A Mighty Wind

A few days ago, we were sitting outside having dinner. It was a perfect, quickly cooling late summer evening but I was a little scrambled.

Our outside table sits just under a tree I hardly ever notice, actually.

It has been a ridiculously busy few weeks with guests and festivals and harvesting and work. All while trying to maintain a semi-regular home existence for us and the bean.

Sunday, we'd just gotten back from a wonderful, but busy, weekend at the cabin and I was focused on getting the baby fed, bathed and in bed while I unpacked, cleaned and readied for another farm trip (We're now selling bulk heritage and ancient grains at the Tuesday market in Whitefish, about 3 1/2 hours across the mountains.)

During dinner Willa was distracted, looking up and squealing, instead of eating.

"Focus Willa," I said, a little flustered. "Here, have some more rice."

 A gust of wind kicked up and her attention turned skyward again.

Ugh. Kid. Just eat.

Then, I looked up. The silver leaves quaking in the wind framed by a blue, blue sky. Another gust blew through, ruffling Willa's hair and replacing the hot summer air around us with an almost-fall coolness.

Aha.

Willa and I met gazes, chins still pointed to the tree and she looked at me as if to say, "See Mama!? That's what I was trying to show you."

Oh, how beautiful the world can be if you let yourself see it through younger eyes.

Like the wonder you can find in a cold mountain stream. Or heck, how just a rock from that stream can be the most fun thing you've ever held in your hand.

Or, the simple pleasure of a discovering a sprinkler on a hot summer day.

And then hanging out in the spray for a few minutes to cool off.

Red Ants Pants, Festivals, Camping and a Tomato! A Red, Ripe Tomato!

This last weekend at the Red Ants Pants Festival in White Sulphur Springs, selling Jacob's whole wheat artisan Farmer Bread, signing people up for our Grain and Seed CSA and showing Willa how to camp.

Auntie Hannah came with a big-ass tent for all us of to sleep in (or, more accurately, toss and turn in while a campground full of excited festival goers partied outside.) She also brought important things like cookies and chips and *gasp* Bud Light with Clamato, which is apparently called a "Chelada?" (How have I missed out on that deliciousness for so long? I might just abandon the microbrews for that stuff. Don't tell anyone.) Auntie Hannah can pack a picnic, let me tell you.

Sarah Calhoun, who owns Red Ants Pants (great, great, workwear for women who need some heavy duty pants like me, or my pal Claire Boyles -- see her post about pants-wearing here), is nothing short of incredible for putting this whole thing on. And to make it even better, the profits are going to benefit the Red Ants Pants Foundation, which is in its infancy, but will support family farms and ranches and women in business. I feel lucky to call Sarah a friend and even luckier to have the opportunity to watch her in action. Talk about inspiration.

We got pretty dusty and dirty and didn't shower for three days, but what's new for the Cowgills, really? The only big change was all the yummy things on the festival grounds for Willa to put in her mouth. Things like rocks and bugs and cow patties. Yum.

This weekend (hopefully) will mark our second camping outing. We're really hoping to head up to "the cabin." "The Cabin" is one of the reasons I agreed to move back to Central Montana -- to be closer to it. It's my sacred place, a sanctuary, the keeper of all my best childhood memories. You can read up about what happened a few years ago when we almost lost it to a wildfire here.

Our first year of farming, we got up there once. Last year, not at all. So, now that things seem to have calmed a little on the farm (knocking on wood), we're going to try to cram a few weekends in before the snow flies.

Also in farm news this week, a red ripe tomato.

And, my column on working my off-farm job is up on the Daily Yonder this week. I'm back in the once-a-month column rotation again.

Getting Out of the Weeds

It's so hard this time of year to not get lost in the weeds -- figuratively and literally.

Like, as in, these weeds:

We promised ourselves we'd get to the onions earlier this year, that we would not let them get out of hand like they did last year.

See, the trick is to get in early, when the weeds are small. But, you can't go too early or you won't know what's weed and what's onion. So, there's a window. And, although we did better than last year, we still sort of missed it.

So, every Wednesday, I've been working a few hours on the two onion beds we have left to tackle. It can feels like hours in there, in the jungle of lambsquarter and thistle (youch!), mallow and mustard, before you find a bulb worth saving. But just when you think your hunting is for naught, lo, a mighty onion bursting from the mat of noxiousness.

