Tis the Season!

It's hard to believe that Christmas is just 10 short days away.  I confess.  I don't care.
I care - but not for the right reasons.  This job I have sucks any remnant of joy I might manage to muster for the season.  I care because that means I am 10 days closer to having some sort of normalacy return to my world.

Other than Sundays and holidays, days off don't exist. If I am not "doing" a route, I am assisting in delivering the hundreds and hundreds of parcels that need to be delivered.  Today it was parcel delivery.  Got to work at 7:30.  Got done at 6:30.  I made repeated trips with my gas-sucking SUV filled to the brim,   Thank goodness I get a fair and reasonable mileage reimbursement. 

One of my stops today was at a farm I had delivered to before.  There is a beware of dog sign at the driveway.  In my previous experience I had never spied a dog.  Always cautious, just in case, but never a dog to be seen.  Today I was in a hurry.  I didn't give any credit to the clearly bogus dog sign. I pulled into the driveway and turned around so that my car was facing the road and the back of it was facing the house.  I got out of the car and went around to the back hatch and opened it up. A brown rottweiler seemed to come out of nowhere.  Not particularly aggressive but why take chances?  So I backed up slowly toward the drivers door and a black rottweiler magically appeared.  The two had me pinned to the car with no where to run.  I inched back toward the back of the car.  I had so many packages there wasn't really room for me, but that was the least of my problems.  In the most non-threatening manner I could manage I reorganized so I could sit inside the opening.  Then I gently brought my legs inside, forced to place them somewhat up in the air over some parcels that were in the way.  The dogs got so close they took the opportunity to smell my feet and legs.  They drooled.  They didn't bark or growl but they were BIG and showing their proportionately big teeth.  I talked to them.  They didn't seem to care that I was being friendly.  My phone was in the front of the car so calling for help was out of the question.  The dog spray issued to me was also in the front.  After a few minutes the brown dog started to get bored with me and turned away.  Reaching for the door in order to close it was apparently interesting and the dog returned to it's post - keeping me pinned to my spot.  I did not know where the black dog had disappeared to so my imagination convinced me it was waiting just around the corner of the car to rip my throat out.

I was NOT having fun. 

I eventually managed to get the door closed but found I was in quite an awkward position, in a tiny space, surrounded by parcels and my feet in the air. But at least I was safe.  I moved packages around and shifted my weight, eventually getting on my hands and knees.  I crawled through the inside of the SUV to the front but still had to get over the two front seats - with ridiculously high head rests and a ridiculously skinny gap between the drivers seat and passenger seat.  I am very glad it is unlikely I was being filmed.  Nothing about my climb through the car was graceful or dignified.  These people did not get their parcels today and I don't care.

On another seasonal note, Peter roasted a turkey today.  She... I mean IT is very delicious.

Peter has never cooked a turkey before. But that's not what makes this note worthy.  This turkey is a natural, free range bird.  Acquired from the people that had Rosie.  I was told that Rosie has gone to live in Palm Springs and is happily enjoying the weather there.  I was told that this is not Rosie.

I choose to believe.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I hope you have had, or are having a fabulous day.

We are spending the day leisurely hanging out at home, trying to figure out how to get the Seattle Seahawks game on the computer - since we don't have cable TV.  I have been working an insane number of hours - Christmas season is upon us and things are crazy at the USPS.  No time off for little old me so no time to run to Oregon to see my kids.  We are having salad and whatever we can scrape together for dinner.

We had a much different day planned than this though.  Several months ago we traded a rooster and hen to a fellow (Mark) for the promise of a Thanksgiving turkey.  The intention was that he would raise it, and then "dispatch" it, and have for us a very not-like-a-REAL-turkey bird.  On a whim I named this faceless creature Rosie (short for roasted).

A week ago I contacted him to make arrangements to pick up our processed bird.  Mark had completely forgotten the agreement.  I reminded him and he cheerfully agreed to bring a bird over to us.  Alive.  "Eeek!"  I shrieked.  No.  NO.  Absolutely NO!  He agreed to dispatch her for us and bring us a dead bird.  Still very much a real turkey.  Only dead.

My stomach began to feel queazy.  I didn't sleep well.  Peter agreed to do the cleaning and we discussed methods of removing the bird's feathers.

This did not make me feel better.  And then it turns out, to ensure freshness Mark would bring us a live bird, and kill her here.   This also caused me great stress.

Mark and Rosie were supposed to come over Tuesday night, but got lost on the way here.  He took her back home and released her to the rest of the flock.  He told me a story how easy she is to catch because she really likes grain and comes eagerly to him when he offers it to her.  Awwwww....  I love animals that love food!  He promised to bring her by this morning after enticing her with promised yummy grain.  :(

I have not slept well.  Peter had dreams about turkeys.  I worried and stewed.  Peter confessed he wasn't eager to do this either.  Early this morning I contacted Mark and issued Rosie a pardon.

