly for the privilege of nearly freezing last winter. The $400-$600 /monthly electric bills moved that gas furnace right to the very top of the list of renovations. The new furnace needed a place to be, so we had to expand the utility closet. Salt, being an architect, naturally decided this would be a great time to change the configuration of the downstairs guest rooms, because architects decide stuff like that with the same ease that I decide to buy a new comforter set for the bedroom.

In short, our basement is a construction zone, but let me tell you a little about the do-it-yourself experience from the perspective of a novice.

You know those reality shows where the homeowners help with demolition and finish the job in what the show purports to be the same day with enormous grins on their faces? The homeowners always start out energetically heaving sledgehammers and gleefully tossing large fixtures into a dumpster. They laugh as they kick down walls like they were made of papier maché. It looks like so much fun. 

Now that I’ve done a demolition, I know those happy-go-lucky, dust covered homeowners really spent the day in the craft services tent munching on muffins, while day laborers ripped the studs out and painstakingly removed every last remaining nail head.  Oh, I’m sure someone occasionally calls those homeowners away from the break table to get a shot of them helping the host lift something heavy, but there is no way they do a full day of demolition and have the energy to smile.

My first day of demolition went something like this. . .

8:30 – 9:30 a.m. – I remove the baseboards from the hallway and closets, scraping my hands on the floor with the pry bar. 

9:30 –9:40 a.m. – Find my gloves and begin tackling the trim around the doorways. 

9:40 – 9:50 a.m. – Push and pull with all my might on the trim around the doorways.  Try to think of ladylike sounding curse words and settle on growling in gibberish, until Salt comes to remove the trim from around the door.

9:50 – 9:55 a.m. – Try knocking out dry wall in the hallway. The sledgehammer bounces off of the wall several times.  Salt demonstrates how to find the sweet spot with one’s foot. 

9:55 – 10:00 a.m. – Miss the sweet spot.  Spend a few minutes trying to extract my foot from the wall. In the meantime, Salt finishes removing the door frames and begins removing drywall surrounding one of the closets.

10:00 -10:30 a.m. – Remove the dry wall from the hallway.  Begin tackling the nail heads from the studs that will be remaining in place. If we don’t have a craft services tent, we should at least have a production assistant bring us lattes.  Note for next demolition: hire a personal assistant (PA).

10:30 a.m. – 2:00 p.m.  – For three and one half seemingly endless and unrewarding hours, remove nails that were put in by an OCD contractor who was clearly afraid the linen closet would fall down if the dry wall was not secured every three inches by a nail. I have two blood blisters on my thumb from pinching it under the hammer and have hit myself in the face twice when stubborn nails gave way suddenly.

2:00 – 2:10 p.m. – Take a break from removing nails to take out a stud. Pound on the stud for a couple of minutes, then look helplessly at Salt. Salt rips it out with his bare hands. I explain, “I could have done that, but I have these blood blisters.”

2:10 – 2:15 p.m. – It’s time to assess the damage. I’ve been up and down the step ladder so many times, my thighs and gluts are screaming. My shoulders and neck are stiff and sore. My blood blisters need bandages. The joints in my hands are completely swollen and bruised from pounding against the pry bar. I can no longer close my right hand. We’re not even half way done with the demolition. House 10, Diva 2.

2:00 p.m. Time to tear out a stud.

2:15 – 3:30 p.m. – I decide the house is mean and endeavor to remove more nails just to show it who is boss.  Trip up and down the ladder a few more times.  Hit myself with the face with the hammer handle pretty hard this time.

3:30 p.m. – Officially exhausted to the point where I am more of a danger to myself than the house. Note for next demolition: hire day labor in addition to a PA.

4:00 p.m. – My last ounce of energy is spent lifting my arms to wash my hair. It’s time to lie on the sofa and die.  Salt is still downstairs working. Shouldn’t the camera crew be taking the victory shot of us high fiving each other in the rubble by now? I couldn’t lift my arms anyway. I dare the DIY Network to show up on my doorstep. I’d give them a piece of my mind. On second thought, I’m too tired for that too.