As my husband often says: "We don't give plants enough credit sometimes."

In the middle of winter, I want nothing more than these days. Long, hot, breezy summer days, filled with the bounty of a July garden.

But it seems that by the time those days are here, we're so caught up in the weeding and planting and harvesting and living -- that we forget to look up remember why we longed for a July day in the first place.

If your head is stuck in the weeds, you might just miss out on the wonder that is a garden in the summer.

You can miss out on things like winter squash, sending out flowers as if to trumpet:  Bum, bum, bum, bum! Attention! Attention! You Will Have Squash Ravioli This Fall! I Say! You Will!
 

Or, if you're not careful, you might miss out on seeing the beginnings of a pantry filled with zucchini, of all shapes and sizes.

(Here is my favorite, the Magda. Or, as my grandmother calls it, Cousa. It's a Lebanese variety and my Grandma says until we started growing it, she hadn't eaten it since she was a kid.)

Or, you might not see just how beautiful strong perennial roots can be.

Or, my Goodness, you might not see just how far you've come in a few short months.

 All photos by Courtney except the cool overall garden shot. That's Jacob's. Thanks honey!

Letters To A(nother) Young Farmer

Note: In response to the last post about losing it, a friend sent the following letter, which was meant to be a comment. I loved it so much, I asked her if I could use it as a guest post. But before we get to it, first a few words about the author, Claire Boyles: Claire and her family farm in Colorado. They are also young farmers, striking out to raise food for their communities and so a while back, Jacob stumbled on her excellent blog and said something to the effect of "You have to read this. I think you'd love her." He was right. I've never met Claire, but I feel like we've been friends since we were wee. (Don't you love the Interwebs?) Anyway, Claire is an amazing writer, one heck of a farmer and my goodness, is the woman inspiring. If you don't already follow her blog (Little Farm, Growing). Do so. Right now. And now, to the letter -- which should exemplify the whole inspired thing.

The Boyles on their family farm.

Dear Courtney,

Your last post made me cry, mostly because I recognize that feeling so well. Before farming and kids, I think I was a very reasonable, even-tempered person. And now I feel that I am constantly struggling to maintain control of my emotions. . .joy, rage, sadness, love, frustration. I am always a split second away from one or the other. I often feel all of them at once, which makes me believe I might be going crazy. It’s normal, this ice cream bowl thing. It’s nothing. It doesn’t make you a bad person or a bad mother, and I say that because I know how easily those thoughts can invade a mommy’s mind.

Farming is such a pressure cooker, and add mothering to that (for you, especially, since having tiny babies is also a pressure cooker). . .let’s just say if you ever find a mother that hasn't had an ice cream bowl incident, let me know. I'm skeptical that she exists. If this imaginary woman said she’d never had this moment, I might think she was lying. I might even call her a liar right to her face though I am not normally a confrontational person.

Rage is a scary part of parenting, but it’s just one part, and it doesn’t go away. For example, Sunday night we were still up at midnight and working after a long hot day in the field. We had a flat tire, and when Matt went to fix it we discovered that our children had cut the hose on the air compressor with floral shears. He had to drive to town and fix the tire. I had to drag waterers out to the field broiler pens for the third time that day since it's so stinking hot. Did I mention it was midnight? And I had to get up at 4 to harvest so I would be finished in time to take the kids to the dentist? I had a crazy tantrum out there under the full moon. . .pounding the dirt with one of the hoes, flooded with anger and frustration, swearing like a sailor into the uncaring night. And then it passed, and I came inside to two sleeping sweeties and remembered that life is blessed, even when it’s so emotional. It's just hard to control these emotions with any sort of grace when you’re dehydrated and exhausted from a day of physical labor.

My dad had a stroke when I was 13, and it left him unable to speak much or get around very well. He’s still around, about to turn 60, but in those early days the doctors didn’t give us much hope that he’d make it to the end of the year. My mom was taking night classes to finish her degree, and she had the three of us in middle school, and she was only 33! We lived in the mountains, and she told me that she would get so worked up sometimes that she had to go run up and down a steep trail near our house, screaming and crying, over and over again until she nearly fell over. I have no idea how she did it, and honestly, I don’t think she knows either. I don’t think any of us will ever know how we manage it all, but in the end, we just do. We learned how from our own mothers, and I think that’s why we grow to appreciate them so much. Motherhood is a tremendous feat of strength in itself. Add other circumstances, like struggling to start a small-scale farm or having a disabled husband, and it can be absolutely overwhelming.

