tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33241626193195197412024-03-13T07:01:54.865-07:00Life, CultivatedA blog about farming, motherhood and generally, hoeing around.Farmgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16089724377155776959noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-74312661296689282112014-05-11T09:36:00.001-07:002014-05-11T09:36:12.543-07:00Overwintered
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Montanans love to tell people how much
they love the seasons here. But, if you pay attention, you'll note
that this praise often comes in the spring or fall – when the
brutality of winter is thawing or the oppressive dry heat of summer
is starting to lift.
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In January, if you ask, the honest ones
will tell you, <i>Eff This Place.</i></div>
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As I write this,
it's Mother's Day – May 11, and it's snowing. Nay, blizzarding. The
first thing I said upon waking was “bullshit.”
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It's been a long
winter. Everyone says so. <i>(Long enough, apparently, that we (I)
swear more than we (I) should. Sorry about that.)</i></div>
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But I'm not sure it's really been any longer than any other winter. (The winter you just went through is always the longest, right?)</div>
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For this family, this has been the longest winter that has ever been. Ever.<i> </i></div>
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One of my friends recently shared a
photo of a rosemary plant, peeking through the cold dirt, but still green
and growing. She was so proud she said, that the plant had
overwintered.
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<i>Overwintered. </i>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">The
term has been on my mind a lot because honestly, just like the kale
that started shooting green sprouts after numerous -30 degree days or
the scallions that popped up in the field or the lilac that still
managed to grow buds, I am genuinely surprised we made it to May this
year.</span></div>
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The winter after my oldest was born, my
husband traveled a lot. We lived in a tiny rental house – cozy and
cute, but little and dark. It was one of the longest seasons of my
life and the first time I really – and I mean <i>really</i> felt
winter in Montana. And then I had another baby. </div>
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During that first of the longest of winters,
on one of Jacob's travels, he met our now friend Sarah. She was
authentic and funny and driven and he told her she must meet his wife
– the wife who he must have known was struggling and needed a
friend just like Sarah. So, Sarah took Jacob at his word and stopped
by one day on her way through. It may have seemed odd to anyone else
– these two just-strangers, gabbing and hugging like old friends.
But when you live in the middle of nowhere and you've survived more
sub-zero days in a row than you'd like to count, and one of you has
been taking care of a suckling baby inside of a dark house for
months, and the other's been building a business from scratch in a
tiny town, it's not so odd at all.</div>
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I was reminded of this when Sarah said
recently during a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZ6uVJZ0Ed0">TEDx talk</a> (she really is awesome, did I mention?)
“These raw winters keep a person honest. It's the kind of place where you need a lot of grit and dependable friends and neighbors to make it."
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When we first started farming, I loved
how it made us live a life that followed the seasons, a life that
truly mirrored natural rhythms. Birth in the spring, ripening in the
summer, bounty in the fall and the quiet of winter.
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But that was until this last year. It
was our first season on our new farm and had our little Eli in May.
Birth in spring was overwhelming. Too many babies to tend to. Then
came the ripening of summer with too many weeds to pull and plants to
feed and a baby that needed more than just food. Fall brought more
bounty than I could handle -- a baby that was moving and crawling
and a toddler who was growing up too fast. And then the winter
hit and the slowness was just too cold, too dark, too lonely.
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I started rethinking that romantic idea
that we should follow the seasons. Perhaps progress is being able to
ignore what's happening outside – keeping a constant flow
throughout the year instead of having to bend with the changing of
the seasons. Would it just be easier somewhere else? Doing something
else?
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But then slowly, the grass started to
green. The lilacs put out buds. The tulips even bloomed. We watched
as our ewes (somewhat effortlessly, I thought) birthed their
fuzzy little lambs. The sky opened. The birds, oh the birds – they
started singing again. The hay started smelling sweet and the new
willow shoots spread their fragrance across the yard. New ideas
swirled, hope returned and miraculously, excitement, even enthusiasm,
sparked again.</div>
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These things, they pale unless you've
been without them for awhile. You don't appreciate the greenness if
you haven't just been through too much brown. You don't feel the
warmth of a 60 degree day unless you've survived -30. A new idea isn't as rich if you haven't been stagnant for some time. You don't hug
your friends, or your kids or your husband as hard if you haven't
just survived together.
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These winters keep do keep us
honest. They keep us grounded. They keep us grateful. They make us
creative -- not on a whim, but out of necessity. More importantly, getting through does make for good neighbors, good
friends, strong family and good people.</div>
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Maybe that's why it <i>does</i> make sense to live a life so intimately tied to the natural rhythm. </div>
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And, maybe that's what we really mean when we say we love the seasons here.<br />
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Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-26414453586850810372013-02-12T10:14:00.001-08:002013-02-12T10:15:30.383-08:00On Death and Farm Life<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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Last week, I spent a morning lumbering
over a 6-months-along-but-looks-more-like-8-months pregnant belly,
collecting tools from the shed to pick away at a small shallow grave
in still frozen ground near the back of our shelterbelt.
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I'd found my favorite cat dead in
the barn that morning. </div>
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When she got sick, I'd wrapped her in her
blanket, the one she used to curl up with on our bed, and less than a
day later, when I found her dead, I kept her in that blanket as I placed her in the grave –
the biggest one I could muster in mid-winter, mid-pregnancy.
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I vacillated from “it's just a cat”
to wailing uncontrollably at the foot of the grave, from grunting
with the pick axe and just getting it done to shrieking like a scared
child at the stiffness of my sweet cat's limbs, claws out, still
clinging to the blanket.
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As I buried the little black and white
cat, I was struck at how equally I felt guilt for feeling too little
and weakness for feeling too much.
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I'm no stranger to dead animals. I've
mourned my share, especially as farm kid. But, it was different then.
I had someone to take care of the aftermath for me, leaving me with
just the emotion, the heady wrangling that comes when you're faced
with death, and none of the actual logistical chores that come with
it. Whether it was the day the “custom slaughtering” vehicle
pulled up to the house or the day I watched my cocker spaniel get hit
on the highway, my reaction was allowed to be emotional only.
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But now, as an adult, I have to deal with it all – the emotion and the cold, hard logistics. I have to cram the already rigid beloved cat
in a too-small grave. And, I have to slit the throat of the
Thanksgiving turkey, carry the blood bucket, pluck the feathers, cut
the meat, throw away the dead baby turkeys or dispose of the body of
a goose who strangled itself in the fence.
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Death is part of any life, but on the
farm, it's part of everyday life.
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That has meant a bit of hardening
in my heart. I actually cringe a little at admitting that, but it's
true.
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I used to be the
one who brought home stray cats to the farm to “save” them. I
insisted as a 10-year-old that Peter, the cat I'd saved from the tree
in town, get extensive surgery to reset his leg and stitch his ear
back on. Just a few short years ago, Jacob and I spent hundreds upon
hundreds of dollars on the very cat I buried last week when she came
down with some weird auto-immune thing. Back then, I wrapped bandages
and applied ointment several times a day. This time around, I just
wrapped her in her favorite blanket, made her comfortable and let her
die. (In my defense, she was an older cat and had something
obviously serious going on that I was pretty sure a vet couldn't fix.
And, she'd become a barn cat – no less valuable than the house cat
she was before, but just in a more natural habitat. I like to think
she was happier there – in life and in death. But, also, she was
just a cat.)</div>
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See? The equal
parts guilt and weakness.
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But what was worse
within all of that was the strange, terrible feeling that somewhere along the line, life
took away a little smidge of my sensitivity.
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I'm still wrestling
with that – whether it's a good or a bad thing. There's a fine line
between becoming strong and becoming heartless. And, I'm trying to
remind myself that the juxtaposition of practicality and sadness I
felt burying that little cat is a good thing – it means I haven't
crossed that line.
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I never want to
stop feeling the emotion about the loss of any life, whether that be a cat or
turkey or a pig. But I also don't want to go back to that naive place I was as
a child in which nothing should die, ever. And if it does, I don't
have to see what that really means. Too often, I think we shelter
kids (and ourselves really), girls in particular, from the full
picture of life, showing only the pretty stuff and letting them, and
ourselves blissfully ignore the hard, yucky stuff.</div>
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My first instinct
was to wait for Jacob to get home and have him deal with the cat. My
friend Renee suggested I call my Dad. My friend Brooke offered to
come over and do the deed. But, for some reason, I felt like I had to
do it. For one, I don't want Willa growing up thinking that only Papa
deals with the hard stuff. And secondly, I just felt like I need to
continue to prove to myself that I can be soft and sad and hard and
practical all at the same time -- that I have the capacity and strength to deal with both the emotion and the realities.</div>
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Still, I took Willa
to a friend's as I did the burying, not wanting to expose her to that
just yet. It was the same instinct I had this fall when, just before
the first turkey was killed on slaughter day I brought her back to
the house and spared her the blood.
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But both times, I
wondered if I was doing the right thing. Maybe it would be easier on
her to know, early on, the dichotomy I'm just now coming to grips
with. Maybe it will be smoother for her to just know from the beginning
that death is hard and sad but also
necessary and inevitable.
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Then again, she's
two. We still have lots of time to talk about it and many, many
opportunities. And maybe by the time we get there, I'll finally have
figured it out for myself.
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Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-64778483291296566292012-11-29T12:28:00.003-08:002012-11-29T12:28:54.419-08:00The New FarmI feel like we are really starting from scratch. <br />
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I should have been documenting this whole thing -- the big leap our family has taken since I last wrote -- but it's almost as if it were too precious, to fragile to really put into words out there in the world. Not just yet anyway.<br />
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See, since my last post, we bought a farm. A real, honest-to-goodness farm -- of our own. <br />
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We've been working toward this for the last four -- eight, really -- years.<br />
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"If only," we'd say, "we had a place of our own." <br />
<br />
"Someday, when we actually have a farm..."<br />
<br />
"If we ever own our own farm we'll..." <br />
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And now we're actually here, on our own farm. <br />
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We did first things first. We moved our stuff, turkeys and equipment.<br />
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Then, we broke ground.<br />
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Then we butchered said turkeys and delivered them across the state for Thanksgiving. (<a href="http://www.prairieheritagefarm.com/2012/11/thanks.html">We have so many thanks to give for all the help we got with that</a>.)<br />
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And now, that the dust has settled, it's started to sink in that this magical place is ours. <i>Ours.</i><br />
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Then the panic really set in.<br />
<br />
<i>W</i>hen you finally get something you really, really, really want, it can be a bit paralyzing.<br />
<br />
Because now, we don't have any <i>somedays</i>. We have <i>todays</i>.<br />
<br />
All the things we thought we could make happen <i>if</i> -- they don't have <i>ifs</i> anymore. They have <i>whens</i>. Now the real work starts.<br />
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And all that stuff I thought about our <i>someday</i>? Some of it was true and some of it wasn't, reaffirming that darnit -- life, motherhood, farming, love -- it all takes work, no matter how magical the place or how nicely situated the outbuildings or how well-organized the kitchen.<br />
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Everything is a bit easier, yes, and we're doing it all in a breathtaking place, but it all still takes hard, heart-ful, back-aching work.<br />
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One thing hasn't changed, though: It's still so very worth it.<br />
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<i></i>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-86221880012945712052012-08-08T09:47:00.000-07:002015-11-30T07:37:16.775-08:00All Kinds of Awesome<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A few weeks ago, I was ready to ring the bell. Big deadlines, covering for other editors, working around limited child care, a big camping/festival/selling weekend to get ready for and Jacob off the farm for a few days, leaving Willa and I to harvest (with our apprentices and some friend help) and then deliver veggies to 50 families in two cities, 2 hours apart.<br />
<br />
It was all enough to a) strip me down to the very last shred of my strength and b) remind me of how strong I actually can be, even on a shred.<br />
<br />
By Friday, harvest day, I was frazzled. I had to be out to the field early so I quickly woke the babe, got breakfast in both of us, slapped on one of my trusty, so threadbare-it's-almost-see-through farm shirts, my hat and dirty boots and dropped Willa off at daycare before zooming out for harvest. As I drove back into town from the morning, the logistics of the next two days of delivery and travel rambling through my head, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.<br />
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And, <i>whoa Nellie</i>. What a sight. Dirty, sweaty, frazzled. Haggard even. I was covered, head to toe, in sweat and mud and stress.<br />
<br />
As luck would have it, I'd recently run into an old friend, who, of course, looked fabulous, just when I looked like a hot mess.<br />
<br />
And the truth is, I <strike>look like</strike> am a hot mess most days.<br />
<br />
I don't notice, really, until I see someone looking fabulous. Stylish. Put together. Clean. You know -- how I looked before the mud and dirt and beet juice on my shirt and no time for mascara or concealer or, let's admit it, <i>showers</i> even.<br />
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I like to think I don't care -- that I have more important things to think about and more important values to live up to.<br />
<br />
But, I do care sometimes. And, it affects my self worth. Looking haggard can contribute to <i>feeling</i> haggard. And lately, I've both <i>looked</i> and <i>felt</i> pretty haggard. <br />
<br />
I thought about it a lot on my early morning drive to Helena to deliver that Saturday and by the time I got there, I'd pretty much convinced myself that, judging by how much I'd -- what's the phrase? -- <i>let myself go</i>, I was hanging by the thread of one of my threadbare farm shirts. <br />
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I waver, pretty drastically, between being a strong, I-don't-care-what-I-look-like farm girl and a self-conscious, let's say <i>medium</i>-maitenence girl who doesn't feel quite right without a little foundation to cover up her old acne scars. I've never been pretty enough to be a pretty girl and never felt strong enough to hang with the real tough-as-nails farm girls out there. So I waffle somewhere in the middle, never quite knowing where I fit in. Why? I wonder, do I feel the need to be one or the other?<br />