In summary, it took three weekends to finish the demolition, and I probably only did a quarter of the work. I’m not as fast or able as Salt.  Partly it was because I didn’t have a PA to raise my beer bottle in a toast to success at the end of the day, so I had to conserve my energy.  Mostly, it was because I try not to be in the same room with a sawzall for a variety of reasons related to me being klutzy menace to myself and others.

After the demolition, it took three more weeks for Salt to install the duct work, and six painful weeks for the furnace company to complete the installation of the furnace.  This last was only made possible by the heroic efforts of the company’s salesman, who spent weeknights at our house for three weeks.  Ultimately, the furnace was fired up just in time for the first cold snap of the season. We received our first gas bill after a full month of heating which was $80. .  and the entire house is warm.

Central heating is an amazing invention. It is now my second most appreciated household convenience, after running water. Someday, we’ll get the downstairs put back together again, hopefully before the satisfaction of being warm wears off.

Monsters in the Dark

Autumn is the cold and damp season here at 6600 feet above sea level, which gives us the unusual experience of waking up to a yard socked in by clouds. The days are getting shorter too, so we go to work in the dark and come home to a few fading minutes of light to work by in the evening. On a particularly cloudy morning last week, I made my way to the chicken coop in the dark through a dense cloud obscuring my vision for all but the few feet in front of me. In the beam of my flashlight, I could see wisps of mist shifting in the air like sodden ghosts.

Yes, it is the season for ghost stories, but instead I have a monster story. It is a true story of something that occurred last October. I've been saving it to tell you now.

It started with the snow. We'd been getting light, but frequent snow for the previous couple of weeks, which is not unusual in the autumn.  There is also nothing strange about finding deer tracks in the fresh snow around our house each morning, but earlier that week I had also seen paw prints on our deck and around the yard that looked like those of a cat.

One morning walking out to the chicken coop in the dark, flashlight in hand, I noticed as I rounded the garage that there were larger paw prints intermingled among the deer tracks. We hear coyotes every night and see them frequently tracking the deer from a distance. I was suddenly wary.

Approaching a deer in the dark is dangerous enough, but running into a coyote is even more troubling. Besides my own safety should I startle one in the dark, I am not particularly keen for the coyotes to be on the property taking notice of the chickens. With a flush of concern, I tightened my grip on the flashlight. I swung the beam around to make certain there was nothing else in the area as I made my way to the safety of the barn. At least, I thought it was safe.

The entrance to the chicken coop is inside the barn. As I opened the outer barn door that leads to their inside run, I noticed that they were unusually quiet that morning. Usually, they are at the coop door clucking and pecking in anticipation of freedom, but not on this particular morning. The coop was still and eerily silent. Expecting a sense of relief when I entered the barn, my concern about the tracks outside was quickly renewed.  Could an animal make its way into the coop somehow? 

I called out my usual song. "Hey, hey, hey, chicka-bay-bay-bays!" Silence answered.

Trying to shrug off the mounting tension, I stayed on task. Ignoring the fact that there were no chickens waiting impatiently on the other side of the coop door, I unlocked it and swung it open before making a perfunctory turn to drop the flashlight on a shelf nearby so I could have both hands free for the scratch bucket.

As I was shifting the flashlight to the shelf I saw something in the narrow beam of light, something huge and grey. It registered in my brain just as I settled the flashlight into place. The shaggy, grey mass was crouched low to the ground, lumbering slowly toward the doorway, exiting the coop. 

I started and cried out. What could this be? A possum? A raccoon? How? Had it chewed its way in? These thoughts flashed through my mind in the millisecond it had taken me to jump away.