If managing it means throwing an ice cream bowl or shaking a hoe and cursing the moon or sprinting up and down a mountain, well, that’s just what it means.

You’re not alone. In any of it. I think it’s very easy to feel that way about raising kids, and it’s a feeling that can lead you to dark places in your mommy mind. I found that connecting to the mommy network was almost always very reassuring to me. . .still is. It’s tough to believe, and I found these reassurances very unhelpful in the thick of my kids’ night waking (so sorry), but they do actually start sleeping (and so will you) eventually. How you manage your job and the farm work in the meantime is a horrible chore, and I’m sorry. . .why does it all have to be so hard, anyway?

If you find a way to get back your reasonable, even-tempered self, let me know, will you? I’ve been trying to figure it out for years now. . .

Love and good cheer,

Claire

Losing it, Regaining it, and Losing it Again

 Last week, I threw a bowl of ice cream.

Actually, I dropped it. But, with a lot of force.

Still, it resulted in a broken bowl and a splatter of chocolate Ben and Jerry's all over the kitchen floor.

It had been a long day, for everybody and when, after several failed attempts, the bean finally fell asleep around 9:30, I snuck out of the room. I was dirty and stressed and totally empty.

I tiptoed into the kitchen and scooped two scoops. I pulled out the chocolate sauce and felt my shoulders start to relax a little. My mind went straight to the anticipation of collapsing on the couch, bowl in hand, and letting my weary body sink into the cushions as I shoveled the sweet and creamy into my mouth.

Just as I'd put the spoon into the bowl, Willa wailed. Not just a whimper, but a full-on wail.

I remember  thinking, "I should just throw this bowl." I wanted time to stop for a second, just a second, and somehow, I thought the shatter and the force of a breaking bowl might achieve that.

And so I threw it. And it did.

I calmly called for Jacob's help and he helped me with the mess, both the screaming baby mess and the mess of ice cream and ceramic shards on the floor.

You would think it was a loss of control. But, I think maybe it was an attempt to regain some control.

We've been under so much pressure lately. Part-time job, full-time Mom, part-time farmer and full-time cook and keeper of the house, the finances, the schedule, the diaper bag (do we have sunscreen? blanket? hat? bug spray? phone? wallet? ... you know the drill. Getting out of the house takes a spreadsheet and an engineering degree these days.)

By the end of the day, we're all so exhausted that when sleep is a fight, it's just enough to get us all right there, at the edge of cool and crazy.

The ice cream that night took me straight to crazy.

I waited a few days before I told Jacob that I did not drop the bowl, as he assumed. And, I didn't tell anyone else either for awhile. I was slightly, and maybe still am, terrified of what that act says about me. Am I out of control? Am I violent? Do I have some sort of anger management issue I need to work out?

Finally, I confessed to a few Mama pals.

They all had the same reaction: Oh honey, I've been there.

One told me she allows herself her own toddler tantrums. She waits until her little one is asleep, then goes outside and screams and jumps up and down and flings her arms -- the whole bit.

She also says her real urge is to run, as fast as she can, down the lane and just keep running.

Another tells her kids that Mama is being bad and needs a timeout. Then she locks herself in the bathroom.

Another tells me she has moments like these every day, sometimes several times a day.

Often, all you hear when your babies are little is how to not let a moments go by, that this will be the happiest time of your life, that you'll turn around and they'll be grown -- so savor every moment.

What you don't often hear from mothers is the pressure, the chaos, the power battles, the anger, the loss of control. And almost never do you hear about complete and utter emptiness you can feel after a full day of giving to your children.

It's as if talking about it might mean you're taking your child for granted. That maybe, if the word anger comes out of your mouth, it might make people think you don't love your child.

Or, maybe we're afraid someone might hear all this and find us unfit. Or worse yet, maybe we're afraid if we say it out loud, we'll find ourselves to be unfit.

But parenting is all about losing it, and regaining it, and losing it again.

