I don't know about the rest of you, but there are times when I let my life get in the way of my life.

This is my first new blog post in roughly 2 years, which even for me is hard to believe. It's been a whirlwind. Over the past 24 months, our daughter has gotten married, made us grandparents, bought a house and moved closer to us, and become pregnant again. Our son-in-law deployed to Afghanistan (and returned safely), our oldest son got married, our youngest son joined the Army, and our middle son is set to graduate university. 

And that's just the kids.

I could go on, but I'm not sure anyone wants to read a 10-page blog post. The point is, I've been incredibly preoccupied and haven't been able to open those rooms in my mind which contain anything worth writing about. However, a rogue virus from who-knows-where has worked to put a lot of us out of work- at least temporarily. So, I've started to think about writing again, now that I have quite a lot of extra time on my hands.

My writing gears are fairly rusty, however, so I've been perusing some old posts to refresh my memory of just exactly how to get the words down properly. I was slightly startled to see just how many recipes I've posted over the years! 
As I've enjoyed reviewing these recipes, I've noticed that I haven't provided much material for our vegetarian and vegan friends, so I thought the break in the dry spell should be for them. 

This incredibly versatile cake can also be gluten free. Just substitute the total amount of regular flour for the gluten free mix of your choice. 

Enjoy!

Vegan Chocolate Cake

 1 cup all purpose flour
 1 cup whole wheat flour (you can easily just use 2 cups all purpose)
2 cups white sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 cup cocoa powder
1 cup oil
2 cups plant milk (soy, rice, nut)
1 Tbsp vinegar
1 tsp vanilla

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Prepare a pan of your choice with nonstick spray.
Combine dry ingredients and mix well. Combine wet ingredients, and add to dry ingredients, mix well and pour into pan. Batter will be quite loose, but fear not, it bakes up beautifully! 
Bake for 50 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean or cake springs back at a fingertip touch.

Saturday is all about chores. Mostly laundry.
​
It seems that through the week socks, washcloths, underwear and towels meet in the dark corners of the house and make babies. While in the dark corners, the socks especially meet the dust bunnies, and the result is a barnstormer of a mess.

So that's my Saturday in a nutshell. Vacuum in one hand, coffee in the other.

I'm one of the millions of lucky Americans who work the ubiquitous "banker's hours"; Monday through Friday, with a nice easy weekend to recover. No nights, no holidays. Just a good-old-fashioned, punch-the-time-clock, routine-rules kind of lifestyle.

And I like it that way.

As a part-time writer with a full-time imagination, my routine is king. The Ordinary battles with the WHAT IF stories that write themselves in my fertile mind. The Unremarkable soothes the fevered fiction that cooks itself into reality- never mind that it's utter fantasy until it's backed with something that resembles a fact. Childhood, it seems, is crammed with adults proclaiming the value of the gift of creativity; 'Just let your imagination carry you to lands of wonder!', they'd crow. 'Be creative! Nothing can limit you!'

What a load of baloney. In people like me, imagination can morph into reality in the drop of a coin. Ever wonder why so many creative people seem so eccentric? It's just their attempt to distract themselves from their own powerful imagination, locked inside themselves like their own personal dragon- only occasionally restrained enough to give the gatekeeper peace. 

I certainly don't paint all gifted or visionary folks with this idiosyncratic brush. For me, however, creativity can be a cruel taskmaster, and the antidote is invariably a steady diet of Routine. So Saturday chores, while drudgery to most normal people, are a comfort to me. I pick up, organize, tidy and put right all the chaos born through the week. 

Recently, in mid-chores, I noticed something peculiar; on nearly every windowsill was a penny. Suspending my tasks for a moment, I examined each one. Noting their locations on the laundry room, bathroom, spare room, sitting room and kitchen windows, the only remarkable thing about them was that they were unremarkable. No special shine or abrasions, ordinary dates; just disks of tarnished copper. 

With the heavy sigh of a long-suffering housekeeper, I gathered them all up and slid them into the pocket of my sweatpants so I could dust the ledges and carry on with my day. Approaching the penny pot, the weight of coins jingling dully, I stopped. If I added them to the spare change cup, I would only be 5 cents richer. If I left them where they were- on the windowsills- perhaps they would serve as a reminder of the value of the Everyday. The Commonplace. The Familiar. The Standard. The Normal..

The Secure.
The Intact.
The Protected.
The Plain.
Facts.

Nothing invented, no embellishment, only non-fiction pennies.

Those humdrum disks of minted metal are still there in their places- each a tiny talisman to ward off the stories that stalk me. 

Maybe someday the story of each will reveal itself.



​Then again, maybe not.

"Have you been fingerprinted before?" asked the woman.
"Well...no...that's why I'm here." I replied, feeling my annoyance ratchet up another notch.
"Ok, put your thumbs here on the scanner," responded the doddering, gray haired woman wearing a delicate gold wedding band and blindingly white running shoes with ragged ankle socks. She didn't look like she'd be walking far without assistance, let alone running. 

The heat of irritation rose even further. To have to be fingerprinted at age almost 51, in order to attend sporadic substitute teaching jobs was galling. To be fingerprinted at all, having not robbed a bank, or assaulted anyone- or committed any other crime for that matter- in my entire life, was vexing. Of course, the reality is that there are so many rotten, ill-behaved humans these days, decent folk have to prove their worth, instead of the nasty ones being shipped to a desert island somewhere to eat each other alive.

Hear the rankle? That's Menopausal Me speaking. 


​

Menopause is a fascinating chapter to venture through. Medical sources define it as the 'ceasing of menstruation', but it's ever so much more. Although certainly including physiological changes, emotional and spiritual changes are a big part of the package too.

I see this time of my life as a re-awakening of sorts, a nature-enforced chance to be the person I was when I was a free-wheeling 6 year-old; before I was forged into a law-abiding, mostly courteous, self-controlled middle aged mother. (Soon to be grandmother). As a bonus, MEnopauseMe gets to take advantage of 40-something years of observations and opinions- most of which are the result of living such a long time, and not those I was indoctrinated with by my long-suffering parents. Take, for example, domestic technology; vacuums specifically. Over the years, I've seen the transition of vacuum loyalty from the old-fashioned suck-it-all-into-a-bag models, to the cyclonic, spin-a-whirl bagless units. Most people are led like sheep to the bagless models, easily fooled by the unbelievable power, and supposed convenience of not having to buy bags. But people like me, who've been alive for so long, have an edge; decades of housekeeping that proves years of suctioning pet hair into a bagless canister will raise a stink that will put you off cleaning for weeks.  

That kind of wisdom takes years.

A long life has allowed me to see and curb another of my quirks; impulsiveness. The same impulsiveness that once led me to paint 2 antique oak chairs a high-gloss, fire engine red. (Although in my defense, it was just after giving birth to my second son, so the hormones were surging then too.) Of course, I still suffer from a powerfully impulsive nature. But as I move into my 50s, I'm more able to see, and avoid, those situational pitfalls that might drop me into a minefield of potentially hasty and ill-advised choices.

Still, an improved ability to restrain my more impetuous tendencies doesn't always mitigate the impatience that also accompanies decades of life experience.

​Cue the Grumpy-Old-Lady. 

So for me, menopause is sometimes an emotional battle- which isn't always helped by the physical changes. I've always been sensitive to the workings of my body. If something is amiss, I feel it right away. (probably the reason I don't visit the doctor routinely- I don't need someone else to tell me what changes over the years; for the most part, I already know). Moving through these anatomical shifts, I target the changes, and mark successful countermeasures. Some are drug-store solutions, but because I find that most medications carry equally harmful effects, these are refreshingly non-pharmaceutical:

1. Sleep. For me, insomnia is part of menopause symptoms. Years ago, while my children were young, I suffered nightly, and for about 6 years, it was so bad I resorted to taking a sleeping pill every evening. I finally realized I was addicted, and stopped the medication immediately. But as many medical practitioners will say, countless physical problems manifest from the daily stress of our lives. Sleep is essential for our bodies to recover.

2. Eat. Food is the body's energy. Too often, Americans in particular see food as the enemy. It's my belief that if folks just eat as our grandmothers taught us - meals of meat, vegetable, starch- (as well as eating when we're hungry, and stopping when we're full) no one would feel hungry, and would in turn not have to fight weight issues. The deprivation of a restricted diet causes mood changes, which is already something menopause brings, so eating a normal healthy diet can help elevate the spirit.

3. Renew magazine subscriptions. Although on the surface, this seems odd, immersing myself in an interesting magazine returns me spiritually to a time before social media. The content of these journals is controlled, and parceled out professionally, which for me, leads to a sense of calm. Finding a shiny new periodical in my mailbox also gives me a little lift!

4. Reduce exposure to the internet. Enough said.

5. Spend time with other people. This is one I struggle with. In a mercurial, yin-yang sort of way, people drain me and invigorate me at the same time. However, if I invest the time, I find that being with other folks leaves me with a feeling of overall well-being. 

6. Lay off the booze. In my younger years, I found that alcohol helped relax me at the end of the day. It also helped my sense of social and situational acceptance. But over the past decade, it's worked in reverse- interfering with a solid night's sleep, causing headaches and often fouling my mood. Fortunately, I don't suffer from addiction, so it was an easy habit to adjust. 

