A Rustic Little Tart

Yes, I'm referring to an actual tart, like one with fruit in it and whatnot.

(Although, I admit, I wouldn't mind being referred to as a rustic little tart. I'd like to think I'm a little rustic and a little tarty. What a wonderful combination.)

My good friend just popped out an adorable baby girl this week and I know from personal experience that in this take-out-free town, a good meal from a friend is priceless. So, I took dinner over to the new family and for dessert was this lovely tart of a thing.

The new mama, who is a fantastic cook, is the one who first introduced me the rustic tart to begin with. This summer, she brought one to dinner at our place, all peaches and crispy, crunchy and hearty. I was in love.

Since then I've tried a few recipes (this one from Food & Wine and this one from America's Test Kitchen) and I've combined them to create the following recipe which, if I do say so myself, is pretty delicious, and impossibly simple.

Home Again: We're All Just Renting

As some of you know, I've been writing a monthly column, called Home Again for two awesome online publications: The Daily Yonder and New West (my alma-mater as you might call it.)

It's my dream job, this writing/farming/mothering thing. So, I feel super duper lucky to have not only outlets for this writing (personal essays are hard to find homes for) but also two really great editors to work with.

This month's essay -- about my childhood farm and our new farm and what it means to really "own" a piece of ground -- is up on the Daily Yonder and will be tomorrow morning on New West.

It was an emotional, but satisfying one to write. Hope you like it.

Slipknot With A Side of Bananas

I had some work to bang out on Sunday, so feeding Willa breakfast (normally my job) fell to Jacob while I planned to take a circular saw to some plywood (normally his job).

I showed him where the banana masher is, handed him her bib and scooted out the door, with just a twinge of nervousness (I'm sure the same twinge he felt with me out there with a circular saw.)

"Oh, and," I said. "She likes to listen to Natalie Merchant during breakfast."

I just barely heard him as I stepped out.

"No she doesn't," he said. "You do.

She likes Slipknot.  Don't you Willa."

Sometimes, you just have to hand them off and hold your breath, you know?

Empty, Full, Empty, Full

Sometimes, if you're too busy to get the message on your own, it punches you in the face.

I'm surprised I don't have a black eye today.

Wednesday night, J and I and Willa spent a few hours roaming around the farm I grew up on (here's a piece that explains why this is a big deal). I'd heard it was on the market and called the agent to make an appointment to see the place. At first, I just wanted Jacob to see it. I mean, he's been hearing stories for years and had no topographical context in which to place his wife's childhood. He had to see it. And, I wanted to see it for myself. Maybe I need closure or something.

But, then I started thinking about it as a real possibility for our farm. It's the right size, the right place, the right buildings, the right options.

What a rabbit hole that became. I'll write more about it in a few days, when I've had a little more time to process but for now,  I'm just not sure how to describe how I felt, standing in front of that old house, wind whipping -- past, present and future colliding.

That night, whether it was all the juice from the farm visit or just part of my all-night diner gig (Willa has decided that nursing every hour and a half in the middle of the night is totally acceptable for a 6-month-old), I couldn't sleep. So, I got up at 3 a.m. to go through the photos from the trip and send a few off to my editor for my next Home Again column on The Daily Yonder and New West.

What ensued is why I'm surprised I'm not black and blue.

Six Months

Six months seems but a blip. And never have six months gone by as fast as they just did.

But my God, how a life can change in six months.

This little bean, buttercream breath and all, goes from this:

To this:

When little ones are so little, dew still on them, people keep telling you it gets better. The first months are so very sweet, but also so very tough. They're hard to understand, they're hard to hold, they're hard to feed and even hard to snuggle. Everything is careful and hushed.

You're just getting to know each other and that dance can be a delicate -- and sometimes lonely -- one.

So people tell you it will get better -- that there will come a day when this little bean becomes a friend, a tiny pal, a person you want to talk to, sing with, do anything for a giggle. I didn't know what they meant until now.