Where there is love this deep and when there this much giving of oneself, there is bound to be an unraveling of the self. In fact, the unraveling may be the only way to give the way a parent gives.

Never have my emotions been as deep and thick as they have been since I became a mother. And if that means a broken dish here and there, so be it.

In other news, after the ice cream incident, it was even more apparent that our trip to Minnesota for a Farmer's Union leadership retreat came just in time. The day we left, we were both freaking out. What terrible timing. And really, would this be worth it? Why are we leaving the farm in the middle of July?

But, oh, how we needed a break. We got lake time, met some new friends, gained some really valuable insight and generally, were able to just check out of the farm for a two days.

When the retreat organizer asked us all to write down what we wanted out of the weekend, I replied with:

Space.

Space from the to-do lists and the deliveries, from the turkeys and the dishes, from the house and the seedlings and the work and the stress.

Space to talk, to actually relax a little, to play.

I'm hopeful it recharged us enough to last the rest of the season.

Note: As you can tell from Jacob's farmer tan (see photos above), we are not water people. I've always secretly wished I was a water person. People always seem to be having so much FUN in and around water.

But, we're dirt and mountain people and thus, a little wary of the water.

Which is why I was totally freaked out about taking Willa on a boat. At the last minute, I told Jacob we were going to skip the boat ride. Earlier in the day, someone mentioned that in some places, they make you put your kid in a car seat in the case of a boat wreck.

That got me thinking about boat wrecks and babies and ... by the afternoon, we were not going on a boat. Out of the question.

But at the dock, Jacob very nicely told me that while he understood my fears, also, they were a little crazy. He put Willa in the life jacket and told me what a great time she would have experiencing the wind and the water and the sun. And so we stepped onto the boat, me holding Willa so tightly she was in more danger of suffocation than drowning.

Then the minute we got out on the lake, both Mama and Baby relaxed a little. I released my grip (but not too much) and let both of us feel the breeze. We both needed it.

It's hard to know when your mothering instinct is right and when you're just being absurd.

Good thing I have a husband to help me tell the difference.


          *--*--*
 
Out of all of this, two questions for you:

What do you do when you lose it? (Please tell me and make me feel better?)
When do you know you're being fearful just to worry and when your worry is actually an instinct you should listen to?

Bites, Backs and Parties

It's 2:00 in the morning and thanks to an overwhelming urge to saw off my left foot (mosquito bites right on the ball of the ankle), I'm up and have time for a quick recap of all things farmy and family.

In the last two weeks, that rainy, cool weather I was complaining about fled, replaced by the parched, sometimes oppressive heat so characteristic of a summer on the plains. This means our days are once again dictated by the thermometer.

Harvesting and transplanting can only happen in the early cool hours of the day. And, we can't very well leave our sleeping baby in the oven that is our camper trailer in the height of the heat either. So, we try to get as much done between the hours of 7 and 11 as humanly possible.

Humanly possible. Now that's something I've been pondering lately.

Hunched over baby seedlings, sore hamstrings and aching forearms, I sometimes wonder: Just how long will our  bodies be able to handle this work?

It's one of my biggest fears farming. I (sometimes) enjoy the work. Jacob (most times) enjoys the work. But that's now, when our bodies are relatively strong and our stamina is robust.

What happens when the backs we built the business on give out?


Speaking of able bodies, Sunday, we had to drop off our friend Shannon, a remarkable young woman and the daughter of some good friends of ours.

Shannon is interested in studying agriculture when she graduates from high school and lucky her, she knows some farmers who just happen to have a little bit of "training" to offer. So Shannon spent a week with us, getting sunburned (Shannon! Don't forget your hat!) and mosquito bit, as she weeded onions, transplanted squash, harvested for CSA delivery, did dishes (God bless her) and played with the bean.

Before she left, several of my friends asked if Shannon could: a) be cloned and/or b) come back and stay with them next time.

I've known Shannon since she was a 12-year-old girl with a pink room. Now she's a woman. She's always been wise beyond her years, but even more so now. This girl has it together.

Not many 17-year-olds would hang with a (boring, workaholic) married couple in the middle of nowhere, tending to a baby and an overgrown little piece of ground. And even fewer would have fun doing it. But Shannon is a gem, I tell you. If something needs done, she's on it. If someone needs help, she's on it. Even if someone needs a twirl, she's on it.