7. Put the cell phone in time out. Until my mid-twenties, I'd never even heard of a cell phone. Then, it was only wealthy power players who owned them. It wasn't until I was 30 that I had a bag phone which I only carried in my car, in case of emergency. In my early 40s, my husband and I bought personal cell phones, thereby enslaving ourselves for all time. Although being constantly contactable has merit, I find it increasingly stressful to be perpetually connected to the world. I have to remind myself that I used to come and go without the "safety net" of a cell phone. I was a child, a teen, and an adult, all without a cell phone. I've come to see these amazing wee slabs of technology as a powerful hindrance to living in the moment, and just enjoying the gifts of a regular day.  

8. Be outdoors. Despite my love for my home, a steady diet of 4 walls leaves me feeling detached from nature, which for me is a part of my spiritual conviction. Feeling closer to God is fundamental to my happiness, and when I'm among the trees, with the wind in my hair, His presence is palpable. Even if I didn't have a sense of the Divine, being close to nature is a reminder of what's important, and provides a sense of balance and perspective.

Menopause is all about change, and change is hard. But it doesn't have to be crippling or unpleasant. In fact, change can be inspiring and invigorating. Tenacity and mind-set are surprisingly effective. As I move through this interesting chapter of my life, I'm finding that menopause actually brings an agreeable breeze of restoration; a personal revolution that can be the catalyst for a better me.

The rain was incessant this year.

The few hot days we had in early spring gave instant harbor to willing seeds. The warm soil pushed eager seedlings up to kiss the sun, daily bright breezes ruffled their tender new leaves, and all seemed right with the world.

And then the sky became choked with roiling clouds and the rain started. All through June and July, then into August, it rained. The newly planted lawn crusted over with algae in the sporadic sea of puddles and mud. The woodstove crackled and popped through the first 2 weeks of June, and finally went cold. 

It seemed summer had in fact,  arrived.

I'm not a fan of summer. In fact, the only thing I like about hot weather is it's sneaky ability to coax production out of my plants; from the purely decorative ornamental and food crops, to the unruly beauty of the forest undergrowth. I also like that the ground under my feet thaws out, freed from the iron grip of frost long enough for infrastructural projects to move forward, and repairs made. But aside from that, I simply grit my teeth and wait for the heat, humidity (and resulting unpleasant insect population) to die off.

Each season brings it's own beasts and beauties. Last year, we struggled through brutally hot and dry conditions- so serious as to curtail the local apple harvest and require some livestock farmers to dig new wells and buy in water for their animals. But as with every season since the dawning of the planet, the climate cycles and changes as the planet stretches and breathes, the underlying tectonics creaking and groaning like old bones. 

This year it rained.

But the rain brought with it bounty. Berries exploded from every stem- domestic and wild. Greens flourished, and all the bean plants drooped, weighed down with heavily loaded pods. In the house, I chased my tail, trying to keep up with the jam and jelly-making. As we approach the official end of summer, every horizontal surface fills with quarts, pints and half-pints of fruit and vegetable preserves of one kind or another.

And still it rained.

​I actually like wet days. The steady thrum of the drops hitting my metal roof is comforting to me. I've always been drawn to water, just like my Celtic ancestors. The rain reminds me of my genetic heritage and soothes the fiery blood that seems to run in the veins of everyone who springs from Celtic nations. 

I used to think that possession of such strong blood would make me impervious to the barbs and absurdities of my times. I've always been an outsider; shunned by all but a few through painfully horrible school years, even continuing to the end of my college days. Burdened with not only a propensity for belligerence and combativeness in my many opinions, I am the identical twin to a stunningly glamorous, socially accepted, and easy-to-get-along-with sister.
Most twins relish the unique ability to live identically- even dressing alike, marrying other twin sets, and living next door to each other. However, as in everything else, I fought it. Over the past 50 years of my life I've tried in nearly every way to be different from my sister- aside from being actually dead. (Which, if I'm to be honest, I did subconsciously attempt with years of eating disorders)

As I near my 51st year, I've been thrown into a vortex of self-examination. The onslaught of rainy days and jelly-making worked in my favor to insist that I face, and accept who and what I really am.

A twin. Part of someone else, but not really.
A woman. With her own opinions that are not always wrong.
A mother. Who's children have grown to be independent, interesting, productive adults.
A wife. The other half of a partnership in which I'm allowed to have dirty hair, cracked bare feet, and wrinkled clothes- and still be loved.
A free spirit. One that listens to the universe and will finally trust that it's ok to accept what it hears.
An Old Soul. With one foot firmly living in the past, petulant about the fake and artificial modern world, currently enslaved by political correctness, the internet and social media.
A survivor. Widowed at 30 and still never considering the status of VICTIM.

The changes of menopause and independent psychotherapy have led me to my path as I move into the last half of my life.  I'll no longer listen to the platitudinous, vapid propaganda of the modern world. I accept that I'll be labeled a "hater", (not, in fact, an actual English word) and probably a racist and bigot, regardless of how utterly ridiculous and untrue those heavily-worn, overused descriptors might be.

Writers and thinkers of past times were famously at odds with their surrounding societal norms. Its very easy to go along with the masses, but a different matter entirely to delve into one's inner machine and be willing to make the resulting product public.

C.S. Lewis, Dorothy Hartley, and Willa Cather. My top 3 favorite writers. They lived life by their own rules and terms. Sometimes they were accepted by the people of their times, and sometimes not. I admire and relate to them, but the words "role models" are a heinous, insipid pair of banal modern buzzwords, and I try never to use them. People should blaze their own trails, and not coast on the wake of those who actually think, and have thought for themselves- and gain a richness of spirit from even the mistakes they make. 

And those are all risks I'm willing to take.

I once got a ticket for following the car in front of me too closely. In other words,  tailgating. I was in a hurry and the '78 Toyota 2-door with the rusty fender was in my way.  
    Six months later I got another citation for speeding. 55 in a 35 mph residential zone. Technically, it was a felony. The young patrolman took pity on me and knocked it down to a simple speeding infraction.


In those days, I was always in a hurry. Looking back, I can't really justify the rushing I did. The daily dash didn't help, other than to create mistakes in an age-old haste-makes-waste kind of way. 
    College gave me 4 years of independence that delivered a degree, but also taught me joy, regret, inspiration, fear and dedication. Over those 4 years, I learned that in order to succeed, there are times when I must put pressure on myself. With a newly-minted degree in hand, that pressure mutated into something more ominous. Looming waves of urgency washed over me, joined by a self-inflicted need to succeed, to please my parents, and to "make something of myself".
    Post-college weeks melted into months that became years. My life unfolded in a way that many others do. A desire for "the good life" cast a long shadow across my hopes and dreams for the future. I rented the nicest apartments, wore the most in-vogue clothes and shoes, and drove the best European hatchback I could afford. My paychecks evaporated in the quest to look the right way, have the right things, travel in the right circles. ​

After years of chronic rushing and hurry, I became utterly unaware of what I was doing. The tool of efficiency grew into an excuse which became a callus on my soul.
    Sitting in my station wagon one day, trying to pry myself from a gridlocked mall parking lot, a bolt of sense hit me from out of the blue. I had spent the entire day shopping for things I didn't need, which would occupy household space I didn't have, with money that should have been used on more important things. All of a sudden, I wanted to be anywhere but there. In the blink of an eye, all of the objectives and ambitions that dominated my life and drove me at a breakneck pace were swept away.

It was all so unimportant. I had to STOP!

    I gradually began to slow down. I started to draw and paint again. I picked up the camera I had abandoned after college and spent whole days wandering the countryside, harvesting pictures along the way. On my 40th birthday I remembered that I would like to find a plot of land somewhere and develop my own small farm. ​

​Now, years later, still have the same handsome husband , the same adorable kids - 2 of which are out on their own- and the nice car. But the home is a tiny Colonial farmhouse we are renovating, the designer handbags are refugees from the high-cotton years, I get my hair trimmed once a year on my birthday, and the only bottle of nail polish in the house is clear and used to treat bug bites. I never rush any more. I keep to the posted speed limit, not because I'm afraid of an accident, but because I want to look across the fields and admire the dynamic skies of the Kuyahoora Valley. I put aside more pressing duties to walk in the perennial patch of chocolate mint that grows in the boggy top half of our farm, just to enjoy the mint-scented air.

    Turning my back on my rat-race lifestyle took time. I had to continually remind myself there's nothing so important that I had to curtail a visit with a neighbor, or serve an uninspired meal to my family. There are 24 hours to every day. Some seem to have less. Even so, I never squander a minute. These days, watching the sun set and relishing the evening breeze is as important as any other life-shattering event happening in the world. These days, I can fully delight in and savor each moment.

​No matter what it brings.
​

Long ago, photojournalism was where I thought I belonged. I had a fair amount of success out of the gate, but found that after covering my 68th bridal shower in my small-town East Tennessee town, I was starting to doubt myself.

    As a teenager, with my sense of immortality fully intact, combined with the pseudo-threat of the destitute, but saber-rattling Soviet Union, I fancied a career as a War Correspondent.  Looking back, I blush with embarrassment.  Deep down, I not only lack the courage and tenacity of a War Correspondent, but I now find my spirit taking shrapnel every time I hear a report from the areas of the globe that are enduring this trauma. ​

​As I studied Studio Art with a focus in Photography at Maryville College in the late 1980's, I found that I had a bit of a gift with a camera. I concentrated on 35mm natural-light images, avoiding studio lighting, weddings, and portrait work. This immediately led me to Photojournalism. I was hired at the only Southern small-town Daily newspaper publishing at the time; the Maryville-Alcoa Daily Times. I found instant success. Tapped to shoot everything from sports to special events, and feature stories, I thought I had found my calling. 