Giggly Willa from conradcowgills on Vimeo.

The 'Womb'

That's what I call our greenhouse. It's where we start the season, warm and cozy and ripe for fertility -- or so we hope.

It's also where, even when it's -24 out and you can't remember what something green and growing looks like, you learn all over again to trust.

Some of life's most powerful lessons have smacked me in the face in the greenhouse, like:

• Fertility isn't something you can control, either in the greenhouse "womb" or your own. Read more on this here. 

• Over sow and under cover.  The more seeds you scatter and the less soil you put on top, the better. That is to say: Give your self ample chances and don't put too much dirt in the way of growth.

(By the way, a seed starting tip from J: the planting depth of a seed is always twice the thickness of the seed. And, make sure your seed has good contact with the soil -- meaning, don't be afraid to push the seed in a little.)

 

• Don't be afraid to thin. If you want something to grow big and strong, give it room, even if that means cutting off a few other things.

(For me, lately this means learning to thin out the parts of my life that are crowding the more important ones.)

The Pregnant Farmer Turns Into The Mama Farmer

When J was first offered his fantastic job, we'd just come off of our first season farming and had somehow managed to survive on my modest and then quite sporadic pay. It was harrowing, to say the very least, to figure out how to live on so very little and with so few guarantees that -- small or not -- the next check would come at all, or ever again.

We were trying to get pregnant at the time -- for like the 14th month -- and I started to convince myself that baby wasn't coming because somehow the universe knew we didn't have the capacity to handle a baby, either financially or otherwise.

And, I wasn't sure how I could be a Mom and work the way I was working. I'd almost always been the breadwinner in the family and that pressure was immense when I considered that on top of caring for a wee one.

So, at the word "benefits" we jumped at J's job offer, and fast.

But, what about the farm? At the time, I told him that if he was working full time, I would go part time with my off-farm job and become the primary farmer the next season.

Then, I got pregnant.

Fooled him, didn't I?

I was some help on the farm last year and even spent the day before I went into labor on my hands and knees weeding the parsley, but largely (ha!) I couldn't cut it.

There was so much that went undone, so many opportunities we may have lost, so many ventures tossed aside -- all because we were short handed and of the hands we did have, one set was swollen from all the water retention.

So, as I look at pictures of the farm from last fall, weeds overgrown and turnips and carrots left in the beds to rot, I'm terrified that we'll do it all over again, or maybe even fall shorter.

See those large masses to the right of the high tunnel? Yeah. Those are supposedly beds of carrots.

I'm trying to imagine how we're going to manage a full-time off-farm job for J, a part-time one for me and my more than full-time Mama role and so far, I'm coming up blank.

But for now, the seeds need to be started to I'm learning to work around nap schedules. I take the baby monitor into the greenhouse and start seeding, as fast as I can, hoping that she'll sleep long enough to get a few flats going. Other times, I strap her into the front carrier, hook her onto "life support" as my friend Steph calls it, and away we go.

So, far, we're all keeping up, but the ground will thaw soon and then we'll see just how feasible a family and a farm can be.

She's Got the Whole World, In Her Mouth

She might be teething... or pondering world domination.

Have I mentioned how much I love that I live someplace where my friends can just drop by for quick chats and play dates?

Or, have I mentioned how extremely lucky I've been to find such an awesome tribe of women in our little town?

Or, have I mentioned how excited I am to be feeding my baby winter squash grown on our own farm? (See this post on the farm blog today for a little more on that.)

Or, have I mentioned how hard it is to get this kid to eat when there is anything distracting her, let alone two adorable girls playing in the living room?

This picture says all of that:

Thistles and Shamrocks, Sesame and Kale

There are few things I enjoy more in this world than the combination of the following:

1. The Thistle and Shamrock on NPR
2. Cheap, but decent, wine
3. Time alone in the kitchen
4. Thai food
5. The sounds of my husband and daughter playing in the other room while I partake in all of the above.

The kitchen has become somewhat of a haven for me, something I never thought would happen.