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But, back to the big, hard week: I pulled it off by myself, even with Willa in tow, editing, writing, singing Muffin Man! at the top of my lungs over and over, chopping the tops off of kohrabi and lugging huge coolers of beets and cabbage and zucchini (you can't imagine how heavy those coolers were) in and out of our beat-up Chevy. Customers were happy at both deliveries and I was proud to pull every last head of cabbage out of those coolers.<br />
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At the final delivery, once everyone was gone, I started to load back up and noticed an old man walking by the pickup for a second time, gawking a little at a (what <i>I</i> saw as) frazzled farmer/mom in an already coffee-stained white tank top and muddy shorts awkwardly trying to push coolers almost as long as her into her truck.<br />
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He stopped for a moment and then kept walking, turning back to shout:<br />
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"I thought for a second you might need some help. But you look like you're pretty tough."<br />
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<i>That's right old man. I am pretty tough. </i><br />
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<i>And pretty awesome. </i><br />
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Here's the thing I want to model for my daughter:<br />
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<i>There are all kinds of awesome.</i><br />
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I may not be the prettiest or the strongest, but by God, I am pretty strong and even pretty pretty and I do awesome things every single day.<br />
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Once in awhile, we have to be the ones to tell ourselves that.<br />
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By the way, it's amazing what a little bit of self confidence can do for a girl. She'll think she can do just about anything...<br />
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Like you know, hop on a mechanical bull at the State Fair.<br />
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And be perfectly happy getting bucked off.<br />
<br />Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-27808297702876935432012-07-31T11:20:00.001-07:002012-07-31T11:21:59.240-07:00Here's to Family Farms! And Music! And Rural Communities! And Red Ants Pants!We had just a fantastic time this weekend at the 2nd Annual Red Ants Pants Festival in White Sulphur Springs.<br />
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It's nothing short of amazing to watch a big pasture outside of a small Montana town come to life the way the Jackson Ranch does for this festival. And, to know that one incredible woman's vision for women in leadership and strong family farms and viable rural communities is the reason for it all makes it even more so. That's the reason we go. Because even in dust and heat (and with a toddler in dust and heat) -- it's just magical to watch it all come together and feel that energy. <br />
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This is the second year we've done the festival and this year, the music
was even better (Mary Chapin Carpenter!) and we were able to do a
demonstration of our bike-powered fresh flour, in addition to selling
whole <a href="http://www.prairieheritagefarm.com/p/grain-and-seed-csa.html">ancient and heritage grains</a> and our sourdough Farmer Bread. <br />
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About 125 people showed up for the demo (called the Tour de Flour) to hear us talk about heritage and ancient grains, fresh flour and the renaissance of family farming. And, at least 15 brave people signed up to compete to win flour and bread with our grain-grinding bike time trials. (We did, however, had to call it at 7 contestants because the mill got so hot it started to gum up -- basically baking -- the flour. We've never tried grinding that fast, for that long or in that kind of heat. :)<br />
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To top off the excitement, the Red Ants Pants Foundation -- which is why the whole festival was started to begin with -- announced on stage Saturday that we are one of their first grant winners. Pretty darn cool, especially considering how highly we think of the foundation (and of our friend Sarah Calhoun, the owner of Red Ants Pants). Basically the organization was founded:<br />
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-To develop and expand leadership roles for women<br />
-To preserve and support working family farms and ranches<br />
-To enrich and promote rural communities<br />
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To that end, this year, the foundation used the proceeds of last year's festival to dole out community grant awards to people and organizations working toward those goals. We were so honored to be on this first list.<br />
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We won for a project we've been dreaming about for some time now: stone-milled ancient and heritage grains. So, thanks to the foundation, we're shopping now for an electric (our legs are so happy!) stone mill that will get fresh flour to our <a href="http://www.prairieheritagefarm.com/p/grain-and-seed-csa.html">Grain CSA farm share members (sign up now!)</a> as well as individuals, restaurants and bakeries across the state and the region. <br />
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So, even despite the dust and rain and sunburns, it was a tip-top weekend.<br />
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Here's the proof:<br />
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Willa and her Papa had a grand time walking around the festival, collecting rocks, listening to music and watching all the people. This girl did not get her Mama's aversion to crowds.</div>
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We got to hang all weekend with Emily, our amazing, awesome, incredible apprentice. Here's Willa and Emily (or, "Ammee" to Willa) watching Mary Chapin Carpenter, sipping on a lemonade slushy and yelling "Good job people!" after each song. (That was Willa's idea.)</div>
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Oh, Mary Chapin Carpenter, your voice is like home to me. Here's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnSHWGdiBrk&feature=endscreen&NR=1">one big reason why</a>, and why she was just the perfect voice for this event.</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-8186786060211913622012-07-19T06:28:00.003-07:002012-07-19T09:29:10.609-07:00When Things Make Sense, And Then They Don'tThere are days when your life make sense. And then there are days it doesn't.<br />
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Being aware and respectful of how quickly it can change from one to the other can make you more thankful for the days it does and more patient on the days it doesn't.<br />
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On Monday, it all made sense, all this scrambling around, all this juggling. This cobbled-together existence of farm and work and home and parenting -- it's <i>for</i> something.<br />
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Mostly, it's for what I get to do on Mondays when I deliver farm shares to customers and veggies to the Mountain Front Market in Choteau. On those days, I get to: 1) get food to rural folks who are so appreciative of good food and good farmers and good local economies and good community and 2) do this while my daughter, who I often worry will someday resent the fact that we spent our summers schlepping vegetables all over the Golden Triangle, has a big time helping our friend and market owner Jill. This week, she helped stock apples. <br />
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Jill told me later that Willa would pick up an apple and stare at it for a few moments, intently exploring each curve and bump and color before handing it up to Jill to stock. "Isn't that what we should all be doing?" Jill asked. Stopping to smell and touch and really <i>see</i> the things in our lives? <br />
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After all that hard work, Willa sat down for a glass of milk with Jill in the back and Willa colored while Jill made new labels for the produce I'd just dropped off. I had a vision of her at 5 or 6 or 7 doing the same thing every Monday -- helping Mama deliver veggies and drinking milk with Jill in the back of a grocery store.<br />
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I thought about the stories someday she might tell her kids about those afternoons spent in the store. Picking out treats. Coloring. Hanging with her pal Jill. <br />
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I thought too about how similar her stories might be to the stories my Mom tells me about her childhood in her grandparents' store.<br />
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(My great grandparents, Lebanese immigrants, owned and ran "People's Grocery" in Great Falls -- which my Great Grandpa Mike called "Pe-op-o-lee's" -- for many, many years. Maybe the retail side of food was in my blood as much as the growing side after all.)<br />
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Sometimes, that full circle stuff just chokes me up, I tell you. I turn into a big, sappy fool. <br />
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But, then, on Tuesday, wham. Nothing made sense. There were many tears, too much to do, not enough time, calls and texts and urgent emails, lettuce wilting, needing ice, conference calls wedged between my shoulder and chin while I tried to walk a squirmy, hot, cranky toddler in a stroller (nap, dammit!) for the third time around the neighborhood, spilled liquids on keyboards, sticky skin, dishes piling, dog puke on the couch and a mountain of laundry that seemed to have doubled in size overnight. Oh, and a veggie pick up at our aforementioned disaster of a house.<br />
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No, I don't have any photos to illustrate this s*^tshow. <br />
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But then! Wednesday. Harried, but manageable. Willa's pal Carey, who takes care of her occasionally while I work, saw the ridiculousness the day before in our house and so she offered to take her for the whole day. (And, she baked one whole cake and brownies and cupcakes for us to boot. That woman has saved my life more than once, I swear.) And then to cap off a productive day, we had our awesome farm apprentices over for dinner. (Stuffed zucchini. Recipe to come.)<br />
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As I finished dinner prep and got everything out to the table, finally, I felt a calm I hadn't felt for a few days.<br />
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And I was able to stop long enough to witness this little girl's Papa tickling her with a few leaves.<br />
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Things made sense again. Just. Like. That.<br />
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<i>By the way, I'm back on the column writing for The Daily Yonder (a very cool online journal about Rural America) this week and <a href="http://www.dailyyonder.com/home-again-making-room-grow/2012/07/13/4193">my return column is about making room for special things to grow. </a></i><br />
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<br />Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-31751300249526259472012-07-05T06:33:00.000-07:002012-07-05T06:33:01.344-07:00Farro It, Dude!Hey there. We've been off gallivanting in North Dakota. Why? Because that's what Montana farmers do, apparently. On the only three days they have off in a row, they drive to North Dakota to talk to other farmers about, you guessed it, farming. <br />
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So, I don't have much to tell you this week. But, I do have a new recipe over on the farm blog to share:<br />
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<a href="http://www.prairieheritagefarm.com/2012/07/local-montana-farro-star-rising.html"><b>Warm Prairie Farro Salad With Baby Beets, Blue Cheese and Mustard Greens</b></a><br />
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Dee-lish.Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-46266702759952572212012-06-26T07:21:00.002-07:002012-06-26T12:59:47.450-07:00Pizza Season!Summer means pizza around here.<br />
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There's no better way to carry all that goodness coming off the farm to your mouth than a good crust covered with cheese.<br />
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The latest creation took some of the arugula, now flowering, and thus, done for the season (sad face), and made it something to photograph.<br />
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Here is said flowering arugula. So pretty. But, again, so sad. (We are letting this bed flower, however, to hope to save the seed for next year. Jacob's been really into <a href="http://www.greatfallstribune.com/article/20120505/LIFESTYLE/205050308/Co-op-saves-seeds-grow-Montana">helping figure out how to create a more sustainable seed supply for both our farm and for our region</a>.)<br />
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Aforementioned really <i>something</i> of a pizza.<br />
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This pizza was a bit of a mashup. I took <a href="http://www.utsandiego.com/uniontrib/20050817/news_lz1f17readers.html">this favorite salad recipe (the famous Prado Pressed Salad)</a> as inspiration and combined it with an awesome pizza I had once at Missoula's <a href="http://bigapizza.com/pizza.htm">Biga Pizza</a> and just ran with it.<br />
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Here, again, <a href="http://content.markbittman.com/node/176">is the dough recipe from Mark Bittman.</a><br />
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3 cups all-purpose or bread flour, plus more as needed (*Only, I use one cup all-purpose and two cups Prairie Heritage Farm whole Sonora wheat flour. Naturally.)<br />
2 teaspoons instant yeast<br />
2 teaspoons coarse kosher or sea salt, plus extra for sprinkling<br />
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil <br />
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I just put the dry ingredients in a food processor and pulse for a second or two. Then, add the olive oil and drizzle in about a cup (or a cup and a 1/2) of water until the mixture forms a ball. Take out the ball and knead it on a floured surface 10-15 times and then put it in an oiled bowl and cover and let it rise about 2 hours. Then, I divide it into two chunks, let it rise again for 10 minutes or so, roll it out, put it on a pizza peel (covered in cornmeal or, see note below about parchment) and top it.<br />
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Bake on a super hot pizza stone (preheated to 500 degrees) for 9-10 minutes.<br />
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On top of this pizza was:<br />
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-A drizzle of olive oil<br />
-Sea salt<br />
-Cracked pepper<br />
-Rosemary (I prefer fresh, but went with dried this time) <br />
-Sliced dried figs<br />
-Sliced shallots <br />
-A handful of walnuts<br />
-Crumbled Cambozola cheese<br />
-A sprinkling of Parmesan<br />
-Fresh arugula piled on top after the baking <br />
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The second pizza was sausage, onion, our first picking of spinach and mozzarella.<br />
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Also quite lovely.<br />
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<i>P.S. </i>I recently started putting the rolled dough on parchment paper and then putting it on the pizza peel, rather than using cornmeal to get the pie to slide off into the oven. I haven't burned my arm since I started doing that and while I do miss the cornmeal crunch, my arms, and my nerves are much better for it. (One of the only times I slip and say the f word around the toddler is when I'm trying to get my perfectly created pizza to slide onto a pizza stone only to end up with a misshapen hunk of dough and cheese and spinach or something.)<br />
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<i>P.P.S.</i> These lovely things were grilled on the grill (so I did use cornmeal on the peel). We put our pizza stone (which is actually a few unglazed quarry tiles) on the grill and heated the sucker up. (Because as much as we love pizza in the summer, my body does not like the heat of a 500 degree oven in the middle of summer.)<br />
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The pizza took a little longer on the grill (like 10-12 minutes), but it gave it a super yummy crunch. And, I didn't pit out while making it either. Win, win.<br />
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And, I promise, this face isn't an indication of the goodness of the pizza. In fact, this pizza prompted a new phrase: "I like it!" which sounds a bit more like, "Awee LIE-EE-K! it." (Or, maybe that's "I <i>don't</i> like it." Hmmm.)<br />
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<br />Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-14776328765045439172012-06-14T16:51:00.001-07:002012-06-14T20:06:47.722-07:00A Week With A Small Farm Family<b><i>Photo dump! </i></b><br />
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In case you're as scattered as I am and just want to look at something and not think for a second, I give you:<br />
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The week in pictures from a life cultivated and <a href="http://www.prairieheritagefarm.com/">Prairie Heritage Farm</a>...<br />
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Morning sun is about all we get in our otherwise, dark, dark, little house in town. Oh, what we wouldn't give to finally live out in the country. To live where we work the land.<br />
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We're working on it. But for now, we have all the stresses and risks of running a small farm with few of the perks, like you know, waking up with the sun streaming through the windows, or picking fresh veggies from your backyard for dinner, or playing, whenever you want, in the dirt with your daughter.<br />
