Still Alive ... and With Bonus Drafts!

Oh my goodness. Part of the problem of having me write a blog is that I get distracted and two-months-plus goes by without me saying a word. I would like to make myself feel better, however, by pointing out that during that two months, I managed the following:

* Had an end-of-the-year week-long camping trip to the Oregon Coast (with side jaunt to Seattle).
* Had a REALLY end-of-the-year weekend-long trip to the St. Helens area for my usual Huckleberry Pick family reunion.
* Had a No-Really-Seriously-end-of-the-year weekend camping trip to the Tucannon River with our friends Sarah and Brian.
* Pulled off the following amounts of canning/preserving:
    13 1/2 pints of raspberry jam
    4 pints of blackberry jelly (jelly is the smallest-ever yield stuff -- I started with MOUNDS of berries)
    10 qts. dill pickles
    11 qts. diced tomatoes
    10 pts. tomato sauce
    1 1/2 gallons soup base (tomatoes, corn, onions, herbs cooked down to be added to in the winter)
    Approx. 20 qts. spaghetti sauce

Now I only have to can the 40 lbs of peaches and 40 lbs of pears that are sitting there looking at me! Oh, and we'll need about 50 qts. of applesauce and to do apple cider later in October. Well. I feel better now! I do find preserving your own stuff to be the most satisfying thing on earth, with a couple exceptions. One of them is making your own bread. Another is realizing your meal is almost entirely either grown or preserved by you. And the third is working with these guys:

Yours truly with Belgian geldings Tom and Jerry.

Scott with the same gentlemen. Boy, I didn't realize Scott was THAT MUCH taller than me!

My favorite horse to work with: Belgian/Percheron cross Nugget. I want you to know I got that harness up on his back all by myself. I think it weighs about 50 lbs altogether, and I can't even see the top of Nugget's back unless I'm on tiptoe. Hoo-rah!

Yes indeed, Scott took me to a two-day working class on using draft horses for farming. I've always dreamed of working a farm that way. We took the class from Walt Bernard at he and his wife Kris's farm in central southern Oregon. He is the BEST teacher -- extremely thorough, very safety conscious, and even willing to let amateurs work with his horses, who are unbelievably well-trained. My favorite work with the horses is hand-plowing:

Walt helping me plow a (semi--allow for operator error) straight furrow.

You can't imagine how incredibly satisfying it is to watch the dirt fold over on itself like soft butter. We've lost something seriously important by distancing ourselves from small-scale agriculture. It feeds your soul. The above pictures shows Walt driving Nugget. If I was a skilled teamster, I could wrap the lines around my shoulder and drive the horse that way while I plowed. I *ahem* need a bit more practice for that. Here's Scott driving and me walking the plow (Walt stands behind to make sure no one large and equine decides his novice operators are unbearably irritating and decides to run off. If you're hanging on to 1500 lbs of sold muscle and it takes off, you are going with it. Period.):

Halfway through my furrow, Walt slapped me on the shoulder with the end of the line and said, "Well, sh**! You're a better plower than your husband!" Was he lying? Very probably. But my personal self-esteem ended up seriously bettered! One of the other things that amazed me was that I could do it at all. I had this secret fear that I couldn't keep up with it -- that I wouldn't be strong enough, or that I just wasn't in good enough shape. But I hung in there every day, and never quit early. It IS a lot of work. You know why those farmers of yore were never overweight -- you're outside, all day, never off your feet but at lunch. And I'll also hereby mention that, if I were teamstering full time, I would quit being vegetarian. You can't get through that kind of work without meat protein. I know some of you will disagree, but there it is. I've done it and I can tell you. You gotta have some serious stamina!

Anyway, there is the run-down on the last little bit. Kudos to my ever-patient and kind husband, who dislikes horses and signed up for this class anyway because he knew I would like it. (He, of course, was almost immediately excellent at the job -- darn him anyway!) My goal is for us to be out on our farming property, with a pair of drafts (and using them!) within two years. I'll need more practice, and we will definitely take some more workshops (on plowing, etc.) from Walt. But I think we're ready to hit this small farming/better self-sufficiency pretty hard.

Off to can!

love, kristin

Like Ten Minutes ... Under Water

When Scott was in med school, one of the attending docs in the ER used to say, when asked how long he had been married, "It feels like it's only been ten minutes ... under water!" It was really rather funny, and he and his wife were actually very devoted.

So this June was 16 years that Scott and I have been married. It's somewhat shocking to think that in 6 more years, I will have been married longer than single. When I consider the fact that I was 21 when we got married, it also makes me feel slightly weak in the knees. I considered myself quite grown-up and sophisticated at that age, but when I look at 21-year-olds now, I think they are practically children, and certainly not qualified to do anything binding like getting married!

As you see, I've grown my hair out. Hah!

In typical fancy fashion, we spent our anniversary hiking and then driving to Tri-Cities so we could eat at an Olive Garden! My marriage advice is always (I only give it when I'm asked for it, of course -- ahem) that you have to marry someone you really LIKE, not just someone you love. The two things are not the same, and I think there are lots of people who love their spouse, but don't like them. The point is, 98% of the time you spend together is ordinary time, not sweepingly romantic. You're running errands, working in the yard, parenting, cleaning up, watching TV. If you don't just like BEING with each other, you'll be miserable. The nurse practitioner who works for Scott told him that she likes to be with us because we are so comfortable together. I'm still happy to just drive around with him and run errands, because he makes me laugh hysterically, and he's fun to talk to. I also think he's rather good looking, but that's gravy.