I had no time to regain composure as I recoiled in horror. Even in the darkness, my unaccustomed eyes could make out the dark mass of the grotesque monster relentlessly plodding toward me. My poor hens! Poor me! What deadly, sharp teeth and powerful jaws it must have in its terrible maw. And claws... Did it have claws? My mind raced. My heart pounded.

I took several slow steps back. My eyes were wide with horror and I could not look away from its lumpy, headless, misshapen body...

In the dim, indirect light provided by the flashlight I had just set aside, my eyes adjusted and I realized that its bulbous body was the same shape, size and color of our rooster, Javier. His down-turned head had been outside the pool of light during the instant I saw it. His feathers had been fluffed out to insulate against the cold, making him look even larger than usual. It might have helped to have worn my glasses too.

The hens were slowly rousing from their deep sleeps on the frigid roost. And after hearing a few coos from the room, I knew everyone was safe.

It goes to show that our minds can make us see the things we expect. On this particular morning I expected to find a monster in the chicken coop rather than chickens.

Typical for me it was a lot of drama about nothing, but there were consequences.  Once Javier had sensed weakness I had to put up with two days of him posturing and threatening me when I came in the coop. We worked it out with lots of petting to show him I'm not scared. He detests, but tolerates, being petted. My little monster.

Now, I just have to remember my glasses and hope I don't mistake a coyote for a chicken another time.  Happy Halloween!

The Rooster Whisperers

I love my rooster.  From a human perspective he's a little stinker on his best days, but as roosters go, he's pretty great.  He keeps his flock in order. He pronounces his reign at the top of his lungs frequently enough to keep the other roosters in their own yards. He protects the girls from predators and each other.  He calls them when there is food. His frequent mating keeps the egg production up.

He can be pretty brutal with the girls. He believes in his testosterone-bathed, cashew-sized, bird brain that it's all for the best... and they believe it too. If one considers that he is the vanguard between the girls and predators, their survival role is simplified to coming when called or getting out of the way when he sounds the alarm. Whether the girls like him or not isn't relevant.  Some cling to his side seeking protection from the other girls and a prize spot when he finds a treat he wants to share.  Others steer clear of him, as though they were polarized magnets.  It's a working system and he knows how to run it.

If hens are ambivalent about roosters, imagine how rare it is for a farmer to love a rooster.  I'd heard so many horror stories of aggressive, attack roosters that I was a little nervous about bringing one home. Javier certainly is an intimidating size, and he was not happy about being taken from his home by complete strangers.

We were lucky, though, that he had been handled a lot by his previous owners, so he wasn't completely terrified of humans. Still in his early days here he didn't trust us and was intent on being in charge. Or at least that is how the rooster whisperers might have described his dilemma.

I've found the rooster whisperers on various blogs and message boards about chickens. They are a highly controversial group of chicken farmers who are usually shouted down for their recklessness and blind admiration of all demonic poultry.  Most of the whisperers say they've never met a bad rooster.  All of them say that neither threatening, nor assaulting, nor running in terror will induce a rooster to behave with any semblance of rooster-civility. Based on my limited experience I have reason to believe the rooster whispers are right.

The trick, they say, is to think like a chicken. In chicken-think, humans are potentially threatening, a status that garners the aggression of roosters protecting their flocks. Brandish a stick in any direction, wave your arms in the air, talk excitedly and the rooster will think one means to hurt him. This triggers an aggressive response from posturing to outright attack. Given this, one would think the goal would be to be non-threatening, but roosters tend to read that as submission. They also sense fear and read that as submission too. Roosters react to submission by being more aggressive in order to establish dominance. A rooster, as I have observed, will almost certainly jump at anyone he thinks he can bully.

The rooster whisperers focus on creating a balance between exerting dominance over the rooster, being benevolent toward the rooster and being a predictable element within the flock. An easier way to think about it is establishing mutual respect in which the flock keeper respects the rooster as the head of the flock and doesn't disrupt his order.  The rooster in turn is taught to treat the flock keeper as a peer, which is not a friendly relationship in rooster-think. Peers are competition, but not necessarily subject to attack. A good peer relationship among roosters is more like aloof acceptance.