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Someday, little one, some day.<br />
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For now though, we spend a lot of time outside to pretend like we live on a farm. As much as we can, we get outside to the farm itself, and every other waking moment we get outside in the backyard.<br />
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(Happy Father's Day, by the way, to this guy. <a href="http://www.lifecultivated.com/2011/06/from-jr-high-crush-to-father-of-my.html">What an awesome Papa he is</a>.)<br />
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Or, we grab some valuable time at the park.</div>
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This is Willa's new "smile." Ask her to smile for the camera and she goes one step too far turning that frown upside down with her hands. </div>
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Last Wednesday, we hit the road to see Auntie Hannah graduate. Only the cool kids were allowed on the trip.</div>
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We met some nice chickens at the Museum of the Rockies, where we wandered through Jacob's favorite museum exhibit of all time: <a href="http://www.museumoftherockies.org/Exhibits/ExhibitDetails/tabid/73/Type/View/Exhibit/1/Living-History-Farm.aspx">The Living History Farm</a>. He said, at least twice, and wistfully, "I think I was born at the wrong time." </div>
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If this guy had a time travel device, he would <i>so</i> be living on a turn-of-the-century (and I mean <i>last</i> century) farm, wearing suspenders and doing everything by hand. (<a href="http://www.lifecultivated.com/2011/05/whats-old-is-new-or-whats-new-is-old.html">See the photo in this post as evidence</a>.) Jacob, of course, chatted it up with the farm folks and ended up leaving with some seedlings of an old variety of red orach, a red spinachy-kind of leafy veggie. </div>
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And, the whole family got to practice their Willa smiles.</div>
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And finally, Willa and I got some farm time in this week. (We're home a
lot these days while Papa toils in the dirt, given my whole online
editing job, which you know, requires an Internet connection, which is
absent at the farm.) You can almost <i>hear</i> things growing out there. (The weeds too though.)</div>
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Willa and I took care of some little bunches of chives that were buried under a mountain of quack grass while we were out there. And, oh, it felt good to dig and pull and smell and talk about what dirt and sun do for plants and which plants are yummy and which ones are yuck. </div>
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It's a dandy thing, hanging out with a kid on a farm.</div>
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And, don't tell my husband, but I really miss the whole manual labor side of the farming thing, a lot,<i> even the weeding part. </i></div>
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This
is what we'll be doing again this weekend: driving first to Great Falls
on Friday to deliver fresh veggies to our awesome customers there and
then on to Helena for the Farmer's Market on Saturday morning, where we
meet up with more awesome farm share customers and watch Jacob build up his
quads using a bike-powered flour mill to get the fine people of Helena
freshly-ground, flour from organic, heritage wheat. </div>
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Nothing like it.</div>
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<br />Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-79929927579926679022012-05-24T14:59:00.002-07:002012-05-24T15:56:35.789-07:00A Time Capsule, Or How One Person's Trailer Trash Might Be Another's ChildhoodOur two farm apprentices arrived. And let me tell you, they're <i>magic</i>. Pure <i>magic</i>. Not only are they awesome folks to be around, they're super duper hard workers and for once, <i>for once</i>, we actually feel like we have the labor figured out on the farm. That's a big step for a small business.<br />
<br />
The apprentices mean I don't need to be out there toiling in the dirt and sun as much and now that I have an more-than-part-time off-farm job and a toddler to chase, that works best for our lives. But, I can't say I don't miss it. I do. A whole lot. But, I'll still get out a few afternoons a week and get sufficiently dirty, I hope.<br />
<br />
When we do get out to the farm, we try to do so by bike. Pretty awesome road biking around here for a Mama and Toddler.<br />
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Also, when on the farm, we always strive to look farmy.<br />
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And, while at home, we try to be as useful as possible, researching all things pertinent to small farmers, like, say, reading the most recent issue of ACRES USA magazine. (Someone has to know how do decode the nutrient density of our crops.)<br />
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In other news, in order to house aforementioned magic apprentices, we are borrowing this awesome camper trailer from my Dad.<br />
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I spent some good weekends in this as a kid and I don't think it's been used since the Lowerys last took it on the road, circa 1985.<br />
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So, this thing is like a time capsule on wheels.<br />
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It's so funny, how something you didn't even know you remembered can bring back such vivid memories.<br />
<br />
Things like a 30-year-old baby doll, a rainbow hair band, a cassette tape, the print of a camper cushion, the lid of a margarine container, an empty box of clay, a key chain, a few handmade potholders, the top from a popsicle maker. <br />
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Aww... early 80s, you were totally rad.Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-78774845908237271142012-05-12T09:50:00.001-07:002012-05-12T13:18:08.703-07:00Convincing Ourselves We're Mom Enough, Or What is Really Undermining Women<style type="text/css">
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As a relatively new
mother, I'm still figuring out my role – in the house, in the
family, in the workplace, in the business world, in the mothering
world and in my own sense of self.
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It's a nuanced,
complex and challenging place to be. But, it's <i>my</i> place to be. And in this place, I'd like to think I am fully thinking, and feeling, my way
through it all -- my <i>own way</i> through it all.</div>
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But the last few
weeks, a debate has been building online and off that insinuates
otherwise – that seems to claim that in fact, my decisions as a
mother are made from a place of influence, or fear, or insecurity.</div>
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So, I'll say this
as eloquently as I can right now: <i>Hooey. Pure, freaking, hooey.</i></div>
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Let me just go
ahead and save you the trouble of answering the rhetorical questions
raised by this firestorm of pre-Mother's Day media, by these so-called
“mom wars.” (Really? Inflame much? “<a href="http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2012/0511/Time-breast-feeding-cover-On-parenting-can-we-all-get-along">Wars</a>?”)
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First to the most
recent question – the one posited on the cover of <i>Time Magazine</i>:
<b><i>“Are You Mom Enough?” </i></b>
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The answer is: <b>Yes</b>.
No matter if you're an “attached parent” or not, the answer is
yes. You are mom enough. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OBguChcg60E/T66FuMkycII/AAAAAAAAD14/5_zkBBq89Hc/s1600/The-Conflict-Badinter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OBguChcg60E/T66FuMkycII/AAAAAAAAD14/5_zkBBq89Hc/s320/The-Conflict-Badinter.jpg" width="212" /></a>Ok, that's done. </div>
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Secondly, to the
question raised by the debate over <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Conflict-Modern-Motherhood-Undermines/dp/0805094148">Elisabeth Badinter's book</a> – the
question of <b>“<i>Has Modern Motherhood Undermined Women?” </i></b>
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The answer is: <b>No</b>.
Absolutely not.
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But you know what
is undermining women? <i>This crap.</i><br />
<br />
<i>All of it.</i><br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2012/04/30/motherhood-vs-feminism/we-want-perfection-but-also-need-sleep">This crap</a>. </i>And <a href="http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/11/09/has-attachment-parenting-imprisoned-mothers/">this crap</a>. And <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/doublex/features/2012/elisabeth_badinter_s_the_conflict/the_conflict_elisabeth_badinter_publicis_and_nestle_.html">this crap</a>.</div>
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And what's worse –
<i>women participating in this crap</i> -- women spitting at each other from
across imaginary boundaries between the right way and the wrong way
to be a mother, or a woman.
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It's an old tactic,
you know, <i>making women think that the real
enemy is each other.</i></div>
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And, we're so quick
to take the bait, aren't we? (You need to look no further than that Time cover to see the evidence of "bait." See what they're doing there with that cover? To use “war” terminology, it's a blatant attempt to <i>incite violence</i>. And, I've been so disappointed to see, all over, that it's working.)</div>
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It's either:</div>
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<i>Oh, so you make all your own baby
food? You're probably totally be judging me for the Goldfish cracker
I just fed my kid, but you know what? Screw off, you're the one doing
it wrong.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Or:</div>
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<i>So, your kid sleeps through the
night? In his own crib? And, I bet you think I'm totally enabling my kid by sleeping with her, don't you? But, you
know what? Screw off, you're the one doing it wrong.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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You've all heard
some versions of these conversations, right? I have. Both of them.
Both in my own head.
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<br /></div>
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But here's a little
secret: that piously “attached” mom you think you see? The one so
comically portrayed in these discussions? (The one <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/doublex/features/2012/elisabeth_badinter_s_the_conflict/attachment_parenting_elisabeth_badinter_s_controversial_new_book_the_conflict_.html">chasing her kid around the playground with the homemade marmalade</a>?) Or, the similarly ridiculously-crafted depiction of the <i><a href="http://www.google.com/products/catalog?q=baby+wise&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&tbm=shop&cid=16091649610279607717&sa=X&ei=t4OuT5P4OeKJiALOwLmmBA&ved=0CI8BEPMCMAI">BabyWise</a></i>-reading mom who reportedly lets her 6-week-old
cry for 3 hours straight to teach the baby to to self soothe?
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<br /></div>
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They're just
snippets of women made into caricatures -- caricatures that make for convenient news stories about "wars." Caricatures that are easy to use -- either to make blanket judgements against other women or to create
imaginary judges of ourselves. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Are we that
insecure about our own mothering? That we have to tear each other
down to validate our own choices? That we see judgement in every
parenting decision that is not the one we've chosen?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Why have we evolved
to celebrate all manners of diversity within our gender except within
motherhood?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, that's where it gets really sticky. Motherhood is a complex thing. Perhaps our most complex thing.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's at once
intensely personal and communal. Instinctual, but also intellectual.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It ties into our
deepest, deepest sense of self. It's our womanhood. It's our legacy. We have a little life in our hands. It is the most
important thing we will ever do. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But, it's also something with which
we can never truly measure our success. That makes us vulnerable. We
want a right and a wrong way. We want measurement. We want studies.
We want labels. We want something that can take this big, sticky,
uncomfortable thing and make it nice and neat and black and white.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That is why we are
so quick to buy into the belief that there are “sides” to
mothering. Camps to join. Gurus to follow.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But we're
destroying each other, our children and ourselves by thinking that.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Because when it
comes right down to it, parenting is really about feeling your way in
the dark, even in this modern, intellectualized,
information-overloaded world. The true trick to parenting is that there
are no tricks. If at first, you do no harm (and protect your children from harm), then you <i>are</i> Mom
enough. The rest -- and how you do it -- is purely personal.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And, certainly,
what we read or hear or listen to is bound to influence how we
approach parenting, but just how we <i>approach</i> it. We all need
information and we have it and use it. But, to insinuate that outside information – outside
influence -- is the pure reason we mother the way we mother, is to
tell us that we aren't thinking for ourselves. (Talk about an idea
that undermines women.)</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I parent the way I
parent not because of some book or some guru or because of my "situation in life" or because of something I fear or something I have to prove, or
some trend I'm following -- as if making the world-shaking day-to-day
decisions of parenting is somehow akin to picking out shoes.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I parent by the
heart, not by the book.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And I can honestly
say that every other mother I know does the same – whether we
bottle feed or breastfeed, co-sleep or use a crib, cloth diaper or disposables, make our own baby food or buy it -- we're all doing
what we feel is best, and what works for our children, our families and ourselves.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
No one is allowed
to put us into camps for any of those choices, individual or
combined. No one is allowed to label us for them. And no one is
allowed to define the value of our motherhood based upon them and them alone. Not
experts, not doctors, not magazine articles, not authors, not
grandmothers, aunts or uncles. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Not other mothers and certainly, most
importantly, not ourselves.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Happy Mother's Day.
</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-62106027804721456372012-05-03T08:05:00.000-07:002012-05-03T08:11:29.021-07:00Cheap Sunglasses and a Book, a Real BookI mean really. Who knew a cheap pair of sunglasses and a new bike helmet could create this kind of joy. (Or, whatever that is.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qUEqsJ3oxjM/T6KZJ53eWnI/AAAAAAAADv4/srEXTI0EugI/s1600/photo%283%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qUEqsJ3oxjM/T6KZJ53eWnI/AAAAAAAADv4/srEXTI0EugI/s400/photo%283%29.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
In other news this week, both Jacob and I are published -- like in a book, a <i>real</i> book -- writers.<br />
<br />
Our copies of <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/62-9781603427722-0">Greenhorns: 50 Dispatches from the New Farmers' Movement</a> came this week and wowza, I wasn't prepared for how cool and different it would feel to hold a book -- that contains my words -- in my hands. Pretty neat-o.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q_sSG3KH41k/T6Kd2SROHfI/AAAAAAAADwM/wHsrmI2L_uM/s1600/photo%284%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q_sSG3KH41k/T6Kd2SROHfI/AAAAAAAADwM/wHsrmI2L_uM/s640/photo%284%29.JPG" width="478" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The book is really gorgeous and well done. Among other great essays, it contains <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2012/02/the-value-of-our-produce/253233/">this one</a>, titled "The Value of Our Produce," which I read just as I really started to struggle with this whole <a href="http://www.lifecultivated.com/2012/04/were-off-to-helena-tomorrow-to-speak-at.html">how-we-value-food-thing</a>. (I say "started to struggle" because the inner conflict continues to build in me. But, that is a topic for another time.) <br />
<br />
Anyway, here's a little gem from that essay, written by Ben James. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OHMCEJkPpU8/T6Kc9xMRzpI/AAAAAAAADwE/Hde0bfTSFoQ/s1600/Greenhorns_3D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OHMCEJkPpU8/T6Kc9xMRzpI/AAAAAAAADwE/Hde0bfTSFoQ/s400/Greenhorns_3D.jpg" width="292" /></a></div>
"What is a carrot worth? A bunch of kale? A handful of berries? Too
often, I find myself on the tractor making quick calculations in my
head. For a bed of carrots, there are the soil amendments, the cover
crop last fall, the chicken manure, the organic fertilizer, the plowing,
tilling, seeding, irrigating, thinning, weeding, harvesting, washing,
bunching, packing, and selling. Plus the cost of the tractors,
implements, and fuel. Plus the cost of childcare and preschool. Plus,
somehow, all the time spent on the computer (where does that fit in)?