​That's where I learned about Stealing Thunder.

His name was Mike Hughes. He was one of the full-time Photo Staffers at the Times. Tall and scruffy, he was a refugee from the 1960's. He always seemed to be clad in some kind of Mr. Rogers nylon windbreaker, worn corduroy trousers and suede wallabees. His slouch was pronounced, exacerbated by the large, heavy camera bag he never seemed to be without. He talked with his massive hands, and had a tinkly, high-pitched giggle that seemed utterly incongruous squeaking out of such a large, older man. Although he punctuated nearly every sentence with this ridiculous giggle, he always seemed sad to me. The kind of sad that soaks into a person over decades of seeing things with no filter. The sadness I sensed must have worn on his soul, for he always looked as though he should have gone to bed earlier the night before, just before throwing the alarm clock out the window. 

Mike Hughes was what I call a Light Person.

Light People see everything. They are not contained by boundaries or guidelines. On the surface, they seem like everyone else, but as you get to know them, you find that they absorb everything around them- discontent with the status quo in nearly everything they do. Flying under the radar, they make their own rules while pretending to follow established ones. They look you in the eye when they speak to you, and make you feel like you're the only person in the room. Although they appear to be exhausted, their internal batteries recharge quickly; drained daily by heavy use. If you look carefully, you can see the rapturous illumination leaking out of them. They are very special.

Mike Hughes was also a professional Thunder Stealer. 

Mike was my first real mentor. Wet behind the ears, I leaned on Mike for guidance and reassurance. Although I seemed to have a natural talent with a camera and a darkroom, it was my first foray into the adult world- without parental back-up. I was lucky enough to have been raised in a safe, affluent home and town. I hadn't seen the underbelly of society yet.
As a brand-new Photojournalist, I would come dragging back from shooting a fire or an accident and Mike would boost my karma. Even worse than the "on call" or emergency shoots, however, was the Human Interest stories. Although it seems a Human Interest assignment might be a chance to meet interesting people doing thought-provoking and engaging things, an HI assignment was usually a toe-curler. I would be given an address and a contact name, and then show up to shoot a baby shower, bridal shower or engagement party. The standard operating procedure was that the Matriarch would intercept me as soon as I approached the venue, and begin issuing machine-gun instructions. My own mother raised me to respect my elders, so I would simply smile and bow to their wishes. Their wish was usually a criminal line-up of the principal players in the particular event, with everyone backed against whatever wall or flat surface was available. As an Art student, I had examined countless classical paintings in which people (usually saints or religious figures) were arranged in interesting formations where they interacted with each other and their surroundings. I tried to get my Human Interest subjects to follow this pattern, since to me it was vastly more interesting to look at. 

I failed. 

Defeated, I would head back to the newspaper with my boring shots, and dig into the darkroom work, completely uninspired. After a year of mostly dull Human Interest stories, I was ready to quit. Mike Hughes, however,  would have none of it.

"Leigh." He said, "You are meant to do this kind of work. Your photographs are wonderful. The Editor loves everything you do." 

"I love the photography work, Mike," I wailed, "but these Human Interest stories are killing me! They are duller than dishwater! And the people aren't just dull, they're bossy! I want to turn in interesting pictures of what amounts to painfully tedious events, and all they want is a police line-up! Anyone can do that!!"

"Leigh, you've just got to steal their thunder. There's no other way." He said. "Go in there and tell 'em how it's going to be. They're not paying for that coverage, the paper is. You're the boss- you tell them what you want! Smile, laugh, and be light-hearted! Dance around them, and don't take no for an answer!"

It was life-changing advice. I'll never forget it. It was so simple, but so profound. It amounted to permission to make life my own, from someone I admired.  I haven't seen or heard from Mike Hughes since 1989. I don't even know if he is still alive. But he's woven into the fabric of my life.

Steal Thunder. Make life your own. Follow your own vision and make others happy along the way.

Thank you, Mike.
​

My ability to access all this chemical and preservative-free food is only because local, sustainable agriculture and regional food production are my passions. I searched for and purchased land years ago for the purpose of developing a small farm. I plan, construct and manage my fields and growing areas. I identify, and encourage the wild native plants whose leaves, stems and roots may have benefits for me and my family. My husband and I pinpoint which plants and animals grow best in our soil, and how we should further amend that ground for better yeilds. We tour our fields every night and determine what needs to be done the next day or upcoming weekend. 

    This is all a lot of work. Some folks don't have the time, the energy or the knowledge to manage this kind of production, even at our small scale. Many people just don't have the interest. They don't care where their food comes from, how it's grown, cared for, transported or distributed. All they see is what's in front of them on the shelf. And that's ok! It's all right not to care where your food comes from, in my opinion, as long as you either support or don't hinder those who do. Just as it's perfectly fine to be a vegetarian or a vegan, as long as you don't abuse or disrespect those who choose to eat an Omni-diet, and vise versa. Our planet has the ability to sustain an unlimited amount of energy and food- as long as Earth's soil, water and other critical natural resources are managed and nurtured, and alternative energy and agricultural technologies are researched and encouraged.

    Over the last 50 years, mankind- Americans in particular- have become so removed from the origin of their food, that many can't identify plants, or cuts of meat and the animal they come from, or determine whether store produce is a fruit or a vegetable. The scary part is that a majority of Americans have no idea that most modern plants can't be grown from their seeds because Genetically Terminated Organisms and Seeds have been allowed to proliferate on the Corporate Agriculture level. In other words, the seeds from an apple purchased at Safeway, Kroger, Price Chopper or Food Lion will grow into a tree, but will not produce fruit. To me, this is a recipe for disaster.

    The same problem exists with the American meat industry. At the end of the day, we all know our juicy, delicious cheeseburger comes from beef, which at one time had hooves, hide and tail. The dilemma is that no one wants to accept that reality. So 3 colossal meat packing corporations sequester themselves in the vast acreage of the Mid-West, operating on an enormous scale which does not in any way take into consideration the well-being of the animal from which they are collecting stupendous profits. But yet, when small farmers attempt to change this, breeding, raising, slaughtering, butchering and marketing the resulting quality meat, folks work themselves into a lather. USDA regulations are a heavy burden, tossing obstacles into the path of sustainable farmers who want to sell their products to local buyers. Uninformed people worry and fret about the well-being of pastured small herds and flocks, instead of being distressed about the conditions present in factory farms. It makes absolutely no sense. ​

It's my hope that this will change soon. Government regulators will begin to have more on-the-ground contact with artisan farmers and a working partnership will develop to replace the antagonistic climate now present.Populations will educate and expose themselves to agricultural practices so that future generations will have what we almost gave up: clean, quality, inexpensive, abundant and sustainable food available to everyone forever.
​

​Over the years, I've written blogs about everything. Blogs on cupcakes and how to make them, methods on the best way to brine and cook a turkey, and essays on the beauty of nature. I've written novellas and short stories, poems and book reviews. The food blogs are literally countless, but I've never really examined my absolutely favorite food; CHEESE

Recently, I shared an old recipe called Scalloped Cheese goo.gl/FHQ2SL. This is a terrific dish, with a lot of history. However, I've never explored the world of artisan cheeses, which is a nearly inexhaustible subject. It's doubly  tragic because some of my local friends own and run their own cheese company; Three Village Cheese Co., and every now and then, I stop by and do some work for them. A side benefit is that I get to snack on bits and ends of their wonderful aged cheeses while I work- all in a sanitary way, of course!

 Cheese, made from cow, goat or sheep's milk, is as old as human civilization. It's theorized that 10,000 or-so years ago, some early group of people carrying bags of their domesticated goat milk, found that the action of sloshing caused by movement, caused the milk to coagulate. These bags were made from the stomachs of their ruminate animals, and the rennet present inside worked to create curds and whey- the very beginning of the cheesemaking process.

Part of the beauty of artisan products is that no one is the same as the other. This is particularly true of batch-made cheese. Aging cheese needs bacterias and specific atmospheric conditions to produce a flavorful, enjoyable result. It can't - and won't - be rushed. Some batches take a year or more to yield roughly 15 wheels, each weighing a bit more than 10 pounds. Some take considerably less than that, but all must be handled multiple times before they're wrapped and labeled for market. In short, there's nothing hurried about cheesemaking, which makes me love it that much more. ​


People in our region love food- cheese or otherwise. The summer and fall months bring an eye-popping variety of cultural and food festivals. There's a garlic festival, wine and chocolate festival, Lebanese food festival, Greek festival, Bavarian Sausage Fest, and countless perogie festivals. (I know I'm guilty of leaving someone out).
​This Saturday, July 8, the nearby town of Little Falls, NY will play host to the 3rd annual Cheese Festival, which 3 Village will participate in.

There are dozens of cheesemakers in New York State, some small, some industrial, and many in between. Check with your local Farmer's Market to see which farms in your area are cheese producers. You'd be surprised how close real, handmade cheese might be! For those in the Central New York area, head on down to Little Falls this Saturday, July 8, from 10 am to 5 pm. Click this link for more information! goo.gl/xxaZ6k

​It is a cool, bright morning today. The air is dry and warm, but not in a threatening, peak-of-summer kind of way. I feel lucky, living in a place where the day before July 4th can be gentle and enjoyable, after spending so many years in the intensely hot, humid southern US.