Maybe someday I can do this.  Maybe.  But probably not likely.

Rosie.  Long live Rosie!!

Outdoor Room

One of my favorite things to do in the summer is to attend the Portland Street of Dreams.  For those of you not in the know, it's 5 or 6 homes in the million dollar plus range that are open to the public.  For a not-nominal fee you can just wander around through them admiring and in theory, coveting, the million dollar lifestyle.

Usually the houses are huge.  Like 6000 square feet huge.  There are mother-in-law apartments, nanny suites, outdoor basketball courts, indoor gyms, theater rooms, outdoor rooms, open floor plans.  Every year there seems to be some new trend.

Despite all these "wonderful" features I have to feel a little sorry for the future owners of these monstrosities.  These people are living in houses and denying themselves the pleasure of living in a home.  They are denying themselves the pleasure of stripping wall paper and wearing barn boots.  I suppose they COULD wear barn boots - but it would be kind of weird.  I can't imagine children or pets running around these homes.  So much stress in keeping things pristine!  "No Johnny, you may not fingerpaint!"  "Honey!  The dog is in the house again and hair is getting on the sofa!"

That is no way to live!

But that is just my humble opinion. Despite my feelings, the outdoor room IS something that calls to me.  Back in Salem I had my pergola.  At the little house on the ditch I have the promise of a future pergola.  Of course, that is still some time away.

For the here and now I have a real outdoor room.  It may be temporary but it's just lovely.  Peter and I have pitched a tent under the trees by our pond.  We moved in a bed and ran an extension cord out there so we can have all the luxuries we need:  Electric light, alarm clock, real sheets.  If we stay much longer I think I shall need a few more things like a bedside table, a chair, maybe a rack to hang a few clothes on.

I guess I am living in my own version of a street of dreams house.  How about that?

They fit like a glove!

Last year, as I began experiencing winter weather from an LLV I discovered the need for gloves.  And long underwear.  And thermal socks.  And wooly hats and other warm accouterments.

Tina, a very proper and very English friend of mine convinced me that there was a company in England that was THE place to buy these things.  Apparently, so she tells me, the English have vast experience in cold, damp, bone-chilling weather and these products have been around for decades, in fact, Princess Diana used to wear thermals from this company under her designer day dresses.  If Princess Di wore this stuff, it must be good!

I ordered one set of long underwear and a pair of fingerless gloves at an exorbitant price.  Plus shipping (let's not even talk shipping!)  The long underwear was lacy and thin and stylish but I'm not convinced they are any better than something I might buy locally.  Who really needs lacy long underwear anyway?  Certainly not me!  The gloves were also a surprise.  Their design reminded me of swimming gloves I used when I was training for triathlons - webbed fingers and all.  They didn't look like expensive, Princess Di-worthy outer wear at all.  I'm not really sure what I expected but it sure wasn't this.  I was so disappointed!

See for yourself!

The design was just odd.  I'd never seen such a thing.  The fabric was cotton fleece I think.  Nothing remarkable.  For the price I paid I expected something more.. better.  They seem to work fine and they keep my hands warm enough so I shouldn't complain.  The design seems to be perfectly functional as well. A year later and I'm still surprised by them.

This morning when I was dressing the goats in their new fleece jackets, which they LOVE, I pondered what to do with my leftover fleece.  I looked at my hands (because I was wearing those gloves), and I looked at the goat coats, and I looked at my hands and the light bulb came on.  The design is SO simple there was no reason I couldn't make my own fingerless gloves.

I had one failed prototype but for exactly ZERO dollars and about 1/2 hour time investment I have quite a fine pair of gloves.  I made a pattern for them so now if I need gloves I can make a pair of gloves faster than I can drive to town and buy a pair.  How cool is that??

Take that big snobby English company!  This little farm girl wanna be can keep herself warm!

Betty Botta bought some butter

Betty Botta bought some butter;

"But," said she, "this butter's bitter!

If I put it in my batter

It will make my batter bitter.

But a bit o´ better butter

Will but make my batter better."

Then she bought a bit o´ butter

Better than the bitter butter,

Made her bitter batter better.

So ´twas better Betty Botta

bought a bit o´ better butter.

Every now and then I have to pause and reflect on the position I find myself in and I have to say out loud, "Thank you."  I try not to pause and reflect in public places because most people don't understand why I'm talking to myself and they tend to swing wide around me at the grocery store and paint shop.  They stare at me in my car as I have entire conversations with myself about how grateful I am.  Perhaps though, they might think I'm talking on a bluetooth cell phone and I'm just imagining their reaction.

I have a job that I don't absolutely hate any more.  I work one day a week but have opportunity to work more, but I don't HAVE to work more than I want to.  I get to play with goats and alpacas.  I get to spin, weave and knit, when I want to.  I get to bake and cook as much as I want to, but not more than that.  I get to make soap and butter, beef jerky, jam, jelly, pickles and more.   I get to do all these things because I want to.  I do not have to grow my own food, make my own soap and butter and such just to survive.  Deep inside I'm certain I would not enjoy these things nearly as much if I HAD to do them or starve.