And I haven't even mentioned the cost of the land (hundreds of thousands
of dollars, in our case). The sheer number of labor hours and material
and property costs that went into helping this soil produce these
carrots. I ought to shellac the carrots and hang them on the wall." </blockquote>
Sometimes, I feel like shellacking <i>everything</i> we grow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-30676457286264413492012-04-25T19:34:00.004-07:002012-04-26T08:26:18.037-07:00Run and GunApologies, there's not going to be much meat to this post. Or, perhaps any post from here until September. But photos. You'll get lots of photos. And recipes. (And sentences that aren't really sentences, apparently.)<br />
<br />
Because folks, we've headed straight on into <i>run and gun</i> season. <br />
<br />
This week, we plowed, planted, transplanted, direct seeded, weeded (I know! Already!), rototilled, fixed the fork lift, rode bikes (see photo below of the one in the family who is happiest about it <i>finally</i> being bike weather), worried and worried about the weather (<i>We HAVE to get this in the ground if it's going to rain Thursday</i>, etc. etc.) and prepped for our 150 heritage turkeys, which are scheduled to arrive at the Post Office Thursday morning.<br />
<br />
(Really, they arrive via U.S. Post. Think of showing up at the counter and asking for a book of the forever stamps and, <i>why not</i>, 150 turkeys while you're at it.)<br />
<br />
<br />
We will make our first CSA deliveries in a little more than a month. A <i>month</i>. Our two farm apprentices arrive starting in a week.<br />
<br />
That is all to say: <i>It's on.</i><br />
<br />
A few highlights from the first week of the rest of our year:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Aforementioned stoked bike passenger. </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SbLR_gTpNjY/T5iwVi4FwVI/AAAAAAAADqs/E7RVD8XVJ5Q/s1600/photo%282%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SbLR_gTpNjY/T5iwVi4FwVI/AAAAAAAADqs/E7RVD8XVJ5Q/s640/photo%282%29.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>(Note: I need to stay in shape and get out the farm
these days (we live 3.5 miles away from the farm -- that's a whole other story) so voila
-- my friend Steph saved the day with letting us borrow this bike
trailer. Two birds, one stone. Or actually, like 10 birds. </i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Mama can get to the farm while she tones her quads and toddler gets in a good nap, shaded and
happy and protected from blood-sucking insects and whatnot.)</i></span><i> </i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Next: The field that will transform in less than two months from mere soil to a sea of vegetables.</i>..</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Amcezn766fE/T5iwLFZWhEI/AAAAAAAADqg/VGcEJ_zHAQ8/s1600/IMG_8601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Amcezn766fE/T5iwLFZWhEI/AAAAAAAADqg/VGcEJ_zHAQ8/s640/IMG_8601.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Cute kid in aforementioned field... </i></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Vxx9ktcD8nA/T5iwKz9RljI/AAAAAAAADqY/qaUVcYtIN9M/s1600/IMG_8579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Vxx9ktcD8nA/T5iwKz9RljI/AAAAAAAADqY/qaUVcYtIN9M/s640/IMG_8579.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Kid taking a snack break after a hard 10 minutes in said field...</i></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lQI7F3Pp9vo/T5iwKKQ5ZXI/AAAAAAAADqU/VAt395i2obo/s1600/IMG_8585.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lQI7F3Pp9vo/T5iwKKQ5ZXI/AAAAAAAADqU/VAt395i2obo/s640/IMG_8585.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And finally, how every one of my to-do lists starts recently. </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AKCvbaWm6Sk/T5iyNAU4cMI/AAAAAAAADrA/ZRGYTcdc9PU/s1600/photo%281%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AKCvbaWm6Sk/T5iyNAU4cMI/AAAAAAAADrA/ZRGYTcdc9PU/s640/photo%281%29.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Because if I don't remind myself, I </i>will<i> forget or put it off and then I've become </i>that<i> lady...</i></div>
</div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-91463471287814414362012-04-16T12:50:00.001-07:002012-04-16T15:23:26.771-07:00Spring ThawSaturday, it was 70 degrees.<br />
<br />
Sunday, it was snowing and 30.<br />
<br />
Welcome to spring in Montana.<br />
<br />
But no complaints from the Cowgills. If there are two things we love, they're digging in the dirt and snuggling up, baking cookies and watching the snow fall.<br />
<br />
This weekend, we got a little of both.<br />
<br />
Friday was our first day on the farm as a family. Jacob has been out a lot prepping and raking and digging but Willa and I haven't spent much time in the dirt in the last few months. So, it was heavenly on Friday -- to feel the soil, to actually put seeds in the ground and mostly, just feel like we're <i>doing</i> something.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QdYY3R03Mgg/T4w_6v27EFI/AAAAAAAADjo/EEGVuwuP8u8/s1600/IMG_8352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QdYY3R03Mgg/T4w_6v27EFI/AAAAAAAADjo/EEGVuwuP8u8/s640/IMG_8352.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
Spring is always a little nerve wracking. We spend February through April planning and marketing -- talking to customers, writing fliers, trying out recipes, planning crop rotations and caring for seedlings. It all seems so tenuous. There is <i>so</i> much time between now and that first cutting of basil or that first red tomato. And so much can happen in that time frame.<br />
<br />
The whole farm is just an idea right now. And when you're do-ers like Jacob and I are, it can be difficult to sit and wait and just hope -- that seedlings grow, that the ground thaws, that customers sign up, that the plants will bear fruit, that the turkeys will survive.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
So, when we finally get to do something -- dig, prep, plant -- it actually starts to feel real. We can see the farm unfolding in front of us, out of an idea and into a reality, bed by bed, row by row. <br />
<br />
Several things have us super excited about this season. One is that we finally feel like we might be on top of things. Last year, with me at home with Willa as a new baby and Jacob still working full-time we were constantly behind.<br />
<br />
This year, we seem to have figured out the greenhouse situation (well, Jacob has) and we're actually on time, if not ahead of our planting schedule. And, we're ahead of the game on sign ups <a href="http://www.prairieheritagefarm.com/p/vegetable-community-supported.html">for our Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) subscription program</a> (partially because we've branched out and expanded our delivery area to include Helena). You can't imagine how good all of that feels.<br />
<br />
The second thing is that we have two interns coming to help us this season. We're beyond excited to have the help, but more than that, we're so excited to glean the energy they'll bring to the farm and teach them all we have to teach about food and farming.<br />
<br />
The third thing is that we may have yet <i>another</i> helper in this little bean this season.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rso3ORk7WBE/T4w_2nVPQuI/AAAAAAAADjQ/GvIGV3Yqb0Y/s1600/IMG_8328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rso3ORk7WBE/T4w_2nVPQuI/AAAAAAAADjQ/GvIGV3Yqb0Y/s640/IMG_8328.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Last year, for a majority of the season, Willa was in the crawling, everything-(including turkey poop)-in-the-mouth stage so we didn't get a whole lot of time on the farm. I took over customer service and marketing and packaging and delivering, but I didn't do a whole lot of the digging/planting/weeding work.<br />
<br />
And, I'll admit (reluctantly), I actually missed the manual labor.<br />
<br />
This year, with a walking, talking Willa Bean -- someone I can reason with (to a point) and someone who will listen when I tell her not to do something (like eat turkey poop), I envision all three of us having more regular family farm days. <br />
<br />
I'm guessing it will look a lot like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9uvOcq5NOYU/T4w_-sr2ccI/AAAAAAAADkA/krK7E1mTfwM/s1600/IMG_8380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9uvOcq5NOYU/T4w_-sr2ccI/AAAAAAAADkA/krK7E1mTfwM/s640/IMG_8380.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Or this:<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0uRVsthlU0/T4w_9srgjbI/AAAAAAAADj4/UA76AXsJWYo/s1600/IMG_8368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0uRVsthlU0/T4w_9srgjbI/AAAAAAAADj4/UA76AXsJWYo/s640/IMG_8368.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
But, maybe not always like this: (Early season, it's easy to be happy to be outside and working. By August, I'm not so sure I'll be so smiley.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zhgco5THIZw/T4w_7bXVCsI/AAAAAAAADjw/yEHgROnJ3BY/s1600/IMG_8358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zhgco5THIZw/T4w_7bXVCsI/AAAAAAAADjw/yEHgROnJ3BY/s640/IMG_8358.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-1837165875584754932012-04-09T09:22:00.002-07:002012-04-09T21:27:29.814-07:00Cheap Food and Changing How We Value What Nourishes UsWe're off to Helena tomorrow to speak at <a href="http://www.aeromt.org/2012/03/28/helena-community-gardens-to-host-5th-annual-grow-local-event/">a Grow Local event for the Helena Community Gardens </a>with a few of our favorite farmer-friends.<br />
<br />
So, for the last few weeks, we've been thinking and talking about what we're going to say. We want to talk about all sorts of things, but what's been heaviest on our minds as we prep for another growing season on our little farm is, in two words: <i>cheap food</i>.<br />
<br />
We've been really struggling to figure out how in a depressed economy, when families are watching every penny, we can make the case for paying a little more for locally-produced food. And, how do we ensure that local food -- food that's produced ethically and with community and health in mind -- doesn't just become, for lack of a better descriptor, designer food?<br />
<br />
In our own small world, we've recently been feeling some pressure, from let's just call them false CSAs. As you might know, CSA stands for "Community Supported Agriculture" and this type of direct-marketing has blossomed in the last 10 years as a wonderful, sustainable way to sell and support local food. Basically, you "buy-in" to the farm at the beginning of the season and you reap the benefits when the farm starts bearing fruit. It connects farmer with eater.<br />
<br />
Because of the popularity of CSAs, false CSAs have started to pop up -- programs that package like a CSA, but source the produce from all over, including globally, and dramatically undercut both the economics and the spirit of the CSA concept.<br />
<br />
One recently moved into our community and we've definitely seen a drop in interest in our CSA and have been just flabbergasted by the quick popularity of the other program. But, it's not hard to see why -- their boxes are year-round, often featuring produce we can't grow locally and are about half a much as ours (although their organic version is priced about the same as ours.)<br />
<br />
We've been struggling with how to approach this competition because while we can compete on quality, freshness and knowing your food (there's no comparison in these regards), the price is something we just can't tackle.<br />
<br />
And, if price is the only thing people care about, then whammo, we're in the wrong business.<br />
<br />
Basically, if we can't produce the cheapest food (which we absolutely can't -- we can't compete with the "efficiency" of our modern food system, year-round growing conditions abroad, cheap labor, etc.) what is our value proposition? Nutrition? Community? Environmental health?<br />
<br />
To that end, I've been just fascinated by looking at this within a framework of household spending. We're now paying less for our food than any other time in the last century and I believe we're all suffering for it. Our health, our communities and our environment are all suffering for it. (See this recent piece from Time Magazine that explores the "<a href="http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1917726,00.html">High Cost of Cheap Food</a>.")<br />
<br />
Yet, when we budget our money, we're happy to pay $120 a month for cable packages or $500 for an iPad, but an extra $10 a week on groceries -- to pay for something we actually need to survive -- is sometimes where we draw the line.<br />
<br />
This graph, showing the share of family spending per category over the 20th century, from <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2012/04/how-america-spends-money-100-years-in-the-life-of-the-family-budget/255475/">this recent Atlantic article</a> that illustrates this point well. (More <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2012/04/food-is-cheap/255516/">in depth on how this happened here</a>.)<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ytw5LfjG1RY/T4MFjLMh4_I/AAAAAAAADes/zQX2oER6-OM/s1600/1900+1950+2003.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ytw5LfjG1RY/T4MFjLMh4_I/AAAAAAAADes/zQX2oER6-OM/s640/1900+1950+2003.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Now, I'm not saying that food shouldn't be affordable. It certainly should be.<br />
<br />
But, we need to more fully explore the difference between "affordable" and "cheap."And, I would posit, that we also need to think about not only the monetary value we put on food, but also the nutritional, social, environmental value as well.<br />
<br />
Still, as much as I believe all of that, we're really struggling with how to make the case to a family who is strapped for cash (and especially because we are certainly in that category) that the
cost of their food shouldn't be their only concern.<br />
<br />
<br />
That is to ask: How can we make local food "affordable" for all, but more importantly, how can we change the way we all see and value the food we put on our tables?<br />
<br />Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-38558074182407764392012-04-03T08:44:00.002-07:002012-04-03T09:19:01.783-07:00Hello, *Mom*Three things conspired this weekend to give me a fuller picture of who/what I've become.<br />
<br />
First, I start to notice that with more regularity, Willa has taken to shortening Mama -- the sweetest words ever uttered from her lips -- to straight-up <i>Mom</i>. As in, my <i>Mom</i>, like my <i>Mom</i>.<br />
<br />
As in <i>whatever, Mom</i>.<br />
<br />
As in <i>Mom! Mom! Mom! I want some juice! </i><br />
<br />
Mama is my preferred name (and luckily, the one Willa chose -- at first, at least). It's earthy and sweet, with a little cadence. And, it also pairs equally nice with "hot" as in "hot mama" and "zen" as in "zen mama" and also with "hey" as in "hey mama, aren't you looking hot and zen?"<br />
<br />
But <i>Mom</i>? I wasn't sure I'd hit that yet.<br />
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But then, this weekend, after a nice walk, I settle into the back yard with friends and I pour myself a nice glass of white wine. Just to class it up, I decide it needs an ice cube (kudos to my Mama friend Jule for this idea). And then -- oh gawd, I can't believe I'm admitting this -- I later throw in a little bit of 7Up.<br />
<br />
To make a spritzer. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>A white wine spritzer. </i><br />
<br />
Finally, the last straw was that as Willa and I are strolling downtown, I catch a glimpse my reflection in a store window in the skinny jeans I've been trying to rock. I'm shocked to find that instead of the hip, fashion-forward Mom I'm attempting to be, I look a bit more like this:<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
If you see me at Christopher and Banks and I'm trying on a nice applique vest, stop me. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Immediately. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
// If you're already here, when did you know you'd hit <i>Momdom</i>?<i> </i>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-81337576198903151102012-03-26T11:14:00.002-07:002012-03-26T12:18:28.766-07:00In Montana Magazine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The current issue of <a href="http://www.montanamagazine.com/">Montana Magazine</a> -- the one with the fox on the cover (a <i>real</i> fox, not me, jeez) -- features a really wonderful story by Beth Judy on our very own <a href="http://www.prairieheritagefarm.com/">Prairie Heritage Farm</a>.<br />
<br />
The photos, by the talented <a href="http://www.jeremylurgio.com/">Mr. Jeremy Lurgio</a>, are great and Beth's piece captures us, our hopes, our dreams, our values and our challenges extremely well.<br />
<br />
We've been extraordinarily lucky to get loads of good press over the last four years, but this story really shines at getting at the heart of what we do. (And that, as I know, is a hard thing to do as a reporter.)<br />
<br />