Life on even the humblest farm is busy. We've only been here at the new farm for 7 months, and it barely qualifies as a homestead, let alone a farm. But we do have chickens (who are still too young to lay), and we have begun the experiments that will tell us what grows well here, and what to abandon for now.  On any other day, I would call my work "chores". But today, I decide, I can't bring myself to assign such a negative descriptor to the jobs that need doing. It's just too nice a day for negativity. Recent world events have left me feeling blessed and fortunate to be standing in the tall grass on my valley farm. I may have a day of labor ahead of me, but I'm not being shot at by a ball field lunatic, or listening to politically polarized nut jobs. I'm not in a neighborhood that's being shelled by their own government,  killing people while they throw their tantrums.

​On this particular gorgeous morning, even the weeds look good to me. As I toil, I hear the rattle and clank of the Amish Shire horse teams working in the next field, gathering the hay that will feed them over the long, cold winter. A group of bullfrogs croak and grunt among the cattails at the edge of the pond. A gust of wind stirs the pointy leaves on a nearby willow tree and the red-winged blackbird perched at the top calls out in his delightfully bright, and enthusiastic song. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3bKwq84P98

    As the sun passes overhead, I finish my jobs and put away the tools. The reward for my work is a tour of the gardens: from the berries and herbs in the permanent enclosure, to the seasonal crops in the large, rotational bed. Large, yellow squash blossoms are fully open to the sun's rays, alive with our SweetBees doing their best to help us harvest lots of shiny, dark green zucchini. Cucumber vines are stretching out with their curling tendrils, trying to reach into neighboring rows of peas and tomatoes. There are big cukes, ready to harvest, and tiny baby cucumbers with their blossom crowns still attached. Berries decorate the raspberry bushes in shades of white, pink and bright red. Black raspberries dot the ends of tall canes, round and petite but packed with flavor. Perennial herbs erupt out of the ground, small and delicate, but robust growth is sure to guarantee plenty for winter storage.

I can't throw anything away. 

Yes, I freely admit to getting rid of things, but never by way of the trash. Clothes and small household items go to charity, and family members who might want or need them. Old tools and scrap are either sold at yard sales or put out on the street with a "FREE" sign on them. (Usually these things disappear while I'm returning to the house). Old textiles (curtains, shirts, pillows, etc) are deconstructed and turned into quilts. Dingy old towels are cut up and made into kitchen rags. Paper, plastic, glass and metal are sent to the recycling center.

Surely you see the pattern here.

When it comes to excess food, I've actually reached the level of Nirvana. In the depths of my imagination, there is a certificate proclaiming me the Supreme and Exalted Queen of Food Rescue and Use.

Nice title, eh? But hey, I've earned it.

Most of the time, I'll turn Leftover X into a family meal by dismantling it, saucing it, and adding cheese. (You'd be surprised how adding shredded cheese to something previously unidentifiable can bring dinner smiles to the faces of your loved ones.) Sometimes, the chickens will get what's left over- usually stale sandwich bread, or the ubiquitous single hamburger bun languishing in the breadbox. (How does that happen?) Very rarely, I'll have to relegate some long-forgotten bag of kale or container of moldy beans to the compost bin for later use in the gardens. 

The point here is that I'm physically unable to toss food (or anything else) into the trash.

My husband and I have 4 children, 3 of them adults and living (mostly) on their own, and one who'll be starting his senior year in high school in September. That makes us a family of 3 here at the farm, but occasionally a mob of 6. Although there are markedly fewer people in the house now, I was a full-time homemaker for years, raising those 4 to be best of my ability.

Like many American wives and mothers, I constantly search for ways to put healthy food in front of all my loved ones, and money can sometimes be tight. So I like to find recipes and methods that help me use leftovers and scraps that are already on hand. Mining my pantry and fridge usually results in a motley crew of seemingly unrelated items I must cobble together into some kind of recognizable meal or sweet treat. Still, it's usually worth the effort.

Today is just such a day. I'm finishing some freezing, drying and storing of what we've gathered so far out of the garden. I need space! I cleared out some store-bought cereal boxes and dumped the remains into a bowl. There was also a half-empty carton of rolled oats and a bag of wheat germ. It only took me minutes to come up with this recipe. 

Part of the fun of using what's on hand is that you always get something new and different. Nobody ever gets tired of the same old sugar cookie or pound cake. The only problem is keeping these granola bars from disappearing!

(But at least they're not going into the trash)



Box Bottom Granola Bars

½ -1/3 box/bag any kind of cereal you like. About 3-4 cups ( I use the leftovers in the bottom of all the cereal boxes, and mix them)
4 cups rolled oats
1 cup flaked or shredded coconut
1 cup nuts of choice
1 cup wheat germ
1 cup chocolate chips
½ cup honey (heat for 10-20 seconds in the microwave to make it less sticky to mix in)
1 (14 oz) can sweetened condensed milk 
1 stick, melted butter
​1 tsp. salt

Mix all ingredients and press them into a sheet pan. Be sure to line the pan with parchment or spray with pan spray. Oil your hands or spray with pan spray to make pressing the mixture in easier.

Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until lightly golden brown. Allow to cool and cut into bars.

​Mornings were busy, to thwart the day's heat,
As baskets were filled and by noon were replete.
Water was slurped and wet sweat dripped down,
Farm trucks were loaded for the trip off to town.

​



​The sun on the breast of the new-planted soil,
Drew birds and small creatures the farmer to foil.
The wind briskly blew and helped cool the air,
As harvesters gathered to prepare for the fair.

​Pudding.

Perhaps one of the nicest words in the English Language. Right up there with words like honey, peach, and cream.

In England, pudding defines the sweet course following the main meal. In America, however, pudding is an actual dish. Sometimes referred to as custard, pudding usually consists of milk or cream, sugar, eggs, corn starch, and flavoring. 

Because pudding contains all the ingredients we've been taught to avoid over the last 30 years, this luscious sweet treat isn't as widely consumed as it once was. You can't, after all, make pudding with skim milk, zero calorie sweetener and egg replacers. (Yes, I know low fat, low calorie puddings are available in shelf-stable packages at the grocery store, but it's made in a factory out of dubious food-like products that probably lead to neurological impairments, tremors, incontinence and blindness)

The Victorians didn't have all the fake, low fat, low calorie products that are so ubiquitously available today. They didn't even know what a calorie was. Their days were so packed with physical work, that even if they did know what defined this metabolic unit, they'd probably try to get more of them, not less. 

Human beings love sugar. Some love it to the point of addiction. In the centuries before modern dentistry, people ate sugar as often as they could afford to. It was, however,  expensive. Only the rich could afford to consume it regularly, which led to health problems; chief among them, rotten, black teeth. In fact, rotten teeth from too much sugar became a such a status symbol During Elizabethan times, that unbelievably,  those who couldn't afford the sweet stuff "blackened" their teeth in imitation of those of higher rank. Sadly, people even died from putrid teeth. Death documents list those poor souls as dying simply from "teeth".  Although the earliest record of sugar in England is 1099, it wasn't widely available or used until the mid to late 16th century.

The Victorians had marginally better dental care, but still loved their puddings. Thankfully, many of those desserts have fallen out of fashion. Some sweet treats of the time seemed barely thought out, many appearing to be a jumble of ingredients with sugar thrown in. Even the acclaimed Spotted Dick (as well as Plum Duff) contains the questionable addition of suet, but is saved by "lashings" of warm custard. Jellies and creams known as "flummery" were made with oatmeal starch as their base. Brown bread ice cream is another toe-curler, and who doesn't love the sweet, boozy syllabub? 

One Victorian treat that is worth resurrecting is creamy, delicious rice pudding. Its so old-fashioned, many don't know how to make it, despite it's simplicity. Today's recipe comes from the 1939 edition of the Rumford Complete Cookbook (revised), called Poor Man's Rice Pudding. An apt title, there are only 5 ingredients, probably totaling less than ,50 per batch. It does, however take quite a long time in the oven, so electricity and gas must have been much cheaper in 1939. (The long cook time also contributes to the heat in the kitchen, so this might be a good dessert to prepare in the fall, winter or spring)
​
​The authors of this recipe employed quite a bit of cleverness, accounting for the natural sugar in milk to contribute to the overall sweetness of the dish, without using store-bought granulated sugar. As the dish cooks, the milk reduces down to what amounts to condensed milk. The quart of milk required here contains over 1/4 cup of sugar naturally, and intensifies as it cooks down.

Poor Man's Rice Pudding

1 quart milk (although it doesn't specify here, I used regular whole milk)
2 level tablespoons rice ( I used long-grain natural rice. Converted rice may not achieve the same result)
1 level tablespoon butter 
A pinch of salt
3 level tablespoons sugar

Wash the rice well and put it in a baking dish with the salt, sugar and butter; pour the milk over and bake very slowly, at least two and one-half hours, stirring twice during the first hour.


Again, oven temperature wasn't specified, but I used a 350 degree (F) and covered the baking dish during baking. After the fact, I discovered that and under-sheet would have been helpful, as there was a little spill-over. 

I was totally skeptical about this recipe. I couldn't believe that 3 tablespoons of rice would work with a quart of milk. I expected the final result to be watery and loose, but nothing could be further from the truth. The volume reduced by roughly half, and the pudding was thick, lightly sweet (a great option for people like me who don't like too much sugar) and above all, creamy.  Since there are no eggs, this is a great choice for those with egg allergies or sensitivities. The addition of vanilla extract would also be wonderful.