If ever, ever, you doubt leaving this world in the hands of this upcoming generation, don't fret. There are Shannons out there.

Now, to the partying: The last photo was taken on one of those magical summer nights on the prairie at a picture-perfect picnic.

Every year, the parents of some of our friends throw a big 4th of July party at their farm way out of town. I love the drive out there (it looks a bit more like home than where we spend most of our time these days) and the food is always amazing and the company inviting.

This year, the previously mentioned friends brought out the big guns and amped up for a little rock show on a flatbed trailer.

I'm continually amazed at the talent, creativity and gusto we've found in our small town. (One of these days, I need to tell you all about the friends we've found here. Rural brain drain? Hah! Not a hint of that around these parts.) This is a prime example right here.

The day after this party, we hopped in the car for yet another party -- the wedding of some dear farmer friends of ours across the mountains.

I love a summer wedding and even more, I love a farm, summer wedding. They make me want to listen to old-timey country and eat strawberry jam and run sack races.

This one was filled with amazing food, great music and some of my favorite people, as well as some of Willa's favorite people.

Weddings also present a rare opportunity for all of us to be showered and dressed up in town clothes at the same time, so, in hoping to capture the moment on camera, I even went so far as to match our wedding outfits. But alas. Our baby was most of the time in the arms of said favorite people and Jacob and I were too busy frolicking with friends, so nary a family photo.

This is the only one that even came close and let's just say: Not exactly mantle material.

Explosions

The last week has been a veritable whirlwind of harvesting, weeding, planting, working, delivering, hosting, traveling and celebrating.

I'll catch you all up on the goings on later this week, but for now, introducing...

America, the Baby

A 5th Generation Farmer, In the Making

This kid looks cuter in overalls and a sun hat than any farmer I know.

I mean, if for nothing else, the farming thing is worth it just to pose my kid in clothes like this against a background like this. Right?

I don't expect her to farm when she grows up. But, until then, she has no choice. In fact, she's already picking grass.

(Kid, I will tell you this now: This is an exercise in futility. Grass grows where you don't want it to grow and dies where you do want it to grow. This is the life you will know -- you might as well get used to it.)

From Jr. High Crush to Father of My Daughter

It's impossible to explain the swell of emotion that comes over a mother when she sees her partner and her child together.

In watching Jacob fall in love with Willa, I've fallen in love with him, all over again.

From the first moment I saw her in his arms, through a haze of pain and exhaustion, I knew, this father was going to be nothing short of incredible.

He comes by it honestly. Fathers teach fathers and my husband has an amazing teacher.

Willa's entrance into the world was tough on me -- an emergency c-section after more than 24 hours of labor.

After a transfer from the birth center I was planning on birthing in, they wheeled me into an operating room where I watched nurses buzz around me. I felt pulling and pressure and asked Jacob to hold my hand. Then, they brought her out. Things suddenly got busier. Jacob was gone and I heard her cry. It was like a hazy video on fast forward, blue and green clad people walking too fast across a linoleum floor as a newborn baby wailed for the first time. I was terrified.

But then I heard his voice -- Jacob's voice -- telling me that she was a girl, that she was beautiful, that her fingernails were long and that he thought we had a Willa on our hands.

And at once, I knew she was OK, she was perfect, and most importantly, that she was in the only other hands I would want her to be in at that moment -- his.

He knew to bring her to me to nurse immediately, even though we had never talked about what do in this situation. He entered the recovery room, stepping in gingerly, slowly, with a quiet, overwhelming joy, pride and respect in his eyes.

I see the same look all the time now and every time I see it, I know that in him, Willa will always have someone to protect her, to challenge her, to coddle her, to make her giggle, to make her trust and to help her know unconditional love.

I've watched this man grow from my junior high crush to the love of my life to the father of my children. It's been an incredible thing to witness.  

He is an incredible thing to witness.

Happy Father's day. I love you more than I will ever be able to explain.

Tabouleh, Tabbuli, Tabbouli, Perfect When the Weather's Cool-y

Last night, Willa needed some snuggles in the middle of my pizza making, so Jacob stepped in to finish what I had started in the food processor.

"Can you take out the dough and knead it a little and then put it in a bowl with some olive oil -- a glass bowl?" I asked.