I was particularly nervous about how this story would come out because we were beyond scattered when Beth came to spend some time with us this summer. We'd just found out the deal on our dream farm had fallen through, we'd just found out we were pregnant (we later <a href="http://www.lifecultivated.com/2011/09/miscarriage.html">miscarried</a>) and our little one was sick, sick sick -- all the middle of high season on the farm.<br />
<br />
So, I wasn't very on message (not that I ever am really) and felt like I'd given Beth just a total mess of a representation of us. But, maybe because of that -- or maybe because Beth is just a really good intuitive magazine writer -- the story feels more authentic than any other piece of journalism that's been created about us. (Other than, of course, our friend Rick White's amazing radio documentary, in which he chronicled our first year on the farm. Man, I wish I had a link to share with you.) <br />
<br />
It's always hard to see yourself in print, or hear yourself on the radio, or see yourself in video -- to see yourself through someone else's lens. You're almost always left wondering: <i>Is that really me? Is that how the world sees me?</i> What you see doesn't always square with what you think or know.<br />
<br />
But this piece wasn't hard at all like that -- it really looks and feels like us, like our true selves, mess, weeds, chaos and all. <br />
<br />
So, if you're looking for some good reading material, pick up a copy at a bookstore, grocer or any magazine retailer in Montana (I found a good stack at at Town Pump).<br />
<br />
Here are a few of our favorite photos from Jeremy's photo shoot (all photos courtesy of and copyright of <a href="http://www.jeremylurgio.com/">Jeremy Lurgio -- see more of his work here</a>!):<br />
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<br />Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-18979806531122878492012-03-19T19:34:00.001-07:002012-03-19T20:19:57.888-07:00Outside! I Said Outside!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
These days, Willa is asking, basically from the moment she wakes up, to go outside.<br />
<br />
OK, so it really sounds like she's screaming "Die-ee!" "Die-ee!" "Die-ee!" over and over again, but I quickly translate that to "Outside!" (I'm hoping, at least, that it needs translation and she's not actually turning into a teenager already telling me to die. I don't think I'm doing <i>that</i> bad of a job.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, I love her even more for this, because:<br />
<br />
a) It means she has more than a healthy dose of her father in her;<br />
b) It gets me out of the house too, which, if you work from home, sometimes seems impossible unless there's a toddler screaming at you to do so and;<br />
c) It means she'll be OK in this farm life... maybe. <br />
<br />
When we took this leap into farming, I'll admit, somewhere, deep down, I probably did it because I wanted to reclaim a childhood, both for myself and for my kids. <br />
<br />
I spent a lot of time outside as a kid on the farm and I think that -- the wind, the sun, the dirt, all of it -- formed me in some pretty elemental ways. I wanted my kids to know that connection and farming was a way to create that. (There are of course, lots of other ways to make that connection.)<br />
<br />
Willa has been an outdoorsy gal, by necessity, since birth, and she's seemed OK with it. (See photo below.) But, I have worried a time or two about thrusting this life on her. I mean, I think it's good for her to have this connection to food and land and the environment, but you never really know, you know? Maybe she'll be an indoorsy kind of gal who doesn't like dirt or animals. Then what? Then I'm just the dirty Mom who does gross things all day long. It could happen.<br />
<br />
So as I watch her little personality developing, and her independence growing, I'm heartened to see her craving the outside all on her own.<br />
<br />
The other day in the greenhouse, while Jacob planted (and confession: while I read a mystery novel), I saw Willa waving her hands out of the corner of my eye. She was covered in potting soil, a large clump of it tumbling out of her mouth as she ran to me, arms outstretched and her tongue, black with the stuff, plunging out of her mouth.<br />
<br />
<i>I think maybe she's a natural after all.</i><br />
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<br />Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-51675757606170683022012-02-20T20:02:00.000-08:002012-02-20T20:06:11.193-08:00On Presence, Practice and Pooping Out Unicorns<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rFCbKVTYk-s/T0MVKegUFZI/AAAAAAAADLA/eoRNejXkqh4/s1600/Unicorno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="438" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rFCbKVTYk-s/T0MVKegUFZI/AAAAAAAADLA/eoRNejXkqh4/s640/Unicorno.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Image comes from <a href="http://www.artekjara.it/Quadri/Affreschi/Villa/Unicorno.shtml.en">here</a> and used with Creative Commons license.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
A few months after her second child was born, a friend's doctor told her she could get more sleep if she went to bed when her daughter did at 7:30 p.m. <br />
<br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">"Yeah, lady. And why don't you go poop out a unicorn?" she wrote on her Facebook page.</span><br />
<br />
Since I read her post, I haven't been able to get that phrase out of my head.<br />
<br />
It's especially helpful when someone gives well-meaning advice that might seem doable to them, but seems totally impossible to me. Like when someone asks me why we don't <i>just put Willa in the crib and let her fall asleep on her own?</i> Or, when someone tells me I just need to <i>make</i> time for myself.<br />
<br />
Or, more frequently, when someone tells me to <i>relish every single moment when my kids are little because before you know it, they're all grown up.</i><br />
<br />
I'd love to relish, really I would. But, sometimes, I'm too exhausted to relish. And, you know what? Telling me I should relish just makes me feel even more guilty than I already do about my lack of relishing. <br />
<br />
So, to the rescue, comes Paige's mantra:<br />
<i><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">Yeah. And why don't you go poop out a unicorn?</span> </i><br />
<br />
It's been a particularly perfect response as I've been exploring resources on what I'll just call, for now, <b>present parenting. </b><br />
<br />
I've been really struggling lately with how <i>fractured</i> I've been feeling (which I know I tend to write about a lot. Sorry about that.) <br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I love the flexibility I have in my current, work-at-home, stay-at-home, farm-at-farm situation. I can't even remember what my office job felt like these days. No more linear <i>home is at home and, work is at work </i>boundaries for this girl. But, at times, our lives do feel like one big, badly mixed mash up.<br />
<br />
And while it works for the most part, I've noticed a certain flabbiness, let's call it, in my ability to be present. I'm always doing something so I can cross it off my to-do list and get to the next thing and then, maybe <i>then</i>, I can be present. But, the to-do list never actually gets finished. So, if I wait for that to be present, then I'm never present at all. And, I'm afraid we're all going to suffer because of it. <br />
<br />
So, I have to find someway to find peace amidst the chaos and most importantly, someway to be more focused and present -- for my daughter, my husband, and for myself.<br />
<br />
(I'm guessing here, by the way, that no matter if you work outside the home or if you run your own business or, even if you have children or not, this <i>fractured</i> feeling might sound familiar.) <br />
<br />
So, I started exploring resources that might give me some strategies or tools in this regard. And, in poking around in the self-help/parenting/spirituality sections, most of what I found just begged to be answered with some permutation of someone, somewhere, pooping out a unicorn.<br />
<br />
(How is it that so many books meant to give parents inspiration just end up making a person feel like a terrible parent? In my research, I must have found 10 ways that I've already done major psychic damage to Willa.)<br />
<br />
And so it was with perfect timing that I found Paige's wise post and later, that I stumbled across <a href="http://momastery.com/blog/2012/01/04/2011-lesson-2-dont-carpe-diem/">this post from a really good blogger</a><span style="font-size: small;"> about how to <i>not</i> carpe diem. Besides totally hitting my nail on its head (finally! someone gets the whole <i>relish</i> thing!), the</span><span style="font-size: small;"> post was a wonderful reminder that life is about <i>practice</i> not perfect. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">If you spend all your time worrying about what you're not doing perfectly, you actually lose the chance to sneak in little moments of perfection. </span><br />
<br />
And, it's those little bursts that will make the difference. Being "present" is like a muscle. It needs exercise -- not overuse or atrophy -- but maintenance.<br />
<br />
(By the way, one of the best bits of advice I got after I became a Mom was from my friend Donna, who told me -- instead of telling me to be totally present every single moment -- to take "snapshots" when my kids were little. Take a few seconds, she said, and make a mental photograph of that moment -- of the smell of their little head, of the smoothness of their skin, of their little sparkly eyes -- and you'll be surprised at how the memories come back later on. And, it also serves a really good way of exercising being present, in little, doable, moments.) <br />
<br />
Parenthood -- hell, life really -- is about knowing the difference between what's desirable and what's attainable. Striving for your best, but still accepting yourself when you're not quite there. And for the love of God, understanding that there are some feats that just aren't humanly possible.<br />
<br />
I'm now giving myself permission to not carpe diem, and certainly, permission to not poop out any unicorns.<br />
<br />
And so far, we're all better off.<br />
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After all, <i>ouch</i>.Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-51954960078288791552012-02-10T06:24:00.000-08:002012-02-14T12:13:09.389-08:007 Store-Bought Things in Your Kitchen You Can, and Should, Make Yourself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LaYNDiHCloo/TzrAGIEDoRI/AAAAAAAADKs/t9H1NOYmZ-g/s1600/IMG_7820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LaYNDiHCloo/TzrAGIEDoRI/AAAAAAAADKs/t9H1NOYmZ-g/s640/IMG_7820.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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One of the best things I've done for my family's budget and my family's health is rethinking the convenience foods we use in our kitchen.<br />
<br />
A few years ago, when we were first starting the farm, neither of us had a steady paycheck and at times, we were living on less than $800 a month. That meant a significant slashing of our food budget and when I took a hard look at what was costing us the most money, it was most definitely the items in the middle of the grocery store -- the pre-packaged, processed, convenience foods. It's not like I was buying Hamburger Helper or anything, but even healthy-ish things like rice pilaf mixes, salad dressings, breads, macaroni and cheese (Annie's organic, of course) and cereals and granola were draining our budget.<br />
<br />
Also, no matter how pure the product, the ingredient list is still longer than I would like and there's bound to be preservatives and other funky, unpronounceable things that I'd just rather stay away from. <br />
<br />
So, slowly, as I started learning to cook (I was a Tostitos queso, little smokies, brown gravy kind of gal), I retrained myself to think wholly about food. If I wanted a rice side dish, I made it. If we were out of granola, I made it. If I needed a quick lunch, I made mac and cheese from scratch.<br />
<br />
So, today, I give you a list of the seven big recipes that have helped us kick the box (or bag) and gain more control over what goes into our bodies and out of our pockets.<br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1. Salad Dressing</b></span><br />
This isn't easy as pie. It's <i>easier</i> than pie. (Pie is actually quite hard.) The basic vinaigrette I use is simply:<br />
<br />
1/4 cup good olive oil<br />
1/4 cup vinegar (red wine, balsamic, apple cider)<br />
1 Tbs mustard (I'm big on Dijon)<br />
<br />
Then, from there, you can make it whatever you like. Add lemon juice for a little zest. Maybe some honey to sweeten, any herbs you have on hand. A diced shallot or red onion or minced garlic. Hot sauce. Minced sun-dried tomato. Customize however you like based on what you have on hand and what might match what else is in your salad. As for mixing, I just use a small jelly jar with a lid and shake-a, shake-a. You just saved yourself $5 and a whole lot of MSG. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2. Granola</b></span><br />
The bulk items you need for granola are generally pretty inexpensive (with the exception of nuts). And granola is super expensive.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.chow.com/recipes/30062-basic-granola">Here's a good basic recipe I use a lot, from CHOW. </a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>3. Cheesy crackers</b></span><br />
Or, really, crackers of any kind. You'd be surprised how easy crackers are to make and how many unpronounceable ingredients are in the store-bought varieties. (My kid went nuts for graham crackers so I started making my own, with our own flour -- ground from our heritage Sonora Wheat. I can't tell you what a super mom I feel like when I feed her those crackers.)<br />
<br />
But, today, I'll share this awesome recipe for cheesy crackers. We absolutely gobble Goldfish or Cheez-Its when we have the chance. So, I thought, I'd better learn to make a cheesy cracker.<br />
<br />
And I came across <a href="http://www.simplyscratch.com/2011/09/white-cheddar-parmesan-cheez-its.html">this recipe from Simply Scratch</a>. Deelish. <br />
<br />
Also, if you want to fancy up a bit, here are <a href="http://foodandpaper.blogspot.com/2007/02/life-in-crackers.html">some wonderful basic icebox cracker recipes</a> from Martha Stewart.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>4. Macaroni and cheese</b></span><br />
Sure, the long version of homemade mac and cheese, in the oven with breadcrumbs and whatnot is super good, but who has time when it's supposed to be a quick lunch and then back out the door?<br />
<br />
So, we grab the box and actually, it's not that great. But, if you play it right, you can make your own mac and cheese on the stovetop with a few ingredients: flour, butter, milk, cheese and noodles. <br />
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Here's <a href="http://amandascookin.com/2010/03/easy-stovetop-macaroni-cheese.html">a basic recipe I use</a> (but I sort of know by heart now) and here's <a href="http://whiteonricecouple.com/recipes/cheese/stove-top-one-pot-macaroni-cheese-recipe/">slightly more complicated one that gives creamier results. </a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>5. Pancakes</b></span><br />
They now make a "shake and pour" pancake mix (actually, it's called "Shake N' Pour"). Yep. A plastic bottle with the mix in it. You add water, shake and pour onto the griddle.<br />
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But, you know what? Pancakes are pretty darn easy. So, if you want to spend the extra two minutes and save yourself cash and loads of unpronouceables, <a href="http://www.thekitchn.com/the-best-pancakes-ever-134328">here's a simple recipe.</a><br />
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But, if you want to spend the extra cash for those two minutes you save, then by all means, shake n' poor. (Punny, aren't I?)<br />
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(Note: When I make pancakes, I sometimes just take the time to measure out three or four batches of dry ingredients and put them in separate, labeled jars so I can just add wet ingredients if it has to be a fast, fuss-free morning.)<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>6. Pilaf</b></span><br />
Oh, the many ways you can pilaf!<br />
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Pilaf is not just for rice you know. It's for quinoa and millet and farro, oh my! <br />
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My new favorite is a pilaf I make with our own Prairie Farro, which is what you see adorned with sausages (that's a phrase I don't use enough) above. (More, by the way, on <a href="http://www.prairieheritagefarm.com/">Prairie Heritage Farm's extra special, nutritious, totally cool grains here</a>.) <br />
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Here's a good<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/13/magazine/brown-rice-is-not-just-for-hippies.html"> basic look at pilaf from Mark Bittman in the New York Times</a>, but just memorize this:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">1. Saute onion and/or garlic in 1-2 Tbs oil in a deep pan or skillet.<br />