And, while I often complain that the kitchen in our little house is too small (it really is a one-butt kitchen and when we have company, I get isolated back there), the truth is I like the solitude it creates.

It's just me, NPR, a glass of wine, a sharp knife and a pile of good ingredients at my finger tips. It's my one bit of space during the day for creativity, quiet thought, my own music and a tangible sense of accomplishment and purpose.

Last night was just a regular Saturday night in our house, but for me, it was perfect.

And the food didn't turn out half bad either. Here are the recipes. (But keep in mind, they are only guaranteed if cooked with cheap wine and Irish music.)

Finding Some Balance

When it's this cold and windy, it's hard not to go just a little bit nuts.

Last week, while having one of those hanging-by-a-thread-so-thin-it-would-break-in-a-soft-breeze sort of days, I decided to stop for a moment and do a little yoga while Willa napped.

Nap time is so very precious, and I know I should be taking time for myself, but inevitably, I end up working or planting, cleaning or prepping dinner.

So, I've been trying to prioritize time for my mind and my body.

That means yoga. In the course of the last 10 years, I've gone in and out of practice, needing yoga more during some times and less during others. But it's been a constant in my life -- something I've always seemed to find my way back to. I can't (or won't) run and I don't have any other major physical tendencies other than work so yoga is my exercise of choice.

It's helped keep me centered and relatively sane through bouts of depression, loneliness, intense stress and transition, cancer and a few years of infertility. You could say it's been good to me.

I Wish I Was Just Like My Mother

Oh God. Did I just type that?




I wrote a short story in college -- workshopped it and everything -- with the premise that one of the worst things you can do is tell a woman she's just like her mother. Even worse is illustrating it by calling her by her mother's name.

As in: "OK, whatever, Julie."

(Chills. Up. The. Spine.)

My brother says it when I overreact. My husband says it when I worry too much. My best friend says it when I reach for another Diet Coke and a pack of saltine crackers.

The truth is though, being called by my Mother's name bugs me because I am like my Mother -- when I overreact, when I worry and when I drink too much Diet Coke.

By the time you've become a woman of your own, you've worked decades to differentiate yourself from your Mom. So, it really gets under your skin when what annoys you about your Mom gets discovered in you.

But, being just like my Mom is actually a good -- nay a great -- thing.

There are so many amazing, wonderful things about my Mom and never are those so vivid or so inspiring than when she is with her grandchildren.

The woman has this, this something, with kids. They light up in her presence. They show off, they giggle, they play.

She has a way of relating to little ones and letting their world envelop her. She reads books and plays and counts and sings ABCs, for hours and hours.

My Mom is, and always has been, so present.

And just so dang much fun.

Take this weekend, for example. While I run around the house, trying to straighten and clean, cook and shine, she sits, delighted with Willa, dreaming up fun things for all of us to do. Let's go to Village Drug! Let's get the stroller out! Can't you just wait until summer when we can take her to the pool! Oh! Won't that be so much fun!

She lives to have fun, like a kid.

How does she do it? Perspective.

She's always quick to tell me, when I'm fretting about work or the farm or the house or the massive amount of dog hair accumulating around me, that this stage only happens once and if you're not careful, you'll take it for granted.

"If I could, I would do it all over again," she said this weekend. "Just so I could do it again. God, I loved it when you kids were little."

So, on Sunday, even though I had dinner to cook and seedlings to plant, grain to weigh, columns to write and logos to design, I spent about two hours playing with Willa as my Mom dressed her in everything pink and/or fancy she could find in her closet. Why? Just because it's fun to play dress up.

(Someone should tell her though, that this is a baby, not a doll, despite the evidence in this photo.)



My apologies. I can't stop posting these. I mean, c'mon. Could you?



Seriously.



Rumba butts drive me nuts.



Willa absolutely cannot believe how excited Nana is about this dress.



But this excitement starts to turn to frustration pretty quickly.

Willa denounces the silliness by trying to eat the dress.