"How long do I knead it?" he asked.

"Oh, a few seconds."

"Give me literal," he said. "I need literal."

Exasperated. "OK, 10-15 times. Knead it 10 or 15 times."

Later, I looked it up (in Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything. Best pizza crust. Ever.) and what did the recipe say?  

A few seconds.

You can bet I rubbed that in.

Emmer. Jacob Cowgill photo.

How ridiculous it seems sometimes, taking two wholly different people, with drastically differing personalities, genders, upbringings, philosophies and cultures -- and asking them live in one house, raise children and generally move through life together -- and peacefully no less.

It's a particularly ludicrous notion in the kitchen.

I think it's safe to say it drives Jacob mad when I give him direction in the kitchen because no doubt, the direction is vague. Especially here, Jacob is a literalist. He follows directions, he measures, he counts, he watches. He's a researcher, a scientist, a man of precision.

I, on the other hand, am a little of this, a little of that, a try-it-then-taste-it kind of gal.

It's why Jacob is the baker and I am the cook. It's why he's known for his bread and I for my soups.

It's why I love to make soups and stews, gumbo, stir fries, dressings and salads -- start with a solid palette, then load up on whatever you have on hand, whatever strikes you, whatever the season is bringing into your house.

This method has its perks. Sometimes, it can mean total culinary genius. Other times though, it can mean a total flop. And since you don't really know what you quite did to create either, it's impossible to repeat the good stuff or avoid remaking the bad stuff.

I know I've made something really good if Jacob asks "Did you write it down?" and when I say "No," a wave of disappointment comes over him. He knows he'll never taste this goodness again.

Tabbuli -- a classic Middle Eastern wheat salad -- is one one of the dishes that lends itself to the genius/flop method and because of that, it's one of my favorites.

As mentioned in my last post, the garden is sort of light right now on production, the main reason being this:

But, the parsley and mint is doing quite well thank you very much (oh, and as you can see, so are the weeds), and that means it's Tabbuli season.

(Have I mentioned how amazing perennials can seem in a field of annual vegetables? When you clear away the snow in early April and find something green and sprouting, a person is liable to start to believe in miracles.)

Growing up, Tabbuli (or Tabouleh, or Tabbouli, depending on who your grandmother is) was on the table at just about every family gathering. You wouldn't know it by my transparent skin but my family is Lebanese (The rest of my family has gorgeous olive skin. The Irish genes were too strong in me, I guess.)

Each of my Aunties had a Lebanese dish they made for family gatherings, a dish that was theirs. Nancy's was Malfouf (stuffed cabbage leaves), Lucille's was Kibbeh and my grandma's is Tabbuli.

Virginia, a spicy dish herself, makes the best (and she pronounces it TAHbooli) and even now, I can see her long thin hands, always with the firey red fingernails, squeezing the burghul (cracked wheat) tight to make sure the salad doesn't get watery.

Lately though, I've been making Tabbuli with Emmer instead of the burghul (also called bulgar). Emmer is one of the ancient wheats we grow and offer as part of our Grain and Seed CSA (shameless plug: we're taking signups now and deliver across the state) and is by far, my favorite. I might be because I first discovered it (Jacob knew of it long before) in Italy on our honeymoon and one particular variety Jacob has worked on he calls "Honeymoon Emmer," or maybe it's because it was the first wheat we grew, the grain that seduced me back into grain farming to begin with. In any case, it's a long, hearty, fat grain and when boiled gets soft and chewy and makes for a great textured Tabbuli.

The best recipe I've found for the salad is from Madelain Farah's Lebanese Cuisine (the family cookbook), although as mentioned above, the recipe is really more of a guide than anything else. Tabbuli is like a great soup or a great dressing or a great wine. It can change so dramatically depending on the conditions: how much mint you want, how much parsley you have, if you add garlic, when you add garlic, what kind of olive oil you have, how fresh the lemons are, how long you cook the emmer, how tightly you squeeze the burghul ... or how the wind is blowing that particular day.

But, here's the basic Tabbuli recipe anyway:

Madelain calls this “Arabic Salad Supreme” and spells it Tabbuli.