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2. Add grain or rice (I sometimes add a 1/4 cup or so of wild rice into the Farro or small pieces of pasta for texture) and toast in the oil until glossy and fragrant. </blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">3. Add any herbs and spices you'd like. The more the better. (I like to add a bay leaf, among other herbs.)</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">4. Add 2-4 cups of broth (depending on how much grain you have -- just get about an half inch of liquid on top of the grain or rice) and cover. (And use a flavorful broth. Do you know about organic "Better Than Bouillon?" you should.) </blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">4. Check every so often and serve when liquid is absorbed (mostly) and/or the grain is tender. (Up to an hour and a half for whole grains, shorter for rices.)</blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><b>7. Artisan bread</b></span><br />
Two words for you: <i>No Knead. </i><br />
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Mark Bittman (who helped me more than anyone to kick the box and taught me how to cook, really) was the first to turn us on to no knead bread. If you plan ahead, it's easy, peasy. Mix the ingredients, let it sit over night, let it rise two hours and put it in the oven. The crust is amazing, the guts are nice and lofty and the variations are endless.<br />
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<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/08/dining/081mrex.html">Here's Bittman's reciepe - the Jim Lahey version</a>. <br />
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(Short on time? <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/08/dining/081mrex.html?adxnnl=1&ref=dining&adxnnlx=1328810480-9izpsUAQCBX2h/4owa6VYg">Try the faster version</a>.)<br />
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Note: You'll need a good oven-safe (preferably cast iron) pot with a lid and good flour. Really, good flour from good wheat makes all the difference. (This is me on my soapbox about grain again, sorry. But we have to start thinking more thoroughly about where our staples come from, just as we do about our dairy and meat and produce. We need to be thoughtful about how our staples are grown and how they're bred even. They are, after all, the staff of life, right?)<br />
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So there you have it: The seven wonders of cooking outside the box.<br />
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What are your favorite easy, peasy, made-from-scratch secrets?Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-34225201011060613752012-01-23T13:31:00.000-08:002012-01-23T13:32:43.216-08:00AllowI celebrated my 32nd birthday last week by getting up, first at 2:30 a.m., and then for good at 5:15 a.m. thanks to a toddler yelling for her Mama.<br />
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I talked to Jacob about the never-ending question of grain cleaning equipment, about what seeds to order and whether or not we needed to buy new seed-starting trays this year. I talked to a friend overseas, read lovely missives from other friends, listened to a sweet rendition of Happy Birthday from my Mom, played a little fiddle and started prepping lunch.<br />
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I ate a pile of greasy fries at our small-town diner, washed it down with a 7-Up, spent time with great friends and collapsed into bed at 9:00 p.m., so very grateful for my life, however ordinary it might all seem. <br />
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Ten years ago, on my 22<sup>nd</sup> birthday, I was just getting ready to graduate from college. I had a DC internship under my belt and would go on, later that year, to intern covering the state capitol. When I blew out my candles that year, I'm guessing I wished for grandness in my career. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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My 20s were filled with aspirations. Big ones. Of changing the world. Changing journalism. Helping rural communities. Helping the West. Helping young journalists. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
And by my 27<sup>th</sup> birthday I was making headway. I'd launched a media company, I'd traveled a little, I'd taught at the university, secured a grant to help rural newspapers and generally, watched my own star rise. But, I'm guessing when I blew out my candles that year, I wasn't wishing for my career, I wishing for a wedding and, someday, a baby. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</tbody></table><blockquote class="tr_bq"><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My 26th birthday was spent eating cake and painting the first real office of our 1-year-old company. The people I worked with became family -- bonds that continue even after the company has shut down. In this photo is a bond that is chief among those (my business partner, boss and mentor). And behind the lens is another. The great <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/clombardi/">Chris Lombardi</a>, who would later photograph my wedding.</span></div></blockquote></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Three years later, I turned 30 as a married woman. Still a full-time journalist, but now farming with my husband too. I spent that birthday surrounded by great friends, breaking the news to them that <i>finally</i>, I was pregnant. I'd just found out myself days before. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
In the background, the company I helped start -- the company that had so far defined my career, and thus, my sense of self (for better or for worse) -- was crumbling. And, my Dad was in the hospital, recovering from a traumatic accident. That's how my life seems to happen. All at once.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
It felt strange to be away from Jacob, newly prego, weird to taking press phone calls about the possible closure of my company and extraordinarily difficult to be away from my Dad's side. Marriage, work, family, collided.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
But, despite all the turmoil, I was calm. Peaceful even. There was a little person growing inside me and that made the path before me smooth before my very eyes.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><style type="text/css">
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The company has since shut down. My Dad has recovered but the accident has just made me even more glad I'm only 15 minutes away from him. I have a beautiful little girl, a growing farm, a wonderful husband and a great part-time editing gig that keeps me tied into online media while I do all the other things. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
So, when I got these business cards in the mail a week before my birthday, I thought to myself about how preposterous they would have seemed to me a week before my 22<sup>nd</sup> birthday, or even my 27<sup>th</sup>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jh6DncMbNIc/Tx3Qr1JLYyI/AAAAAAAADJ4/1UYZu_Ot4Ew/s1600/card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jh6DncMbNIc/Tx3Qr1JLYyI/AAAAAAAADJ4/1UYZu_Ot4Ew/s640/card.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
It would have been preposterous that I would be living in a small town, 15 miles from my childhood home, a stay-at-home/work-at-home mom, running a farm on the high plains – rather than covering Congress for a national news organization, maybe with a stint overseas, or maybe editing a New York magazine.<br />
</div>It's still somewhat preposterous (and particularly so on days when I'm covered in baby vomit or turkey poop and juggling 10 different things). But, when I opened up these cards, I couldn't have been prouder.<br />
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Proud -- even though I did two things that I promised myself in my early 20s I wouldn't do: I moved home and I followed a guy -- a farmer no less. The latter was the <i>sin of all sins</i> detailed in the feminist handbook I adhered to.<br />
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And yet, I did it -- because it just felt right.<br />
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I worried, pretty solidly, for the first two years that I'd regret it. That I would resent him. That the star I saw rising would flicker. That I would be stifled. That I would stagnate.<br />
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But slowly, those fears faded. And when I look at my life now, I know that I'm becoming my true self. Not because of my career, or my husband or my child, or where or how I live, but because I've stopped following some made up list of rules, whether self-created or otherwise. I've learned to define myself not by what I do or what I've accomplished, but by who I am.<br />
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My aspirations are smaller, simpler and closer to home now. But, in no way have I "settled." Quite the contrary. I just see now that big things happen in small lives, in small towns, and in small, everyday acts. <br />
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One of the best presents I got on my birthday was this note from my very wise friend Kelly, who I've known since those college days of grand plans. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">"I am so proud of all that you are and <i>have allowed yourself to become.</i>" </blockquote>If only we could all remember to <i>allow</i> ourselves more often.Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-65883917129564929972012-01-15T14:41:00.000-08:002012-01-16T05:33:36.645-08:00The Many Faces and Facets of Courage<style type="text/css">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I spent the last week with a sick toddler, both of us covered in vomit and at times, too dizzy to even stand.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">That Willa could be miserable, all puking and nauseous and still be cuddly and sweet and go on about her "work" -- mostly of dancing with her pig -- (especially because I felt like curling up into a ball) was remarkable. And, I think because she was such a little trooper, we both came out of it happy and healthy and surprisingly, well-adjusted. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was just one of the many reminders I've gotten in the last two weeks of how many different ways courage can manifest itself. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Courage is everywhere: in foreign correspondents and people putting themselves in harm's way for the greater good, but also in quiet, everyday moments and seemingly ordinary lives.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>The first reminder of this came in the story of Grampa Bob, my dear friend Brooke's grandfather, who passed away right before the New Year. </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YYY4DwpVte0/TxNPg0f6ruI/AAAAAAAADJE/k2G1rqS5Gks/s1600/1-1obfleshman_01012012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YYY4DwpVte0/TxNPg0f6ruI/AAAAAAAADJE/k2G1rqS5Gks/s1600/1-1obfleshman_01012012.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Bob and his wife Thelma, who <a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/greatfallstribune/obituary.aspx?n=thelma-c-fleshman&pid=149334483">died last spring</a>, spread so much love and generosity and strength and humor in their lives. Their grace and their courage was palpable when you were around them. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">They gave these hugs, big, genuine, all-they-have hugs that you could feel long after their arms had unwrapped you. (And Thelma's perfume stayed all day too. Iloved that about her. Her perfume was sweet and thick, something special on an otherwise unfancied farm wife.) Even when they were both frail, they hugged with all they had, even though as you hugged back, you worried you might break them. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Aging, but never broken, those two. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncZUX-O6ec8/TxNPhMBdH_I/AAAAAAAADJM/R6O7gfeaBIM/s1600/3-14obfleshman_03142011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncZUX-O6ec8/TxNPhMBdH_I/AAAAAAAADJM/R6O7gfeaBIM/s1600/3-14obfleshman_03142011.jpg" /></a>You can read Bob's full <a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/greatfallstribune/obituary.aspx?n=robert-fleshman&pid=155272765">obituary here</a>, written by Brooke, but to sum it up: Bob and Thelma lived a relatively quiet life, outside a small town, raising kids, food and a community. They weren't the loudest family in town, nor the most powerful, nor the richest. They were simple and good and kind. What mattered to them was marriage, family, faith, land, and community. And all are better because of them. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Their legacy is small, perhaps, but huge at the same time. Bob's funeral was so crowded that we arrived 20 minutes early and still had to wait in a long line to get into the small, packed church. The whole community came, all ages, all persuasions, all religions. Bob and Thelma's kids and grandkids milled about, all of them little pillars in their own right, strong and giving and funny and loving (and most of them blonde). As I watched Brooke, who recently moved back to Central Montana herself (as have her two brothers), and witnessed the grace with which she responded to each and every person who came to her, hugging them fully, all while wrangling two little ones and dealing with the loss of two of the most important people in her life, was, and always is, astounding. Bob and Thelma and Brooke and her siblings and cousins have seen more than their fair share of heartbreak in their lives. Bob and Thelma lost a son, too early, and then a grandson, way too early. Theirs has not been an easy life. But they've faced it with so much love and grace. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>That is courage</i> -- courage I see in each and every one of their kids and each of their grandkids too – a legacy to be very sure.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holly, from PBS.org</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b>The second example of courage hit me while I listened to a college friend discuss her work as a photographer in the Middle East.</b> <a href="http://hollypickett.com/">Holly Pickett</a> grew up in Butte and went to the University of Montana. She started her career at a mid-sized newspaper, but broke off the traditional path in 2008 to move to Cairo, Egypt, to freelance. Now, the courage to freelance is one thing. The courage to freelance in a foreign country is another. To freelance in the Middle East in wartime is a whole other story.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In an interview with Montana Public Radio's News Director Sally Mauk (<a href="http://www.mtpr.org/podcasts/audio/mtee_features/01-09-2012Feature.mp3">Listen on MTPR here</a>.), Holly talked about her work in the Middle East, including her documentation of the revolutions that started a year ago in the Middle East – the so-called Arab Spring. Holly is an incredible photographer, whose work has now graced the pages of the New York Times, TIME, the New Yorker and many others. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Holly's images, as Sally points out, are nothing short of haunting, especially those of the women and children and families affected by war and disruption. (<a href="http://hollypickett-com.photoshelter.com/">See them here</a>.) When Sally asked her about those photos in particular, she said:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I feel like I'm there for a purpose... It's such a terrible thing to have happen, but I want people to see those pictures because I want them to know that it [war] has an impact on even children. That it has an impact on families, on regular people who really don't have anything to do with the fighting or the politics. I just think it's really important to remember that, that it has an impact on civilians.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And after Sally brought up images of Holly literally dodging bullets, Holly said:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“For me, it's not really about excitement so much... It's not about seeking thrills for me, it never has been... it's just I feel like I'm there for a purpose and I need to do what I'm there to do.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">What struck me so much about the interview is how humble and grounded Holly sounds (as she sounds, by the way, in her very <a href="http://hollypickett.blogspot.com/">well-done blog</a>). She's just an ordinary Butte girl, doing what she's meant to do (<a href="http://www.inlander.com/spokane/article-14359-from-the-rskan-to-the-rsstan.html">here's a really good profile of her</a>). It just so happens that there are sometimes bullets flying around her when she does it. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>That is courage.