When I first got Javier, I was very intimidated by him, but I tried not to let him see it.  That was easier said than done, because he was prone to making sudden, skittering sideways runs at me, which almost always made me start and gasp. I usually managed to stay firmly where I stood, and eventually recover the presence of mind to take a couple of sideways steps back toward him. We would square off in our side-facing crouches studying each other with one eye, until I would relax my shoulders and calmly walk away with my chin held high as if my point had been made.

One rooster whisperer I follow espouses picking them up when they get ornery.  The difficulty here is catching them. Salt can  catch Javier every time, but even if I catch up with Javier I often fumble the hold. Fortunately in those early days Javier was just as uncertain about my abilities as I was about his, so he didn't make a serious advance on me.

It was during that time that Javier began his current practice of taking scratch from my hand. I used it as a means of getting him to approach me and of gaining his trust. The old food bribe worked, but there is a price.  The little stinker bites. Fortunately, he doesn't bit hard.

To this day, the girls race for the scratch I throw on the ground, while he stands perfectly still glaring at me insistently, waiting for his handful.  When I put my hand down his beak dives into my hand and begins biting. Sometimes he eats, but usually he just bites me as he calls out excitedly, "tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck!" This is his rooster-speak for "Look here, girls! I've invented food! Come look! I'm amazing!" And they do come running to eat out of my hand, while he steps back to look on in pride. When the scratch runs out, he starts glaring at me again. We repeat this until I'm bored with it. For his part he is never tired of insisting I serve him so he can bite me and claim credit for the tasty treats he gifts to the girls. Stinker is definitely the best description for him.

Once I got used to being bitten by a rooster, I stopped being frightened of Javier. I've learned, however that he never lets his guard down and neither should I.  The first time he really squared off with me, worked out spectacularly in my favor because I didn't even see it coming. I was leaning over feeder, pouring in some fresh pellets, when I felt something solid hit me hard on the back of the leg. It didn't hurt because I was wearing galoshes and I was too busy concentrating on not spilling the feed to be startled. I didn't even react.

I realized what must have happened in the couple of seconds it took for me to finish filling the feeder. When I was done, I calmly stood up and turned around.  The guilty scoundrel was alone with me in the coop, still eyeing me with raw disdain.

I thought, "I'm still bigger." I took two measured steps toward him then swiftly leaned down and grabbed him around his body, catching his feet in my hands, pinning his wings with my arms.  I stood up and pulled his body toward mine. As soon as his wing contacted my chest, he leaned his head into me and his body relaxed into mine. I stood there stroking him for a moment as though soothing a baby.

Then I held out my arms to let him go.  He leaped to the ground and barked angrily at me. His eyes flashed daggers before he turned to stalk away. Boys don't want to be hugged by their mamas, especially in front of girls. Roosters are no different, so we don't have these sorts of confrontations often.

Indeed, nowadays, I enter the coop looking for him. We look each other over in silent acknowledgement and then I carefully step around him to go about the chores. He follows me, I think partly to make sure I know he's still in charge, partly to show the girls he's on guard for them, and partly to make sure I don't suddenly drop a watermelon rind or other treat that he needs to distribute to the girls. With only one rooster to my account, I can't say that I'm a rooster whisperer, but Javier and I have found our way to mutual respect. He may be a stinker, but he's the the stinker in charge of my chicken coop.

On being a success...

If you didn’t know by now, I will tell you that I don’t know anything about farming.  I spend a great deal of my “free” time reading and thinking about chickens, soil, preserving food, garden pests, etc. just to get myself up to speed on projects that are flying at me as fast as the seasons change. I am on a sharp learning curve when it comes to all matters of the mini-farm, which is why I talk about it so much. As a farm diva, I flounder in ignorance, overwrought and overwhelmed by every project. I am not competent.