​Take a trip back to 1939, and experience an authentic flavor from the time. This rice pudding is sure to become a family favorite!!

​It's almost July, and I'm still wearing jeans and long sleeves. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I can't abide temperatures above 80 degrees. Of course, some years, I have no choice. Mother Nature will do as she wishes, and we humble humans must simply adjust.

While warmer temperatures are difficult for me, my garden doesn't care at all. In fact, my seasonal vegetables, annual food plants, and ornamentals love hot, sunny days. Which in turn results in an abundance of home-grown food that I delight in preserving for winter, as well as eating fresh, right out of the field. 

Summer recipes embrace this bounty with dishes that reflect bright, seasonal flavors. Choices like herb marinated, grilled meats and vegetables, colorful salads, and lots of seafood. Most of these meals are simply prepared and minimally cooked, often in outdoor kitchens, campfires, and barbecues.

I adore the seasons, and all the different styles of foods they bring. I miss the lighter summer fare in winter, but look forward to fall, and it's wealth of casseroles, stews and soups.

Now that I'm in my 50s, I find I love soup. As a young housewife, I almost never made soup- and if I did, it was taken directly from my mother's arsenal of faithful Julia Child, Betty Crocker, Sunset Magazine, and Oregonian Food Section recipes. The only soup I remember from my childhood is the best vegetable beef soup you've ever eaten. There are days that I crave that vegetable beef soup so intensely, my mouth waters.

It's watering right now, just thinking of it.

But, as wonderful as that vegetable beef soup was, I don't remember her making any other kind of soup. Which, on the one hand is a tragic shortcoming in the potential richness of daily meal planning, but on the other hand, allowed me to explore, as an adult, a world of food options previously unknown to me.

The history of soup is humble. Just like so many modern comfort foods, soup finds it's origins in uncomplicated, often rural sources; certainly seasonal, and definitely limited to what was available within short travel distances.

Since the 1960s, restaurants and foodservice operations have cuddled up to a culinary style known as nouvelle cuisine, which eschews heavier dishes in favor of lighter fare, with an emphasis on artistic presentation. This is mostly small-portion, flavor-centric, high-cost artistic cookery. Most people wouldn't belly up to plate of nouvelle cuisine and go away full. Their wallet would certainly be empty. But as with so many things in the modern world, there is room for everything; choices and options being even more paramount than the food itself. 

I've never been partial, however, to modern ways, as anyone knows who's been following me for any length of time. I love to explore how the cooks of yesteryear did things without the benefit of electricity, modern gadgets, and products that simplify kitchen work.

As part of my summer blog project, I'm mining the few antique cookbooks I own for inspiration and fascination. One of those was written by Annie Dennis, who herself is difficult to find in historical references, her book The New Annie Dennis Cook Book having been relegated to the distinction of "forgotten books".  My copy was printed in 1901 in Atlanta, Georgia, so she was certainly American, and probably from the south. As with any Victorian recipe book, entries are laid out in a narrative style, quantities and required ingredients seeming to be of little importance.

​Soups were, as one would imagine, very important in the Victorian kitchen. In fact, there was an entire service course devoted to them. Cutlery and dishware was designed and produced solely for the business of consuming soup. Victorians created soups from everything, even fruits, nuts, and (shudder) reptiles. Today's recipe is taken verbatim from page 117 of Annie Dennis's Cookbook, and not only is a sweet soup, but includes bread. It sounds divine, and could certainly be utilized in a dessert course- even with fruit and cheese. I've included some of my own thoughts in italics, as these older recipes can be a bit hard to work with for those used to modern recipes.

Enjoy!!

Annie Dennis's Almond Soup

A dainty soup is made from a quarter of a pound of blanched and ground almonds (modern grocery stores carry "almond flour" which could easily be used), one quart of milk and a little sugar. (probably about 3/4 - 1 cup) Set over a slow fire (if you're not cooking on a woodstove, medium to low on an electric stove would suffice, the use of a double boiler is most helpful) and when it has come slowly to a boil, stir in the yolks of two eggs, and pour the whole over thin slices of toast. A little rose or orange flavoring enhances the taste of this delicious soup. 

This seems to be an almost custard like creation, and could probably be strained and thinned a bit with heavy cream. However, it's fun to revisit the Victorian kitchen with all authenticity before making modern adjustments.

Over the years, I've met a shocking number of people who've admitted that they couldn't cook; in fact, they claimed they couldn't even boil water.

That's either the most supreme achievement in helplessness, or a bold attempt at humor. (But that's me...I sometimes don't understand extreme sarcasm, instead, I'm left gasping like a landed fish, eyes bulging, and mouth working to find words to bridge the gap between the possessor of zero culinary ability, and my overly literal mind and sub-par social skills.)

Gosh, I say to myself, he- or she- can't boil water? How sad! That means they can't make pasta...or rice...or oatmeal...or polenta. That means they can't make boiled potatoes, or poach fish, or make a hard boiled egg!

Up until the mid to late 20th century, most women, and many men knew how get a basic meal on their plates. Even if it was just boiled vegetables. In the last 40 years, however, home cooking is seen as more of a luxury talent instead of necessary competence. The term "Foodie" has entered the English lexicon, and is now used commonly, referring to a person who is "keenly" interested in food, it's preparation and the eating of it. Hard to believe such a basic, fundamental skill has been given such highfalootin status. Especially as so few people seem to know how incredibly simple it really is.

​Take the humble boiled egg, for example. Perhaps the easiest item to create in the kitchen. Packed with nutrition, portable, and cheap, the possibilities are nearly endless.

I hesitate to use the word "recipe" when referring to the method for making boiled eggs. It's really more of a process, or a technique. The easiest and most practical way to boil an egg that won't leave the icky green oxidation around the outer edge of the yolk (a result of overcooking), or return a drippy undercooked product, is the famous TEN MINUTE EGG. 

Simply put the eggs you wish to boil into your pot and cover them with cold water. Put the pot onto the stove and turn the burner on high. Bring to a boil and remove the pot from the hot eye. Set a timer for 10 minutes. Once the timer has rung, drain the eggs into a colander and allow to cool.

That's it. 
​

One of my favorite dishes to make with boiled eggs is the Scotch Egg. Traditionally, it's a simple, pocket-sized meal favored by the working class of the Unite Kingdom. Similar to the meat hand pies of the region, this protein-packed nugget of goodness can easily be carried to the fields or the mines, providing solid nutrition for a physically demanding day.
​
Although the modern Scotch Egg is made up of a hard boiled egg wrapped in bulk sausage, covered in bread crumbs and fried, the dish is roughly 200 years old and has evolved over time. Like many cultural comfort foods, Scotch Eggs are made up of what amounts to leftovers and scraps. Bits of meat would be minced and bound with bread to make a meat coating for the egg before the advent of the tubular packs of commercially made breakfast sausage that's now widely available.

Fascinated as I am with vintage and antique foods and recipes, I'm turning to an old cookbook that someone gave me years ago, called the Rumford Complete Cookbook~Revised.  First issued in 1908, my copy was printed in 1939 and reflects wartime shortages and challenges. The following recipe is copied directly from page 75 of the EGGS section:

SCOTCH EGGS
6 Hard-cooked eggs
1/2 cup stale bread crumbs
1 cup minced ham or other meat
Salt and pepper to taste
2/3 cup milk
Egg and bread crumbs
Frying fat

Cook the eggs twenty minutes in water just below the boiling point, stand in cold water for half and hour, then remove the shells and wipe the eggs quite dry.

Here I must pause and encourage you to use the 10-minute method I listed above. I do, however, love the story-like prose so common in these old "receipt" books. 

Cook the half cup of bread crumbs in the milk til thick, add the seasoning and meat and mix all together to form a rather stiff paste. Take a portion of this and press around one of the eggs smoothly with the hand, having the paste of equal thickness all over, and continue till the eggs are covered.

Again, I interject to remind modern readers that the eggs of the early 20th century and in years prior, were much smaller than today's giants. The first modern grocery store didn't even open until 1948; small general mercantile operations being the only shops that might possibly carry eggs (but mostly dry pantry and canned goods). Most people kept chickens, and eggs were simply raised at home. A cup of minced meat and 2/3 cup of milk and some stale bread crumbs would never extend to today's giant eggs.

Take a raw egg with one tablespoon of water and beat lightly; dip each of the prepared eggs into this and cover every particle with the raw egg. As soon as covered, drop onto a paper containing the stale bread crumbs, coat with these and fry in deep fat til golden brown. Cut in halves, stand cut side up, and serve plain or with white or tomato sauce or gravy. 

As you can see, part of the fun of these old recipes is just reading them! Today's cookbooks would never contain words like rather, or particle. Another bit of evidence that our modern society values speed and convenience over flowery language and long descriptions. 

Enjoy your own journey with boiled eggs! You can't go wrong; and if you do, simply mince them, add mayonnaise, a bit of mustard powder, seasoning, and you have egg salad.

​You can't go wrong! 

Memory (mem-uh-ree) noun, plural, memories.
​1. the mental capacity or faculty of retaining and reviving facts, events,impressions, etc., or of recalling or
​ recognizing previous experiences.