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>The third example, in a similar vein, was the launch of my friend Anne's new project, <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1924314583/speak-out-tunisia-a-citizen-journalism-training-pr">Speak Out Tunisia</a>.</b> Anne is a multimedia journalist and instructor who just comes up with these crazy ideas to go to dangerous places in the name of free speech. Her last project, <a href="http://www.congoinfocus.com/">Congo in Focus</a>, trained Congolese students to tell their own stories via multimedia. Here's how she described the whole thing in a piece <a href="http://www.pbs.org/mediashift/2012/01/why-training-citizen-journalists-is-so-important-after-the-arab-spring013.html">this week on PBS MediaShift</a>: </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1924314583/speak-out-tunisia-a-citizen-journalism-training-pr" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NH2XXZSdn5Y/TxNE7qV0I7I/AAAAAAAADI8/VbK92-MMMRg/s320/Picture+20.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>“In Congo, I watched students learn to report on the truth in their communities and to tell the stories that they considered to be important, not only the stories the West has grown accustomed to hearing -- stories of rape, violence, war and corruption. In return, my students taught me about human resilience and the ability to affect change in the face of oppression.”</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">One of Anne's students recently had <a href="http://www.pbs.org/newshour/multimedia/congoleseyouthfinal/index.html">apiece featured on PBS NewsHour</a>, about which, Anne writes:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“The fact that NewsHour chose to highlight a story reported, written and photographed by a Congolese instead of a foreign correspondent in Congo brought the point of my teaching journalism in Congo full circle.” </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Now, Anne is raising money to go to Tunisia to help train newly liberated citizens there (after the overthrow of dictator Ben Ali and in general, post Arab Spring) to tell their own stories too. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p-9OF8A0_aM/TxNX3KJUe_I/AAAAAAAADJk/kKmW6ZpeH_g/s1600/me_BW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p-9OF8A0_aM/TxNX3KJUe_I/AAAAAAAADJk/kKmW6ZpeH_g/s1600/me_BW.jpg" /></a></div>A few months ago, Anne and I were chatting (after she'd returned from a sojourn in France) and she, all casual like, writes, “it looks like i might be doing a project in Tunisia<span style="color: #888888;"> </span>in the spring … and then back to Congo, I think...”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">To just decide to go to a post-revolution or war-torn country for the sake of helping people tell their stories, because someone has to, <i>that is courage.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">(Anne's project is fundraising on Kickstarter.org, where you can pledge a little (as little as $1) or a lot to her campaign. Click <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1924314583/speak-out-tunisia-a-citizen-journalism-training-pr">here to watch a video about it, to learn more or to donate.</a>) </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>The fourth example is the story of Henry and his parents.</b> Henry is just a few months younger than Willa and his parents have become friends of ours. They're also small-town, came-back-to-the-farm folks just getting rolling on the whole farm family/family farm thing. Last week Henry had to be flown to Seattle with major heart issues and he and his family spent his first birthday in a hospital room, with Henry better, but still not out of the woods and with absolutely no answers, even from some of the nation's best cardiologists, as to what was going wrong with Henry's little heart. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But, they still had cake because he's a little boy turning one and by golly, that calls for cake. And, not just any cake. As his mom posted, “Red velvet cake with pearl dust on an incredible cream cheese frosting. Because it was truly a celebration.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Henry's parents have been keeping friends and family informed on Facebook and sharing photos too. In one photo, there's Henry's dad, smiling as his son dug into his first birthday cake. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>That is courage.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">(Email me at <a href="mailto:courtney.lowery@gmail.com">courtney.lowery@gmail.com</a> if you want me to pass along information on how you can help Henry and his family.)<b><br />
</b> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br />
</b> </div><b> </b><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ENMTmNYuj6w/TxNSJ9vkwdI/AAAAAAAADJU/7VgSgBZD4po/s1600/willanana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ENMTmNYuj6w/TxNSJ9vkwdI/AAAAAAAADJU/7VgSgBZD4po/s320/willanana.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This woman has amazing reserves of patience and courage.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b>The fifth example was closest to home: my Mom.</b> My Mom has been caring for my grandmother since my grandpa died about 10 years ago. My grandma's a tough old bird, but in the last year or so, age and life has started to take its toll – on her body, on her mind and most of all, on her spirit. In particular, the last few months, she's gotten worse and worse and my Mom, the only child living near her, is the one who takes her to the doctor, takes her to the store, takes her to bank, takes her call in the middle of the night when her hearing aids don't work, and also takes the brunt of her, let's call it high-spritedness.<br />
<br />
My grandmother has never been a warm and fuzzy type, but age, maybe some dementia, combined with a tough life and then watching her closest family members die one by one over the last decade has left even more prickly, to say the very least. My mom gets help from her brother – a lot of help – but he's also two states away. So my Mom takes the days upon days off work to take Grandma to the doctor, only to have her berate her time after time, in front of anyone who will listen. She takes Grandma shopping, because that's what she likes to do, only to have her complain the whole time. She wades through bills and Medicare paperwork, doctor's orders and prescription schedules, only to have my Grandma tell her she's<i> not so smart</i>.<br />
<br />
My mom takes the abuse, deals with my grandmother with grace and then explains to me that she understands, it's just confusion and anyway, she's all my Grandma has left and she's not going to leave her alone in the last years of her life. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
And so, when my Mom's phone rings at 7 a.m. and she sees it's my grandmother, she picks it up and says hello, lovingly.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>That is courage.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I know I started this post with an anecdote about a stomach bug and I don't want, for a second, to equate that with the feats of courage laid out here. Instead, I want to point out how intrinsic it can be and how inspiring it is to realize that it all, big and small, comes from a central place. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Whether it's fighting for one's country or getting up the strength to smile and give a hug when you know you, or your baby is sick, the courage comes from a current running through all of us. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So this year (I turn 32 this week), I'm going to be courageous, in any way I can, and recognize courage around me, in extraordinary and ordinary lives all the same.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-22874170407210055972011-12-21T08:18:00.000-08:002011-12-21T08:54:04.442-08:00Holiday Cheer and Light and Hope and ... Losing It, Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rnqfvgYzU0k/TvH7u6RjKrI/AAAAAAAACzA/bpxTjDRabh8/s1600/IMG_7410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rnqfvgYzU0k/TvH7u6RjKrI/AAAAAAAACzA/bpxTjDRabh8/s640/IMG_7410.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I've sat down maybe seven times in the last two weeks to write something and every time I have, what comes out is some permutation of: <i>I'm so, very, ridiculously, incredibly, totally, freaking, busy.</i><br />
<br />
Sometimes, it happened a few paragraphs in, other times, it was the first sentence. Some pieces started out being about how to manage it all (as if I know). Others were just screeds of complaining with sidebars of to-do lists and most, maybe all, had this annoying martyr undercurrent that I feel flowing more readily than I would like these days.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I scrapped them all. Because I'm not telling you something you don't already know. You're likely <i>very, ridiculously, incredibly, totally, freaking, busy </i>too<i>. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Here's a secret:<i> We all are.</i><br />
<br />
I never want to become one of those "busy" people, you know the ones -- the ones always talking about how <i>busy</i> they are?<br />
<br />
Because those people are likely:<br />
<br />
a) trying to sound important (because <i>very</i> important people are always <i>very</i> busy);<br />
<br />
b) using it as an excuse of some kind, often for being flakey or just plain inefficient;<br />
<br />
c) as a vehicle for recognition of some kind, exposing some deep self-confidence void ("Oh, I have so much to do!" = "I do so much and get no thanks for it so I'm trying to get you to acknowledge how hard I work so I can actually feel some modicum of self respect."); or<br />
<br />
d) too busy to think of anything else to think about, thus, leading lives obviously full of pure drudgery. <i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
So, I've been trying, grasping really, to find some balance with the busy-ness in our lives. Because, this, friends, is the slow part of our year. And if I'm borderline now? Wait until Jacob is in the field all day (i.e. not helping with Willa) and we have seeds to plant and plants to transplant and veggie deliveries to make and turkeys to feed and grain to plant and lentils to roll and ...<br />
<br />
I start to hyperventilate just thinking about it.<br />
<br />
And then, add to that, the prospect of a pregnancy or a second baby and I'm certifiably nutso. <br />
<br />
Hence, the <i>grasping</i>. Because the truth is, I wouldn't change a thing. I wanted it all and I got it all. I have the career and the small farm and the husband and the small town and the awesome kid and even the cute neurotic dog.<br />
<br />
But that doesn't mean I can't lose it every once in awhile.<br />
<br />
I wanted to be able to tell you I've found some sort of lesson in it all. But things don't always wrap up as nicely as we'd hope. <br />
<br />
It was all coming to a head last week and so on Willa's and my morning walk, I planned to take all these photos of this amazing frost that was blanketing our little town and write a post about how stressed I was, but isn't it grand when nature makes you stop and leave the chaos behind for a moment? <br />
<br />
I tried, several times, to stop and gaze at the sparkly white trees, the blue sky, the hot white sun streaks coming through the snow, and breathe. But it was ass-cold and my hands were freezing, <i>and</i> Willa fell asleep fast, (that's another post. Right now, the only way to get her to nap, and thus, get me some uninterrupted work time, is to walk her down in the stroller.) so I took a few hurried shots and heeled it back to the house to cram in a few hours.<br />
<br />
Then, by that afternoon, I'd come down with what could have only been the flu and spent the next few days struggling to a) not throw up and b) not freak out about the million things I <i>should </i>be doing instead of laying in bed in a fever-induced coma.<br />
<br />
By the time I came out of it, I was drained and weak. But, my to-do list was not. It was full and strong and looming.<br />
<br />
Jacob had done a fantastic job at the care and feeding of the child and the house, but I was impossibly behind on work and the 10,000 other things that needed to be done. <br />
<br />
For a moment, I thought about writing a piece about how isn't it beautiful it can actually be when, just when you think life is crazy, your body forces you to slow down? As if it's saying "<i>Hey girl, think you're in control? How's this for a lesson in slowing down and letting go? You can't even control your bowels, let alone your day.</i>" <br />
<br />
But, by the time Thursday arrived, I had hit the wall. A big, merry, crafty, homemade, work-at-home, stay-at-home, make-everything-from-scratch, try-as-I-may-cannot-find-any-goodness-or-grace, solid-as-a-rock <b>wall</b>. <br />
<br />
And when Willa fought going to bed that night, I just laid in bed sobbing and gritting my teeth, sobbing and gritting my teeth, sobbing and gritting my teeth, while she kicked and played and cried a little and played some more.<br />
<br />
Then, she patted my tear-drenched face and said "Mama?" And I wondered how she'd tell her therapist about it some day.<br />
<br />
<i>"Well, my Mom smiled a lot but she acted angry all the time."</i><br />
<br />
It's all just terrifying, what we expect of ourselves in this modern life. Especially women. Especially mothers.<br />
<br />
And on top of all we do, it seems cruel to also expect us to have grace and calm when we can't handle it all. We have to give ourselves permission sometimes, to let a few things go -- including our sanity. It doesn't mean we're <i>really</i> crazy. It doesn't mean we can't do it all. It doesn't mean we're not thankful for all we have. <br />
<br />
It just means we're just freaking exhausted -- too exhausted to be thankful, to find meaning in the crazyness, to stop and drink it all in.<br />
<br />
Taking a walk and looking at sparkly, frosty trees isn't going to immediately change how tapped out I feel. Neither is forcing myself into some sort of reflection. Nor is that half hour of yoga I try to shove into my day.<br />
<br />
And that is perfectly OK.<br />
<br />
Because those things aren't meant to magically make my life manageable. They're about the effort you put in to just <i>do</i> them. Just like yoga, or meditation, life is <i>practice</i>.<br />
<br />
It's not always about getting it right. Sometimes, it's about doing it at all and that is perfectly <i>enough</i>. <br />
<br />
And with that, I'll leave you with a few of the photos from the week and a Christmas wish -- that you let yourself lose it, just a little, even in the midst of all this holiday sparkle and cheer.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BDbyAXndHr0/TvH7wmiY-4I/AAAAAAAACzQ/qcxI4Jjv_sQ/s1600/IMG_7414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BDbyAXndHr0/TvH7wmiY-4I/AAAAAAAACzQ/qcxI4Jjv_sQ/s640/IMG_7414.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nRYxSN9f_7U/TvH7sUj92XI/AAAAAAAACyo/fn_-hLZma-4/s1600/IMG_7543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nRYxSN9f_7U/TvH7sUj92XI/AAAAAAAACyo/fn_-hLZma-4/s640/IMG_7543.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-33671034163955903662011-11-28T10:32:00.000-08:002011-11-28T12:17:19.831-08:00Warning: After Butchering 98 Turkeys, You May Need Gumbo and Paper Christmas Trees<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vl1VpvPzgmw/Tra6oVWPAyI/AAAAAAAACvY/rDQ3GAkcX3s/s1600/IMG_7120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vl1VpvPzgmw/Tra6oVWPAyI/AAAAAAAACvY/rDQ3GAkcX3s/s640/IMG_7120.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Let me start by telling you that over the last week, we killed and processed 98 turkeys, delivered them across the state (Great Falls, Helena, Bozeman, Missoula and then back to Great Falls for those who missed the first pick up), hosted the 12 people it took to get the dirty job done, cooked Thanksgiving dinner, shot and processed a deer, went to a birthday party, had two final dinner guests on Saturday and then collapsed in a catatonic heap yesterday. <br />
<br />
So, forgive my absence here as of late, as well as the reliance on somewhat blurry photography. It was all really that fuzzy. The camera doesn't lie, you know. <br />
<br />
It started early the Saturday before Thanksgiving when the turkeys met their maker. People started showing up around 8 a.m. to get the job done. We had lots of help from many, many cool people. It never ceases to amaze me that people will come this far, in this kind of weather, to do what can only be described as terrible work. But they do. And they seem to have fun, no less. There's an unmistakeable camaraderie surrounding the whole thing.<br />
<br />
From once-strangers to dear friends, the people who help us do this work are the true heroes, in my mind. By the end of it all, we feel closer to our food, to our community and to each other. There's just something about it.<br />
<br />
After all the plucking and scalding and eating and playing music and sleeping on floors was done, our volunteers went home and we loaded said turkeys, now plucked and in pretty little bags into a refrigerated trailer and traversed the state, delivering 1,300 pounds of Thanksgiving. <br />