But in my other life, my professional life, I am truly a master at planning meetings. (Allow me to take a moment to think of Ganesha as a reminder that a true proficient never stop learning.) I handle numerous meetings over the course of a year, but every year I have one large conference on a scale that consumes my life. I work long hours and weekends, taking calls and answering emails from home. I become the hub of communication assessing needs, placing orders, directing activities, and solving problems in a complex logistical system that I create and that grows larger and larger as the first day of the conference approaches. My co-workers who have been recruited to assist in these projects have noted that I seem unflappable regardless of how much is going on or how large a problem has just been thrown at me. Of course, the advantage of being the hub is the ability to see the entire picture, but my biggest advantage is that I’ve done this a lot, for many years. I know I can handle it. There’s not much to say about it. It’s just what I do. 

Knowing what needed to be done this past spring when my conference was rolling around, I had planned ahead to have everything buttoned up on the mini-farm so I could focus those last few weeks on my conference. All went well until the last week, when Salt had to leave town on a business trip. Initially, this only meant to me that long days would be longer, I didn’t realize I would be getting a lesson in the depth of my humanity. Enter Linnea. . .

Linnea

Linnea, you may recall, is one of my chickens, whom I had no intention of spending time on during those few days Salt was away other than to give them food, water and shelter. What I didn’t know that week was that Linnea was sick. In fact, she was dying.

I had noticed her struggling through some tall grass when I went out to feed the chickens one  evening, but when I returned an hour later to lock the coop for the night, I saw she had not gone inside. Shortly, I realized she wasn’t walking or standing. Hopeful, I picked her up and set her down a few times. Every time, she collapsed, until the rooster jumped on her back and one of the other girls pecked her head. I had no idea what was happening to her, but I knew she wouldn’t be alive in the morning if I left her to the flock’s tender mercies.

Thinking I really didn’t have time for this, I scooped her up and took her inside where I deposited her in a dog crate while I searched the internet for clues. It was eight o’clock at night. I hadn’t eaten. I was tired. I had meetings in the morning. Linnea fell on her side, her feet sticking out at strange angles, her chest heaving with every breath. I had no idea what to do and the internet search had been inconclusive. 

The best advice for the multitude of problems that could be causing her symptoms was to give her water. I put a dish in her crate, she lifted her head to the edge and collapsed into it.  Fantastic! I was drowning a chicken! I pulled her face out of the water, and waited for her sneezing to subside. Then little by little I fed her water with an eye dropper, until she fell asleep.

I thought that this little mercy would just be a parting gift before she left for the happy pecking grounds. I woke in the night to give her more water. . . still alive. And in the morning, still alive, she lifted her head. My first foggy thought of the day was, “Great.  Now I have to do something about her.” And to my surprise, because I can surprise myself, my next thought was “I can’t leave her here like this. I can’t go into the office.” Understand, I was five days away from the start of a conference. I had meetings to attend. I had problems to solve. I had last minute orders to place. I had people waiting on me to know what to do next. And, I had no intention of letting Linnea die alone of dehydration. I didn’t have any idea if she was going to live or die from whatever had made her sick, but it was definitely not going to die from neglect.

I’m pretty sure that my grandparents would have opted to break her little neck and have done with it at that point; and I had hoped I’d be such a pragmatic farmer. At that particular moment I wanted to cut my losses in such a simple way, but my conscience was nagging at me. Could I really break a chicken's neck, because it was inconvenient to my work schedule?  Ignorance was still nagging at me too. I really had no idea why she was sick or how bad it was, having had no basis of comparison.

I finally decided to take her to the local veterinarian.  Mind this is not a farm vet, and most farm vets don’t deal in chickens anyway, because most farmers just wring their necks when they are sick. Prize show chickens – yes, people really show chickens for prizes -- go to avian specialists half-way across town and pay premium prices. I happened to know our local vet owns chickens, so I decided to take my chances there.