¾ c burghul (crushed wheat #2)
2 large bunches parsley
1 cup chopped fresh mint
½ bunch green onions, finely chopped
1/8 t. cinnamon
2-3 t. salt
pepper to taste
1 small onion, finely chopped
1-2 large tomatoes, chopped
½ – 2/3 cup lemon juice (fresh preferably)
½ cup olive oil

Rinse the burghul, drain. Then squeeze the excess water out. Place the burghul in a large mixing bowl. Place the parsley, mint and green onions in layers on top of the burghul in the order given. Add the seasonings to the onions and mix thoroughly. Put onions on half of the top layer and tomatoes on the other half. Add lemon juice and toss the salad with a spoon and fork. Just before serving, add the oil and toss thoroughly. Serve with grape leaves or lettuce on the side. (Or Prairie Heritage Farm spinach!)

Note: This is typically eaten by hand. Use the grape leaves or lettuce to pick up the tabbuli in bite-sized serving.

If using Emmer or another whole grain, simmer for 45 minutes or so, drain and substitute in for the burghul. (A general rule for boiling is two cups of water per one cup of grain. Add more water if necessary while simmering.)

The Stress of Community Supported Agriculture

This week marks our first week of deliveries for our vegetable community supported agriculture (CSA) program and only fitting, we made all four drops in sopping, pouring, downright miserable rain.

We decided not to do Farmer's Market this year, which is both sad and totally liberating. We're sad to miss out on the festive feel of early Saturday mornings, the smell of kettle corn and grilling kebabs mingling with coffee and bedding plants. We'll certainly miss the camaraderie we felt with other vendors and the feeling of community standing there under a canopy watching the town walk up to our little stand for vegetables, gardening advice or just a little chit chat. For these reasons, before Saturday came -- which would have been the first market -- I was feeling a little glum about not being there.

But when we woke up that morning at 6:30 instead of 3:30, I knew we'd made the right decision.

The market is an hour's drive and it ends up being a 10-12 hour day for us. Also, we've expanded our CSA -- doubled membership actually -- and more and more, we think doing exclusively CSA sales is  maybe the way we'd like to run the farm. We still sell wholesale to markets, restaurants and grocers (You can get our produce at Mountain Front Market in Choteau and at Gary and Leo's IGA in Conrad), but CSA is where it's at for us for direct sales. (We offer CSAs for vegetables, grains, turkeys and bread now.)

The CSA model is just a great way of doing business. It gives us much-needed capital to get going in the spring, it connects customers with the source of their food, it keeps local economies strong and most of all, it creates an important bond between eater and farmer -- a bond that benefits the health and wellbeing of the food, the community, the farmer and the eater.

But, this time of year, it's also really stressful for the farmer. When shareholders sign up, they know they are getting into something bigger than just buying vegetables. They know -- and if they don't, we tell them -- that they are signing up for both the bounty and risk of farming.

But that doesn't make it any less nerve wracking for us when the chard just isn't flourishing and the lettuce isn't growing the way we'd like it to. Or, when the weather isn't quite cooperating or worse yet, when a river threatens its banks or a hail storm moves through.

Our shareholders put their trust in us and although they and we know we can't control the weather or, well, much of anything on the farm, we do work hard to mitigate whatever we can whenever we can to make our customers happy that they did put their trust in us.

So, it's all a dance -- like always -- of trying your best to manage the chaos that is farming.

And as we watch streams swell across the state and friends' fields flood, or hear about another hail storm ripping through, we feel simultaneously sick and relieved, knowing that in farming, no matter how much you study or experiment or plan or care, sometimes, it all comes down to luck.

Dogs, Babies and Dogs That Were Once Babies

Once upon a time, Lydia the Dog was not a Dog at all. She was a baby. A hairy baby, but a baby nontheless. She cuddled in our bed. She rode in the front seat. She went everywhere we went, hairballs and all.

Then she was usurped -- by a real baby.

When Willa arrived, Lydia wasn't sure what to do. She carefully made wide berths around Willa and I.  She learned to keep her paws down. She got put on a leash. She started riding in the back of the car. Then to the back of the pickup. She was banished -- to a dog bed.

I felt bad for her, until, that is, she found a new best friend.

Here's what happens when Willa spots her doggie.

The approach begins.

She makes contact.

The licking begins.

Girl + Dog = True Love

In other news, there is officially enough hair for some sweet bed head.

See?