The situation then quickly devolves to this.



And then finally, this.

Doing Ourselves a Solid

The day of Willa's first meal started like this:

The book says winter squash at 6 months. She's five and a half. Maybe we should start with sweet potatoes.

But we can't grow sweet potatoes. We have our own winter squash and wouldn't it be better to start her on something we grew?

How do we make sure the spoon is fully sanitized?

What's that spot on the sweet potato, is it rotten?

What if I got the wrong kind of water? Did the book say spring water or purified water?

How long do I have to boil the water?

Why does she have to have water again?

And, really? I need to watch her water intake because too much could make her *what* fail?

Are you sure the cup is BPA free?

Are we sure this is the right time? One study says 4 months, another says 6 months. What if she develops allergies because of this?

All these questions I hadn't thought of before started popping up and just like that, just when I thought I had things figured out, I didn't.

But, after a minor panic attack, Jacob assured me that for centuries, mothers and fathers had figured out how to feed their children and we could too.

So, I mixed stirred and breathed and then fed my baby. Smooth as sweet potato puree.

A few days and we had the food thing down pat.

With sweet potatoes at least.

Work at Home = Madness at Home

The first three months of Willa's life were filled with only her.

When she was in utero, I promised myself I wouldn't let other stuff, stuff outside this little bean, distract me. I would be Mama first. The rest would come after. And, I would not. I repeat, would NOT take on too much outside work.

You see, I'm somewhat of a pleaser. I like to help and I love when I'm needed. Oh, and I can't say no to people I like or issues I care about. So, I have a tendency to take on too much. I vowed that this baby would make me better at boundaries.

I was very clear with my work how much I could give and I turned down several opportunities that came my way (from people I like and on issues I care about) to better focus on the part-time writing gig I do have, the side writing projects I want to work on and most of all, my babe.

It's all gone to hell.

Big Girl Pants

Today, I pulled a sleeper out of Willa's drawer, a hot pink one with little pale pink hearts all over it. It's Valentine's Day and even if no one will see us dammit, we're going to be festive. (I'm learning, very quickly, that as a stay-at-home mama if you're not festive for yourself then who will you be festive for?)

I pulled the cute little suit on and in places, it was a little big, but overall, it fit. Then, I looked at the size. Nine months. Nine months. I've put her in too-big sizes before. Six month outfits for a four month old isn't a stretch. I can imagine six months old. But are we really this close to nine months?

Then, I looked at my to-do list on the wall. It includes the following:

-Put together high chair
-Research first baby foods
-Bring crib in from garage
-Child proof bathroom cabinet
-Order Willa's walker

My God. Where did the the last five months go?

Since Willa arrived, time has stopped, accelerated and slowed to a crawl -- sometimes, all at once.

Already, I've felt the sting of nostalgia and the terrifying "they-grow-up-so-fast" cliche. But, this, perhaps, is my first precipice.

Three weeks ago she rolled over. Two weeks ago, I had to let our a button on her adjustable cloth diapers. A week ago, she sat in her first high chair. Last week, I noticed her picking her little rump up, making the first silhouette of a soon-to-crawl baby.  Today, she fit into her first nine-month sleeper. In a few weeks, she'll be eating food -- like the same kind of food we eat.

It feels like these little moments are leading up to something BIG and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. She's in her big girl pants, and I'm not sure I fit in mine yet.

Home

In the last two weeks, the bean has become a wholly different little being. She's gone from infant baby sweetness to little personess just. like. that.

She's all smiles and giggles these days and is so, fully squishable.

She's also very into swinging around while I sing loudly.

I've been turning up "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magfinicant Zeros (partially inspired by this adorable video of a Daddy and daughter singing it) as loud as our computer speakers will blare and we twirl around the room, me singing at the top and her squealing.

The other day, I noticed that despite the utter delight on her face, her little hand was still tightly clutching at the hair on the nape of my neck.



What a perfect human experience: Squealing with abandon, but not forgetting to hold on tight.