An hour later, I was standing outside the veterinarian’s office when it opened, irrationally dressed for work with a chicken in a dog crate tucked under my arm. When I explained to the receptionist that I had a sick chicken, she said, “Oh. . . and you’re here to put it down.” Conflicted between the my shock at her stark pronouncement and the indignation at the idea I couldn’t figure out how to break a chicken’s neck, I managed to stammer politely, “Uh. . . well. . . let’s take a look at her first.” 

The veterinarian was more diplomatic when I explained the situation; cautiously suggesting that I could take it to an avian specialist for tests. “No, she’s a layer hen,” was my firm, swift response, which I hoped made it clear that I was under no illusion that this was a $20 chicken. I just wanted to know generally what might be wrong with her and to give her a chance if she had a chance. After a brief examination, the vet concluded that it was a respiratory infection that may or may not be cleared up with an antibiotic injection. I consented to the injection, and five minutes later I was back on the sidewalk with a $60 receipt, more knowledge than I had before, and the same dilemma I’d had all night.

Linnea couldn’t be left alone.

I've certainly had to set aside personal interest for the benefit of others before. Indeed, an attitude of self-sacrifice for the service to others is what drives the best meeting planners through the eighteen hour long days of conferences. But, never before, had I had to make a choice between my attendees or my team and a bird. I was ridiculously, ineptly, and unexpectedly the only person Linnea could count on at that moment to ease her suffering. I called my boss from my cell phone, “I’ve still got this sick chicken and she can’t get to food or water by herself, so I’m on my way into the office with her.” That moment on the sidewalk is one of my finest moments of my career as a meeting planner, because it was one of my finest moments as a human being. Kudos to my boss for overcoming the stunned silence with, “Let me see if there’s something we can do and I’ll call you back.” I am aware that an office building is no place for a chicken, but I had to be at the office and I had to give Linnea water every couple of hours and I was determined to do both. . . and I did.

My boss called back as I was pulling up to the building, and told me they had found a space in the covered garage where I could park. It was a sheltered, temperate, airy, safe place to leave her crate while I worked. I gave Linnea some water and raced upstairs for a flurry of meetings. Five meetings, four phone calls, three emails and two hours later I was back out the door with a brief case full of notes to work on at home. When I got to the car, Linnea was sitting up by herself for the first time, so I held her water dish up to her beak. She gulped from the dish. Hallelujah! 

Linnea spent the afternoon napping at my feet while I worked in my study. By late afternoon she was eating and her breathing was easier.  I left her water and food dishes with her overnight and in the morning she was crawling around the crate. A crawling chicken is a little sad to watch, but in this case it was a vast improvement.

With Linnea able to get herself to her water, I left her alone for the day. That evening we went to the garden where she made a wobbly attempt at standing. Over the course of the next few days she progressed from taking teetering steps to being able to stand and walk for several minutes. I gave her an extra day to recuperate before moving her to back to the coop, where she stayed in a large brooding cage for a few weeks until she was strong enough to join the others.

Indeed, Linnea lived. 

I don't think I am Linnea's hero for saving her life; she could just as easily have died in my care. Rather, what happened with Linnea touched me very deeply by giving me that rare glimpse of myself at my best. We all do the right thing every day, but usually our lives are arranged to make our choices easier. We don't always notice or give ourselves credit for the sacrifices we make. 

In the aftermath of this, I had another excellent conference and have earned an asterisk next to my "Meeting Professional" title that reads: "Crazy Chicken Lady." While this epithet may have once mortified me as a mark on my professional reputation, at this point in my life I'll wear the mark proudly. You see, my definition of success has changed. I certainly want to be a great meeting planner and to be great at caring for my chickens, but above all I want to do best at being my best self. I feel assured that on that day when Linnea was so sick, I managed it. Success!