<br />
Jacob tends to channel all of his stress into the actual slaughter of the birds, the equipment, the weather, the process, the help. The days before turkey slaughter, he's the one who's nearly crippled with stress. But, that's the fun part for me -- the hosting, the helping, the company. Also, it's not my thing. Jacob has it handled, and that allows me to relax a little. (By the way, if you'd like to watch a (somewhat graphic) multimedia project on the subject, check out<a href="http://www.blogger.com/%09Augmented%20Reality%20grows%20up%09Terri%20Thornton%09Week%20of%20Nov.%2016%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09Augmented%20Reality%20grows%20up%09Terri%20Thornton%09Week%20of%20Nov.%2016%09%09%09%09http://vimeo.com/7831109%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09%09"> this piece from our very talented and dear friend Anne Medley</a>, from the 2009 slaughter.)<br />
<br />
The delivery, on the other hand, is my thing and my nightmare. I have a handy spreadsheet that helps, but our customer list is always a moving target and I'm in charge of being friendly and doing math at the same time. I'm really good at one of those things, but terrible at the other, and for some reason, combining them makes my head inch toward explosion. <br />
<br />
Then, there's this question of how many turkeys we have to sell. We have 98 turkeys and most are spoken for, so it's a tight margin. My worst fear is running out of turkeys and ruining someone's Thanksgiving because we can't get them a bird.<br />
<br />
Then, people who <i>are</i> on the list don't show and people who <i>are not</i> on the list do show and my numbers get jumbled and I start to panic. <br />
<br />
This year, because I erred so far on the side of caution that would keep us from overselling, we ended up coming home with about 10 extra turkeys. Which is fine -- they just went in the freezer for Christmas sales -- but two things: 1) We really need the money and 2) I'm still having nightmares that someone out there was expecting or wanting one of our turkeys and didn't get one because either we couldn't find them or they couldn't find us. <br />
<br />
During the delivery, I ended up in a flood of phone calls and text messages, Facebook notes and emails, feeling like a bit of a stalker by the end of it all. I actually called one customer at work because I couldn't get her otherwise, and told her receptionist that it was <i>urgent</i> that she call her turkey farmer.<br />
<br />
That's how crazy I get about all of this.<br />
<br />
So, on Thanksgiving, we cooked one of our own small turkeys and laid low. We had offers to go other places, but we wanted a quiet day and we really wanted to actually eat the fruits of our labor. We needed a reminder of how worth it they are -- for us and all the work we put into them, and for our customers, who not only pay a premium price, but who also are patient with the process it takes to get the birds to them.<br />
<br />
It takes real commitment sometimes to eat locally. It would be so much easier and cheaper to go to the store and buy up a turkey of your choosing, walk it to the counter and check out. Easy, peasy. But, not as tasty, or as fun, I hope.<br />
<br />
These birds really are worth it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0fMTloK0aZ0/TtPRJmFH_bI/AAAAAAAACyU/h9AFb6AIoSs/s1600/IMG_7169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0fMTloK0aZ0/TtPRJmFH_bI/AAAAAAAACyU/h9AFb6AIoSs/s640/IMG_7169.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I won't go so far as giving this guy a name or showing you his papers (<a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/208808/portlandia-ordering-the-chicken-part-1">hilarity here, by the way</a>), but I know he was raised humanely, killed humanely, ate great food and lived his life out of doors. And, I know he was a tasty, tasty bird. <br />
<br />
We also used up one of our Thanksgiving vegetable shares for our meal and the winter squash made this here delightful pie. (<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/18/garden/18gardenrecipe.html">Recipe here</a>.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tfjJchq02uc/TtPRIAw5GhI/AAAAAAAACx8/Nqe_ps0aAiM/s1600/IMG_7223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tfjJchq02uc/TtPRIAw5GhI/AAAAAAAACx8/Nqe_ps0aAiM/s640/IMG_7223.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I broke our hand mixer a few weeks ago, so Jacob had to whip the cream by hand. It took much longer than he expected (but about as long as I expected, which I told him, of course.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rwAKb-3hlA8/TtPRIqkaYLI/AAAAAAAACyE/NF5MdLUi1tQ/s1600/IMG_7229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rwAKb-3hlA8/TtPRIqkaYLI/AAAAAAAACyE/NF5MdLUi1tQ/s640/IMG_7229.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My Dad came over for the meal and brought his own homegrown scalloped potatoes and ham and, more importantly, played with his granddaughter while her Mama cooked.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4x_J0LQNiQQ/TtPRKZqiILI/AAAAAAAACyc/YrLiioqOpwU/s1600/IMG_7215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4x_J0LQNiQQ/TtPRKZqiILI/AAAAAAAACyc/YrLiioqOpwU/s640/IMG_7215.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Friday, Jacob went hunting and got the aforementioned deer, while Willa and I stayed home, trying to get back into somewhat of a nap schedule (impossible) and getting Christmas going in the house. <br />
<br />
We don't have many Christmas decorations and haven't really ever decorated since we married and moved to Conrad. The first year we were here, we spent the holiday in Salt Lake City where my Dad was in the burn unit at the University of Utah, recovering from a pretty traumatic farm accident that ended up in him losing his leg. (I did, however, come home from Salt Lake after one of my stays with Dad to find that Jacob had put up Christmas lights to cheer me up. I could have kissed him.) The second year, we'd just had Willa and I was too busy figuring out how to take care of a newborn to pay much attention to decking any halls. <br />
<br />
But this year, I must have the spirit in me or something because on Friday, I got all crafty up in here.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A6FN-Zj_8qc/TtPRD5K9mWI/AAAAAAAACw8/7i6DjJJ-yCs/s1600/IMG_7258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A6FN-Zj_8qc/TtPRD5K9mWI/AAAAAAAACw8/7i6DjJJ-yCs/s640/IMG_7258.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
It's amazing what a little red yarn, a yard full of pine cones and a hot glue gun can do.<br />
<br />
And then, looking at the insane pile of magazines we regularly accumulate, I got a flash of inspiration from my childhood, vaguely remembering making Christmas trees out of a Reader's Digest, maybe in 4th, or 5th grade? <br />
<br />
I looked it up and of course, Martha had <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/269354/magazine-christmas-trees">a full tutorial.</a> <br />
<br />
It became an obsession for me, folding these little trees, one I even partook in while we had company over for dinner.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NhKn8I5-Au4/TtPRC9iMLAI/AAAAAAAACws/860DD5DLmhI/s1600/IMG_7237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NhKn8I5-Au4/TtPRC9iMLAI/AAAAAAAACws/860DD5DLmhI/s640/IMG_7237.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><br />
<br />
But just look at these things! <br />
<br />
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They're part modern/recycled decor, part nostalgia for 4th grade, part sparkly, lovely, holiday cheer. They take impossibly long to make, but I can't seem to stop now. <br />
<br />
Someone told me I should just be watching TV on the couch after the season we'd just had. And believe me, I tried. But, this craftiness is way better. It's an inertia thing. After all that <i>doing, doing, doing,</i> it seemed impossible to just stop and sit down. I needed something active <i>and</i> relaxing.<br />
<br />
Enter the magazine trees (and the Pandora Ella Fitzgerald holiday station.) Willa and I have been folding and singing, folding and singing, pretty much nonstop since Friday. <br />
<br />
And, I think we're starting to inch back to normal because of it.<br />
<br />
--*--*--*--*--*--<br />
<br />
<i>Recipe</i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Leftover Turkey Gumbo</b></span><br />
<br />
I sometimes cook up a turkey just so we can have gumbo the next day.<br />
<br />
The basic recipe here is from <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/emeril-lagasse/turkey-bone-gumbo-recipe/index.html">Emeril</a>, but I've modified based on other recipes and the input of a good friend who's a southern cooking phenom.<br />
<br />
It's taken me awhile to get this down and it turns out differently everytime -- which I sort of dig. There's a certain terroir to it, a taste of place, as it were. The final product depends on so many variables -- the kind of bird you have, what you seasoned the turkey or the broth with, whether you have white wine or red (or sometimes, I sub beer), what kind of sausage you have, etc.<br />
<br />
It also depends, big time, on the roux.<br />
<br />
Making the roux can be way time consuming, but it's so worth it. And, the time spent slaving over a hot stove makes this meal feel special, somehow. (Best praise ever: "You got a good scald on this.")<br />
<br />
And, for goodness sakes, how can you go wrong when you start a recipe by frying flour?<br />
<br />
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons vegetable oil<br />
1 1/4 cup flour<br />
1 1/2 cups chopped onions<br />
1 cup chopped celery<br />
1 cup chopped bell peppers<br />
1 small can tomato paste<br />
2 cups frozen okra<br />
1/4 cup white wine<br />
1/4 cup worchestershire sauce <br />
salt<br />
dash cayenne (to taste)<br />
1 pound smoked sausage, such as andouille or kiebasa, cut crosswise into 1/2 inch slices<br />
3 bay leaves<br />
6 cups turkey stock (made by submerging turkey carcass in stock pot in water and boiling for two or so hours)<br />
leftover turkey meat, about 3 to 4 cups<br />
2 tablespoons chopped parsley<br />
1/2 cup chopped green onions<br />
<br />
In a Dutch oven, over medium heat, combine the oil and flour and stirring slowly and constantly for 20 to 25 minutes, make a dark brown roux, the color of chocolate. Add the onions, celery, and bell peppers and continue to stir for 4-5 minutes, or until wilted. Add tomato paste. Season with salt and pepper.<br />
<br />
Add the sausage and bay leaves. Continue to stir for 3 to 4 minutes. Add the stock, worchestershire and white wine. Stir until the roux mixture and stock are well combined. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to medium-low. Cook, uncovered, stirring occasionally, for 1 hour. Add the turkey and the okra. Simmer for 2 hours. Skim off any fat that rises to the surface. Remove from the heat . Stir in the parsley and green onions. Remove the bay leaves and serve in deep bowls with rice.Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324162619319519741.post-70646020879042340282011-11-06T19:46:00.000-08:002011-11-07T12:06:06.675-08:00The Race Against Winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O2ifYt_N6f8/Tra6nuhxPAI/AAAAAAAACvQ/TQfQeaRpdWU/s1600/IMG_7107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O2ifYt_N6f8/Tra6nuhxPAI/AAAAAAAACvQ/TQfQeaRpdWU/s640/IMG_7107.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
This weekend, we got our first snow. And then, we turned back the clocks.<br />
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Our race against winter has ended.<br />
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I'm not sure we lost, but it certainly doesn't feel like we won, either. I'm guessing it never does.<br />
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The last two months have been an impossible scramble to put up as much food as possible, glean as much as we can, harvest, market, disk, plow, pull and prep and then just the frost imps -- as my little Goddaughter calls them -- to do their work.<br />
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We harvested our last crops last week and then we *took off,* on a big trip to see Jacob's brother get hitched. As we drove away from the farm -- the first time since February we'd left it for more than a weekend -- the transition was palpable.<br />
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Because so much of what we do is determined by season, by sun and snow and frost and daylight we are forced to completely re-think our daily lives each time we turn from summer to fall, from fall to winter, winter to spring and spring to summer.<br />
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This particular transition, from busy summer to busy fall to slow, cold winter can be excruciating.<br />
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It happens so gradually, and yet so suddenly.<br />
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The last deliveries are made, the last harvest is in, the last jar of tomatoes is on the pantry shelf and even the last of the frosty beets are dug.<br />
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The farm drifts to sleep, leaving us to wonder <i>now what should we do?</i><br />
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Then, we spend then next two weeks trying to shake the feeling that we forgot something. Jacob paces around the house and I try to assuage his concerns, all the while know that we're both dealing with a constant ringing in our heads of: <i>There must be something that needs to be done right </i>*now<i>.* </i><br />
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But there isn't.<br />
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I'm so glad we spent that first week of transition traveling. We had a lot of time to talk about the season -- what we did right and what we did wrong, and we had time to reconnect -- even *gasp* talk about topics other than the farm.<br />
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And, we also got our hearts totally warmed, twice, by two spectacular accolades this last week -- accolades that make us feel inspired, humbled and honored.<br />
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First was the Sustainable Agriculture Award from AERO - the Alternative Energy Resources Organization. It's hard to describe what AERO is sometimes. It's not hard to describe what the organization does.You see their work all over, whether you know it or not, from community-based weatherization projects to the Abundant Montana local food directory, to farm and energy tours to specialized training for farmers and ranchers. But, what AERO <i>is</i> is harder to describe. <br />
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Both Jacob and I have served on the board. I'm on the board now, as a matter of fact, and I joined purely because I wanted to have these people in my life and in my work. I wrote and recorded a commentary on just this subject for Montana Public Radio (<a href="http://www.mtpr.net/commentaries/1059">read the piece here</a>.)<br />
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It's an organization that flies under the radar a little bit, which I really like. It's not flashy and press-conferency (and I saw a lot of those in my days as a journalist) and it's not combative or negative. It's all about positivity and solutions and support for good work. And, because of that, it attracts a unique membership. The group is intimate and yet welcoming and made up of passionate, selfless, caring, creative and truly, some of the most courageous and innovative people in the state.<br />
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That's a long way of saying, we were so, incredibly honored to get that award, and presented by two of our best friends no less. We drove away from the annual meeting with our framed award and it took both of us at least 50 miles to stop talking about how we felt we didn't deserve it. But goodness, the fact that those people in that room, people we respect so much, thought we <i>did</i> deserve it, will keep us inspired and working for years.<br />
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Thank you. <br />
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Then, we were featured by Farm Aid, another great organization working on behalf of family farmers, as "Farmer Heros" -- <a href="http://www.farmaid.org/site/c.qlI5IhNVJsE/b.2723639/k.8AEB/Farmer_Heroes.htm">along side some pretty amazing people</a> (Will Allen, MacArthur genius). You<a href="http://www.farmaid.org/site/apps/nlnet/content2.aspx?c=qlI5IhNVJsE&b=2723875&ct=11447465&notoc=1"> can read the profile here.</a><br />
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Talk about putting a (turkey) feather in your hat. <br />
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Meanwhile, from the adventures of Willa the farm kid, here's a Public Service Announcement on being bear aware this fall.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/31214960?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="400"></iframe>Courtneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16627240866176901749noreply@blogger.com0