I've always been envious of people with a strong memory. It's one of my weakest qualities. Although I can recall the most arcane details of my life as far back as my 2nd birthday,  (white cake served on the flagstone patio of my grandfather's rural Virginia home) I struggle to remember everything from the day of the week, to the name of an old friend, and where I last left my eyeglasses (which are usually perched on top of my head). Sometimes it's vexing to be so absentminded. Frequently however, I find this foggy tendency to be a protection mechanism; I wear my heart on my sleeve, and have an inability to filter my opinions when gripped with outrage, frustration or emotional turmoil. (A propensity I blame on my strong Celtic blood, coupled with a strong dose of Irish verbosity). Having been fortunate enough to live for just over half a century, I've seen things I wish I'd never seen, been hurt by people I thought were my friends, and been stunned by world events the like of which I thought should have been firmly left in the barbaric past.

I suppose that's the coward in me.

Not that I'm insulting myself. I'm grateful every day for my advantages in life. I've come to know and understand my place in the grand scheme of things, and do what I can to make the world a better place. The security of my clean and understandable bubble, enables me to look out and observe with admiration the actions and choices of those with infinitely more courage than I.

History teems with courageous people. Kings and queens, clerics and courtiers, soldiers and shepherds, and countless others in between. The tomes of scholars record their deeds, both wicked and noble, miraculous, and astounding. Courage has no bias. Human beings have employed the use of this God-given capacity since the dawn of time to accomplish their desired end. What makes courage special, however, is that not everyone has it.

Although the dusty chronicles of bygone times are filled with heroic deeds of all kinds, only the prominent are usually featured. Its all well and good when a person of power musters up the courage to achieve their goals. What I find breathtaking is when a perfectly ordinary man or woman steps into the shoes of the great.

Joan of Arc

Mahatma Ghandi

Rosa Parks

Pat Tillman

These- and so many other others- willingly moved out of their everyday lives, eschewing the familiar to grasp the exceptional. Of course, academics throughout time can only record so much. Yesterday, today and tomorrow have been, and will be replete with the same kind of courage- which depends on us all to preserve for the future.

Cicero is quoted with "Vita enim mortuorum in memoria vivorum est posita". The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.

Those ordinary extraordinary souls whose choices and actions have consigned them to our collective memories will never be forgotten. Whether its a field of waving flags, or a meadow filled with bright red poppies, remembrance carries on through us all, even if we stop for just a moment within our busy lives to honor it. And them.

​All of them...

​

Those of you who've been following me for any length of time understand the scattered nature of my literary ramblings.

Literary. Now there's a high-falootin', five dollar word. Like I'm Oscar Wilde, or Willa Cather. 

I wish.
​
Over the years, I've written novellas and poems, books, blog posts and snippets held together by the accompanying photographs. My muse is demanding, but inconsistent at best. I can go for months and not write a word, then swing wildly to drown in the flood of ideas and thoughts, a clamor of observations, opinions, and views, each waving their placards; shouting over the next, pressing me to hear hear hear!!

Sometimes it takes only a shift in the wind rushing though the trees outside to blow the muse into my heart. Every so often, it's a scrap of dusty ribbon on the ground, or ice melt salt crunching under my feet. Other times, it's a seasonal holiday or a really uplifting plate of food... Like the time I was in London's West End with tickets to the Phantom of the Opera at Her Majesty's Theatre. The nearby long-established seafood restaurant where we dined afterwards served the most delicate, heaven-sent dover sole, stacked filet upon filet of pure white flesh, swimming in the most perfect, lemony yellow beure blanc, all laid out on an enormous white charger, and served by an immaculately turned out young man in crisp black and white livery...

See what I mean? I get carried away with the tiniest of sensory delights, so much so that they take on a life of their own and become alive; a lyrical photostory, or a tale of ridiculous proportions, characters rising out of a sea of words like dolphins surfing along the wake of a sailboat.

This morning it was petals. Fist-sized curls of deep, purply-red peony petals, blowing in the wind as I emerged from the house to walk the dogs. There were so many I thought my husband must have scattered them along my path on his way out to work. 

The muse started chattering before I even returned to the house.

Petals.

Flowers.

Gardens and the charm of spring.

​Even after flowers finish their glorious show, their petals remain to remind us of their fleeting beauty. It's yet another springtime cliche; brief, yes, but we've only to wait until next year, and they'll be back again to dazzle us with their cheerful, bright colors and captivating fragrance. 

Spring never ceases to satisfy me. Especially in our beautiful, pseudo-remote valley tucked into the foothills of the Adirondack mountains. The air is fresh, tinged with the residue of winter, but pleasantly warm, without the threatening heat of deep summertime. Plants respond in kind, leaping out of the ground to embrace the golden sun; developing buds and flowers in what seems like the blink of an eye. 

All too soon, it's over and the workhorse season of summer barges in. That's what I love about the seasons; they remind us to slow down and appreciate what's happening around us- which won't return again for another 10-or-so months. In our modern, high-tech, connected times, when we hear about the cataclysmic earthquake, or the horrifying terrorist attack within moments of the event, I find the slowness of the season to be ultimately comforting.  Each day of every season has something to offer; overtures that we have only to reach out and take.  It's a natural balm to our calloused souls. a healthy gift from the Universe which is available to us all, should we choose to accept it.

'Stop and smell the roses', is a cliche we've all used, seldom taking it's ancient advice. Roses or peonies, the legacy is the same:

Today is the best day of all.

Stop.

And enjoy.

Moving is hard.

I don't care who you are; the most organized, cheerful, confident, cup-half-full sort of person still gets overwhelmed now and then.

That was me, way back in 2010, when we bought land with the intention to build a small farm, with a house and a couple of barns. Because we had children, we couldn't just live in our RV while we worked. We needed a proper house from which to stage our project. We searched for, and found a small Victorian house near the land, in need of renovation, and priced to sell. It was clear we were going to buy it, regardless of it's shortcomings, which pleased the Realtor. We've subsequently become friends, but at the time, we chatted lightheartedly about what were mostly cosmetic improvements that needed to be made to the old house.

Leaning over the chipped white enameled sink, I peered out the old window and gazed at the house next door. It appeared to be a genuine Colonial structure, which was overgrown with weeds, peppered with peeling paint, strangled by Virginia Creeper.

"What's the story on that place?" I asked the Realtor.
Recognizing the glint in my eye, my husband beat the agent to the punch, replying, "I'm sure we'll find out as time goes by. Let's focus on this place for the time being. Ok?"

His gentle chide was received with good humor. I was in love with the rickety old Victorian we ended up calling Appleside Cottage. I wrote several blogs about the renovation process, the latest of which can be found here: ​winterrestfarm.weebly.com/blog/the-gift-of-an-old-girl-second-edition

Five years later, having realized that building our farm from scratch without the benefit of lucrative jobs or independent wealth, was going to be financially impossible. We'd improved the raw property with a large pole barn, a long driveway, and a pond stocked with fish. 

As the reality  of our financial shortcomings began to dawn on us, we started to look around for derelict farms that had the land we wanted, along with a house and barns. In our region, as dairy farmers retired out of the business, many farms were simply left to return to the county or state, and auctioned off to the highest bidder for taxes owed. It was a good way for people like us -without deep pockets-  to get into farm properties that needed us as much as we needed them. We had no luck finding anything in our kid's school district that we could afford, and we couldn't in good conscience move them again, after wrenching them 700 miles from their childhood home of North Carolina.

One chilly day, as we were pondering what to do, my husband leaned over the same kitchen sink, and stared out the window to the run-down Colonial property next door, which not only featured the farmhouse, but a vintage barn, along with a workshop, well house, and 20 acres of land. 

"I want that property." He said. "It's perfect for us. It has everything we need, and nothing we don't."

A year later, after months of grueling back and forth between the seller, the banks, and the attorneys, we walked into the 210 year old house and began the journey towards bringing back the old farm, which started it's life as a tavern, in 1806. 
The condition of the inside of the house wasn't much better than the outside. The last owner was in her mid-90s when she finally had to move to a nursing home. The home had been empty for years, and showed the sad state in it's stained walls, cobwebs and sticking doors. We knew, however that all of that was temporary and fixable. Excited, we set about moving with gusto, and finally crammed the last box into the barn just as the first flakes of winter began to fall.

It sounds trite, but in our case, those two keys represented perseverance and faith. When it seemed that setback after setback would ruin us, we simply turned up our collars and pressed on. As hard as it was, we never lost faith that we would someday find our forever home. We had the vision to see the dilapidated, neglected property for what it was, and not what it appeared to be.  

I hope you'll follow our adventures with Old Tavern Farm, and move to implement the changes you want in your life, and achieve all your dreams!

"






Amos wiped the sweat off the tip of his nose; blood and remnants of afterbirth mixed with the perspiration, and he scrubbed angrily at the mess with the rough cloth he kept wadded in his trouser pocket.
​
Phoebe Cook had very nearly survived, as had her infant son. Amos battled death for hours in an effort to save both their lives. A very young mother, Phoebe had had an uneventful and ordinary pregnancy. Dr. Hale had only been out to the small homestead she shared with her husband once or twice, since the young couple were married the previous fall.

Cursing to himself, and doing what he could to comfort Phoebe's husband John, Amos gathered his things and left the house, now one of abject mourning. In truth, there was nothing to be done. Young Mrs. Cook was dead, and there was no bringing her back. Amos felt the too-familiar sensation of defeat and failure prick the lining of his heart.

It can't be helped. Tend to your business now; get back to the surgery and see what else can be done before the day is out. 