I love to tour historic houses.  For some reason they really spark my imagination.  There is an historic house in Ferndale called Hovander Homestead.   We toured it a few years ago and It was fascinating.  The kitchen was equipped with all sorts of appliances from "the day,"  There was a wood-fired oven with a hot water reservoir attached, an ice box,  and a butter churn.  The butter churn was a mason jar butter churn that totally intrigued me.  For two years I've been keeping my eyes open at second-hand stores and estate sales hoping to find one of these treasures.  I finally spotted one - but they wanted $100.00 for it!  I sure didn't want it THAT  bad.  Then as luck would have it, our local newspaper had a story about making your own butter using a Kitchenaid mixer.  I already have one of those!!

So I bought cream from the local dairy.

It's really good cream.  I mean, the cream started out so thick it needed to be coerced out of the bottle:

Once I got it out of the bottle I mixed it.  A lot.

The directions said to add really cold water and knead the butter under the water.  I immediately thought I had ruined it.  The nearly-solid-almost-butter turned into a gushy soupy mess.  I would have taken a picture but both of my hands were covered with goupy soupy ick and I couldn't pick up the camera.  

Needless to say, I was very disappointed, but kept working with it, refusing to give up.  My perseverance paid off and I eventually ended up with butter.  Real butter!

I gotta come clean.

I'm absolutely loving having goats.  I have, indeed, become that crazy goat lady.  I'm a lost cause. In two short weeks I've taught my goats to come when I call.  They seem to love me back.  Peter says the sound of their bleats changes when they see me.  It's like they start hollering "Mom!!  Hey!! MOM!!!"

Een likes to nibble.  She even likes to nibble toes.  It tickles.  A lot.

Just for fun, we are babysitting a third goat, Een and Twee's sister/cousin.  She needs to be weaned and had no where to go while she gets use to her new diet.  So now we also have Sprout.  Three recently weaned kids means there is lots of milk.   A goat shop needs soap to sell and this gave me the opportunity to try my hand at making it.

I found a recipe for oatmeal and honey goats milk soap.  I've been wanting to make soap since I first dreamed of My Little Goat Shop.  I shopped second hand stores to find a used enamel pot and other equipment, I borrowed a food scale from the freighbor and I gathered the ingredients.

I figure my first batch of hand made soap cost about $50.00.  If I sell each bar for $3.00 I can actually make a profit.  Not a big profit but a profit none-the-less.

Part of soap making requires a lot of stirring.  A friend came over to help stir - with water (just water!) in hand.  It was hot and she had worked all day.  She was such a good sport.

I had built a mold out of wood and lined it with a black garbage bag.  Then I looked at the amount of soap in the pot and the huge size of the mold.  We decided my mold was not going to work - unless we wanted 1/4 inch bars of soap... so we scrambled for a smaller container and lined it with a Dead Frog Brewery bag.

Then we poured the soap into the mold.

By nightfall the soap had gotten quite firm.

Today I cut it into bars and now I have to wait and let it cure for 3 to 6 weeks.  I don't do wait well - but if I don't wait the lye in the soap will eat my face off.  No one wants that.  Ouch.

The daily grind

We should live off the land!  Says I.
I need to go out and slaughter a pig!  Says I.

All this junk that get's put in our food.  It's just crazy.  I don't want to eat chemicals and hormones and alien babies!  I don't think the time will come when I can ever slaughter a pig.  Or a chicken for that matter - but it doesn't mean I don't want to take what steps I can to eat healthier.  We don't eat packaged food around here (except on very rare occasions), we don't have a microwave and we grow much of our own produce.

I decided to start the journey to eventually slaughtering a pig with baby steps by grinding my own ground beef.  Ground beef at the grocery store was $4.99 a pound.  Roast was $5.49 a pound and buy one get one free.  That made quality roast about $2.75 a pound.  Roast was much cheaper than hamburger and I knew additional fat and gunk was not being added.  It still was not grass-fed beef - but I had to start somewhere.

So I set up the grinder:

 I cut a piece off the roast:

I tossed it into the grinder opening and cranked on the handle for about 5 minutes.  The grinder slipped and shifted.  The meat squished and squashed.   Stuff oozed and goozed.

My result:

The process was totally off-putting.  The results were most unappetizing.  Plus the labor-intensiveness of the process did not seem at all a good investment.

I might just turn vegetarian.  Except I like bacon.  And I like ribs.  And I like fried chicken.  Perhaps I need a newer grinder - this one was from the 40's or 50's.  I need something electric and with a tad less personal involvement because this did not work for me.  In fact - I just went to Amazon and ordered an attachment for my KitchenAid.

I should have the attachment in about three days.  I'll report back on how it goes with this tool...Wish me luck.