Swinging into the saddle, and pulling his heavy cloak close against the biting cold of the October evening, Dr. Hale squinted into the setting sun, pulled his tricorn low over his eyes and trotted along the lane that led back to town. The journey back to Little Falls would take some time, and Amos allowed his mind to wander, the rhythmic beat of his horse's hooves against the packed earth lulling him into a reminiscent state.

Medicine hadn't been his calling. The youngest son of a maid and stable groom, Amos spent his formative years in the household of Francis Bellamy, whose influence led young Amos to consider entering the Clergy. For years, Amos gave himself to the pursuit of Christian thought and academics. Even after Mr. Bellamy left the City of Little Falls, Amos thought a lifetime in the pulpit would be his destiny. Over time, however, and through continual correspondence between the two, the impressionable Amos became jaded to what he came to consider as an unjust and unfair God- influenced by the fiery and tireless work for the rights of working people which Mr. Bellamy wrote constantly of.

A profound disbeliever in anything remotely religious or spiritual, Amos turned to science- especially drawn to the discipline of medicine. His desire to help people never wavered, and by the time he was in his early 20's, he'd established a successful practice with many area residents believing he could cheat death and banish illness.

Not this time, he mused, spurring his horse forward to beat the setting sun.

The path home to Little Falls took the doctor through thick forest, over broad, rocky creek beds, and around grassy bogs. The last rays of sun had dimmed into murky twilight, leaving a golden glow behind to replace the pearly evening light. The trail became increasingly hard to see, and although his trusted mare was lightfooted, she stumbled time and again, eventually stopping suddenly, one leg cocked.

Amos dismounted to see what was amiss, dislodged an offending stone from her hoof, then decided to walk a ways to soothe his saddle sores, and relieve his mare of his weight while her sore foot eased.

Only 2 or 3 miles out of town, the darkness became unnerving. Amos didn't believe in ghosts or demons. His religion was science, and that never failed him. Regardless, even as the stars emerged to light his path, Amos felt nervous. A rare evening wind picked up and stirred the crunchy fallen leaves into strange noises, which Amos's seldom used imagination began to play with.

Enough, he chided himself. There's no point inventing something to fear. Disease is to be feared. War is to be feared. Man is to certainly be feared. Not spirits. Those people are dead. Gone.

Still, the doctor remained skittish, and to relieve his anxiety, began talking to his mare.  

"You scared, Liberty?" The velvet nose of the mare sniffed and blew into Dr. Hale's ear, but aside from a soft nicker, didn't reply. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm feeling a bit spooked. Darned upset about young Phoebe on top of that." Liberty was silent. "You know, sometimes I feel like shaking my fist at the Almighty. His justice is unfathomable. Maybe I'm just not the doctoring type. Everyone else seems to have all kinda faith in me. Everyone but me."

CRACK!

Dr. Hale froze.

SNAP! Crack!

Reaching up to the saddle, Amos quietly withdrew his old musket, and set the butt on the ground. He loaded it with a charge and ball, filled the firing pan, and pulled back the hammer. He wrapped his reigns around the nearest branch, and crept forward along the trail, squinting into the inky darkness. The war was long over, so  he wasn't worried about Redcoats, but there were plenty of bears and wildcats roaming the nighttime woods, so if he had to use the one powder charge he had left to clear the way home, he'd be ready.

Aside from the unusual wind, the woods were quiet. He thought the sharp noises had come from further down the path, but now he wasn't so sure.

CRACK!

Jumping upright, he shouldered his weapon and began shouting. “Hey! You there! I'm armed! Now git off the trail and be on your way!” He felt foolish for yelling at an animal.  Striding boldly down the path with his musket ready to fire, he stopped periodically to listen.

Nothing. Only wind.

Lowering the gun slightly, he turned to retrieve Liberty, stumbling over a fallen log that partially blocked the path. Peering down to free his boot, Amos was shocked by what he saw.

There, illuminated only by starlight, but clear enough, was a word carved into the bark of the log.

YOU

Amos stared, swallowing hard. Straightening, he looked around again, and then quickly made his way to Liberty, trying not to spook her in the process. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something quick-moving and light, assumed it was a cougar, and spurred Liberty to a gallop, heedless of the darkened road.

Both man and beast were breathless and sweating as they skidded into the dooryard of the doctor's home. It was also his place of business, with a stable attached. He handed off Liberty to a small boy who emerged out of the shadows, and stalked into the house, where his wife Mary was waiting. She saw the look on his face, combined with the disheveled state of his hair and clothes, and was alarmed.

“What's amiss, husband?” She asked, handing him a mug of hot mulled cider.

“Nothing.” He replied, accepting the cup and dropping into a nearby chair. “Just an animal spooking Liberty, flighty creature. Thought I saw something, but wasn't staying out there to find out what.”

“Just as well. You've got a morning full of patients to see. Best be getting to bed.” She knew his self-doubt, and tried to sound nonchalant.

“Yes, you're right." He replied. "Go on up, and I'll join you shortly.”

Mary picked up a candlestick and disappeared up the stairs in a halo of flickering light.

Amos rubbed his face, heaved a sigh, and went to rinse his empty cup. Leaning over the basin, he glanced out the low-hung window into the dooryard, where he had just left Liberty and the small stable boy. The strange wind still blew, picking up dust, and leaves, driving them in whirls and torrents through the air.

Then suddenly, a dim light appeared from the corner of the barn. Amos peered out through the glass. The light seemed to tighten and form into a long, slim shape. Shaken, the doctor couldn't take his eyes off the specter. Growing fear worked to glue his feet to the floor, and immobilize his legs. The eerie shape continued to solidify and drift closer to the window, until it stopped and Dr. Hale could finally see what was there.

It was Phoebe Cook.

She hovered in front of the window, her dead eyes seeming somehow alive, swimming in the sea of mist that shaped her face. Her mouth opened and closed, speaking, but only silently- unable to relay her message.

The scream of terror choked the doctor, and he simply turned and fled up the stairs, the empty cider cup rolling off the basin to smash itself against the wide plank floor.

Mary was up the next morning, long before her husband, who'd struggled through the night, fending off nightmares and insomnia, his self-doubt working to convince him that everything he'd experienced the day before was the result of a weak mind and constitution. Mary woke him just before his first patients arrived, and he dressed, dreading every minute that lay ahead.

The morning was cold. Heavy frost lay on the windows of the reception rooms, as the fire, which had been banked overnight, sprang to life. Amos sat behind his desk and glared at the windows. A small corner of one pane caught his eye, and he moved to examine it. Fear rose as he neared, so acute it was painful, for there, written in the frost with a shaky hand were the words:


YOU MU


He backed away and sat heavily in his desk chair. The morning sun rapidly washed away the mysterious words as the heat from the rays hit the glass.

Murder. Thought Amos. Phoebe thinks I murdered her. I couldn't save her, I might as well have murdered her. She must have written those words on that tree out on the trail too. I'm doomed. A patient is HAUNTING ME! Oh MURDER MURDER MURDER! What will I do?

In the doctor's horrified state, he forgot that he didn't believe in ghosts or demons. His usually disciplined mind fell away as his fevered imaginings took complete control. Throughout the day, as Dr. Hale saw to several people, whose ailments and injuries ranged from coughs to a broken nose. There was also a message to see a woman on the other end of town, who seemed to be down with yellow fever, the prospect of which occupied the doctor's thoughts entirely for the rest of the day. A yellow fever outbreak had to be avoided at all costs.

The outbreak he so feared happened. Amos worked night and day to extinguish the flames of the contagion. As people died, the doctor's confidence fell lower and lower. Although he didn't see her during his waking hours, Phoebe visited his dreams, mouthing her accusations and pointing a spectral finger at him. Finally, nearly a week later, the last of the victims began to recover. In all, 54 people perished- too many for a small town. Dr. Hale was inconsolable.

Mary's worry increased until one morning her husband descended the stairs and sat at the table. His hair was disheveled and there were dark circles under his eyes.

“I'm finished with medicine, Mary,” he said quietly.

Knowing her protests would fall on deaf ears, she continued with her duties, leaving the house to tend to her chickens, leaving Dr. Hale alone.

In the pit of despair, Amos let his head fall to the table. A soft scratching at the window drew his attention. To his utter disbelief, there, in the frosty window across the room, words formed on their own:

YOU MUST NOT STOP

Breathless, Amos stared at the haunted window. In his distraction, he barely felt the touch on his shoulder. The whisper at his ear felt like a breeze:


You must not stop being a doctor. My death is not your fault. It was my time to go. I am happy. My son is with me. Do not despair. As my time on Earth is over, yours still continues, and people need you. You were meant to heal people. If you were not, it would not be so. It has never been in your control. You must have faith.


Gasping, Amos leapt to his feet, overturning his chair. The room was empty. The sun was quickly erasing the words from the window while it filled the room with light. As the sun's rays filled the room, Dr. Hale felt the anguish and darkness leave his heart, leaving only lightness and confidence. If he was still a man of God, he would have called it faith.

He never saw Phoebe again, or witnessed her haunting words. The purpose of her life wasn't his to fulfill, her life had it's own autonomy. He finally understood his place in the universe, and where he was meant to go in the future- without doubt, or hesitation.








In reality, Dr. Amos Haile lived in Fairfield, NY, and served as the town supervisor in addition to his work as a physician. He is buried at the old cemetery in Eatonville, NY. He was married to Mary Potter. He helped bring together the first group of people who established the Fairfield Medical College, but sadly died at the young age of 39, just days before his 40th birthday.

Francis Bellamy did live for a time in Little Falls, NY, but only for a short time. He died in Tampa, Fl, still fighting as a Christian Socialist for the rights of working people.
​
The names of all the characters are taken from notable family names of the Kuyahoora Valley.

I saw a length of ribbon lying in the grass today,
It's fibers swelled with dust,
The edges gone to fray.
​
So humble was that ribbon,
I stopped to pick it up,
Admiring of it's bravery, 
Enamored with it's pluck.

I ran it through my fingers;
The chalky dust did leave
The memory of it's presence 
on my palms, and up my sleeve.

"Twas just a bit of fabric;
a narrow length of thread,
Boasting poorly of it's colors,
Still there but long since bled.

I pondered on it's journey,
as it rested in my hand,
But it refused to share with me
The nature of it's land.

I pinched it 'tween my fingers,
and shook the dust away, 
Then rolled and tucked it safely
In my coat the shade of gray.

A simple piece of ribbon
no proud girl would employ,
Still somehow had the power
to catch my eye with joy.

Look for your own wee ribbon
It surely will be there.
To brighten any day
​and answer any prayer.





​

A workspace is very personal. It's so interesting to see where others take their refuge and inspiration! Join our Blog Hop, and hop on over to my writerly pal's blogs to check out their Creation Stations!!

Reality yanked the burlesque curtain on the beautiful, but misleading halcyon days, and suddenly, cold, biting air moved over the region and brought snow. My alarm woke me to dark, cold early mornings, which on the surface failed to perturb me, but deep down played havoc with my sense of equilibrium, causing me to wear shirts inside out, miss appointments, mislay everyday items, and generally forget even the most mundane considerations of my normally routine life. This morning, it was coffee.

Because I tend to be slightly absentminded on a good day, I take pains to organize myself nightly. I gather various small items: socks, hair bands, earrings, and clean chef coats. The fact that I have to lay out the uniform I wear to work should clearly illustrate how slippery my intellect can be. As I tidy away the dinner dishes at night and store leftovers, I stage my clean Contigo travel mug under the magic spout of my elderly Kurig, and pop in an admittedly unsustainable plastic pod of whatever K-cup coffee was on sale that week. Just a few small functions of a normal work night. So organized am I at times, I forget about the forgetfulness and imagine I've got the mind of a steel trap.

Then March happens. Capricious to the day, March flaunts itself; at times light as a downy feather, at times a petulant child. Even professional meteorologists convey the March weather report with incredulity at times. Whole strings of forecast days can be incorrect during this time of year, or can be correct in their accuracy, but unbelievable in their content. It's maddening for scientists, I'm sure. 

The madness targeted my single cup of essential coffee on this cold morning, as I'd forgotten to set up my own house-brewed cup; the cold metal tumbler left overnight in my car. I kept enough change in my console for such emergencies, however, and knew I could fill up just down the street. So, grinding the chunks of ice melt into dust under my work clogs, I made my way into the convenience store.  The inky black air was needle-sharp on the tip of my nose, and wads of ethereal frozen precipitation floated through the dark, pre-dawn air, nimbly dodging the plopping alligator tears.

Yuck.

Retrieving the forgotten travel mug, I dashed into the convenience store, shoulders hunched and cursing the obnoxious weather. 

"I hear you can make a down payment on a casket" came a disembodied voice from behind a rack of Doritos. 
The unexpected declaration turned my grumpy scowl into an amused grin, even before my first sniff of coffee. I filled my tall cup with French vanilla out of the air pot on the counter, and finished it with sugar and milk, all the while surreptitiously enjoying the banter of 4 retired farmers, wedged like sardines into the single formica booth provided for customers, of which the Doritos voice was a member.

"I'm never gonna agree with you, so stop trying." barked one.

"Aww, you don't know what you're talkin' about!" returned another.
​
"Hey, here comes the big shot! He's got the answer, sure he does!" Another older man swung through the door to an explosion of raucous commentary from the current gallery.

(Keep in mind, this is all happening at 5:25 in the morning.)

"Whatever they're drinking," I thought, "I want some." realizing simultaneously that what they were drinking was nothing more than black coffee cut with a bit of old-time friendship, humor, and optimism- perhaps sweetened with a peaceful night's sleep. Regardless, without knowing it, they'd sprinkled the sugar of assurance on my fickle, forgetful March morning. The older gents knew spring was coming, and paid no mind to the wayward nature of what amounted to a handful of days.

​Pushing the door open on the return to my waiting car, I heard one of the men call to his friends, "Hey! I saw a bunch of blackbirds yesterday! Blackbirds are a sign of SPRING!" They all cheered. I couldn't suppress a laugh.

Blackbirds or not, he was right. March was full of blackbirds, temperamental, unpredictable, flighty blackbirds. And it was a sign of spring!

Irish produce farms overflow with root vegetables, cabbages, beans, lettuces, and of course the ubiquitous Irish potato. A famous traditional Irish dish is called Colcannon, which is simply buttered mashed potatoes with cooked, shredded cabbage mixed in. Simple, nutritious and delicious. Traditional meals tend to be basic, celebrating the unique flavor of the produce and meat that is being served. Modern cooks and chefs seek out the many small growers and fishermen for stunning seasonal harvests. Ireland is about the size of Indiana, so no food product has to travel very far to get to market. In fact, Ireland imports only a very small amount of food. Most of it is home grown!

It wasn't always like this in the Emerald Isle. From 1845-1852, a fungus which came to be known as Potato Blight began attacking the potato crop. It cut a catastrophic swath through the entire island and devastated the harvest for years. Before it ran its course, one million people had died and countless others had immigrated. Those that survived this black time in Ireland's history were happy to cook whatever they could find. Boiled root vegetables and cabbage were the order of the day. Potatoes were still prized. To this day, the potato is still the King of Ireland.

To celebrate the Feast of Saint Patrick, people all over the world prepare a humble meal: corn beef, cabbage, potatoes and soda bread. Most of this is boiled, but the soda bread is baked in a cast iron dutch oven called a Bastible, that was nestled into the coals of a fire to bake. Most rural Irish folk did not have access to an oven, so this was the way they baked their bread. Soda bread is more of a large biscuit; leavened with baking soda and/or powder.  A cross is pressed into the top of the dough to ask for blessings and intercessions from the Saint. 

To start, build a fire. (Not many of today's recipes start with that instruction!) Once the fire has died down to coals, coat the bottom of your cast iron dutch oven with butter and drop the dough in, press the cross in the top and cover. Pour hot coals on the top of the dutch oven and allow to bake for roughly 1 hour or until the resulting bread has a hollow sound when thumped.
​

Irish Soda Bread

2 1/2 cups whole milk
2 tbsp white vinegar
5 cups AP flour
3 tsp baking soda
2 tsp salt

Pour the vinegar into the milk and allow the milk to curdle. You can also use 2 1/2 cups of whole buttermilk.
Mix the flour, soda and salt. Add the milk and stir. Turn this mixture out onto your benchtop. Knead for about 10 minutes or until the dough is smooth.

He sat alone, three pews ahead of me, bony elbows resting on his knees.


His dirty brown hair was pulled back in a half-ponytail, Rastafarian style, clumps of stringy hair hanging halfway down his back. The untrimmed, scraggly beard covered the lower part of his face, and together with his elf-like delicate eyebrows, made him look for all the world like Jesus Christ.


It was that thought that stopped me in my tracks as I nearly sneered at the dingy Army green vest with obese sumo wrestlers embroidered on the back. When he got up to greet someone who reached out to him, the broken, unlaced workboots on his feet made me gasp.


What was HE doing HERE?


I couldn't help myself. Among the splendor of our high Episcopal church, full of elderly, genteel folk, and young families with smartly turned-out children, this vagrant seemed distinctly out of place. Our soaring, historic stained glass windows cast jewel-like shadows across nearly 200 years of Gothic architecture, beautiful sculpture, and gleaming metalwork crucifixes. The scent of incense, used during high Holy Days, wafts up from the royal red carpet, which blankets the floor from the iconic red front doors to the ornate altar.


Settling myself in what I considered to be “my” pew, I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I mean, he was so different. Although clearly he was a young man, his grimy hands were gnarled like someone decades older. His knees bent outward like an Old West cowboy who'd spent too many years in the saddle. No wrinkles marked his pale face, but the countenance spoke of age, nonetheless. Leaning back in my seat, I pondered on him, tapping my 3rd Sunday in Lent bulletin against my chin.


Of course, the stranger was unaware of my musings. At nearly 50, I've spent 48 years people-watching; even as a young child, speculating on their life's story. It's human nature to make assumptions, but as I've grown up, I've tried to tamp down those bad habits.


Still, this was my church, and this stranger rattled me.


Then she approached him. It was a parish member, clad in a black velvet dress who'd just 3 days before endured the sudden death of her husband. Despite the crushing blow, she was still present this sunny Sunday, a wan smile on her face. She gripped the tall back of the pew with one hand and leaned in with the other graceful hand, reaching out to the stranger.


Their brief handshake turned my heart.


Who was the stranger? A tramp? An addict down on his luck? A drifter passing through town? Or was he an angel in disguise, sent to remind us of the value of ALL human life, regardless of outward appearances cultural practices, or language.


One never knows, does one, whether they walk among us. I for one, hope I never disappoint them.