See? Good looking, no?

Rose Marie loaned me a book (I think I still have it, actually ...) called And Ladies of the Club. She told me I'd enjoy it, and it was a good thing to have handy to read while I was laying about recovering from my c-section with Mara. She was right -- I devoured it. One of the main characters is a doctor's wife, and one of the most memorable parts of the book for me was where the author mentioned that this woman never slept soundly when her husband was out on a call at night -- she was always half-listening for him to come home. It's the same thing for me, and I always look for his truck to turn into the driveway at night after work; I have never once (no matter what fight we might have had) been sorry to see it. It's a good sign.

kristin

Snorting With Laughter

Okay friends -- I am supposed to be taking a shower and getting ready to take my progeny to swimming lessons (at which they are, of course, shining stars), but I just have to share this link to one of my favorite blogs to read, Inner Pickle. The author and her husband live on a farm in Australia. The photography is wonderful, and the writing ... oh, Fiona is so amazingly hilarious and honest and down-to-earth, and if this post doesn't make you laugh so hard you snort, you haven't read it properly! Enjoy.

http://www.innerpickle.com.au/2012/06/what-luxury.html#comments

Humph.

This Binki-Sucking Babe is almost 12. Hoo, boy. And yes, that's me -- from an odd angle and with surprisingly long hair.

I think that I've now pondered and sort of sifted through the following topic now -- but it's taken a few days! And, as it fits (you'll see), I'm including some really, really old pictures of the children so we can all take a small Trip Down Memory Lane.

Recently, Scott and I (am I the only one who wants to scream when women refer to their husbands as "hubby"? Anyone less fitting for that sort of name than Scott, I cannot imagine -- unless it's Sven Wilson, for those of you who know who that is ... somehow, it's just a really cringe-inducing term. Does it really take too long to write "husband"? Don't get me started on things like "hubster"!) were at a friend's wedding. During the reception we sat at a table with a couple of Scott's nurses and office staff, and one medical assistant who no longer works at his office -- she began staying home with her two children (about 3, and 2 1/2 months) a few months ago. One of the other gals asked her how she was liking being home full time. "Well..." she said, "it's okay. But I'm really bored out of my skull! I mean, it just doesn't take any brains to be a stay-at-home mother! I've had a job since I was 16, and I used my brain every day, and now I just don't have to! It doesn't take any brain-work at all to stay home with two kids."

Those of you who know my usual inability to keep my mouth shut, and also my feelings about at-home motherhood will now be waiting with some anxiety to learn what smart-ass thing I said back, which made the whole table uncomfortable. Amazingly, I managed to stay quiet. The first thing that popped into my head was, "Boy, are your kids going to turn out badly." Scott later told me that he was looking for the blood running out the side of my lip from my lacerated, bitten tongue. HOWEVER, I contained myself, feeling that I should keep things light and friendly at a happy occasion. But it bothered me -- it's not the first time I've heard that sentiment. And I don't understand it AT ALL.

One of the only pictures I have of Steven at this age -- he was SO colicky and unhappy that I was almost always trying to comfort him, and hardly ever thought to take any pictures! Isn't that awful??

I can tell you at first-hand that sometimes being at home with my kids full time felt exhausting, lonely, frustrating, demanding, isolating, and like way more work than I could possibly do. But never did I EVER feel that I wasn't using my brain. If it doesn't use your brain to figure out how to keep three young children happy, learning and occupied (while not setting them in front of TV or computer for hours a day), and then work in meal preparation (making sure it's healthy), laundry, housekeeping, any outside activities, time for your own self on occasion, and still being at least somewhat responsive when your spouse arrives home, I don't know what it does take. Any meal-preparing, recipe-reading mother (or father, or aunt, or grandparent ...) who has ever answered yes to "can I help?" from a 4 and 7 year old, and then managed not to burn down the house and still serve a meal which does not involve accidentally-added eggshells in the casserole has had an extremely active session of brain-work.

And then there's the question of the best way to relate to and discipline each child. If you sent Emily to her room when she was little, it was the most fearful punishment ever imposed. Sending Steven to his room was something of a treat -- telling him he had to miss his afternoon computer time, however, was slightly worse than bamboo under the fingernails. I am trying to resist adding here ... okay, can't resist it after all ... that the above-mentioned mother, who by her own report never uses her brain, told her three-year-old (as we were setting up for the wedding) to go to the car with his father. His response? "No." "That's not the word I want to hear," was all she said. A few minutes later, she asked again. "No." Finally, his father just picked him up and took him. I can only think of one time (each) that each of my children has said "No" to me -- the resulting firestorm, I hope, was enough to clearly express my dislike of that response (and, I'm sorry, but no 3-year-old actually grasps the irony of "That's not the word I want to hear." He just thinks, "Oh, sorry about that. It's the word I'm using, so why do you care?").

If you hold the baby right (it's Mara), you can get their hands in the right position, and they hold their OWN binki in .... (yes, I know "baby" is singular, and "their" is plural. I'm making an informed use decision).

I'm not really trying to rant here, just trying to understand what seems to be so inherently stupid in so many people's minds about women who are home with their kids. Why do we feel like we have to respond, "Oh, I'm just home with the kids," when others ask what we do? (I *still* do that! I hate it when that comes out of my mouth!) I know that many of the maternal Victorian platitudes were a disguised way of expressing men's desire to keep women out of the public sphere, but there's a certain wisdom in that old one, "The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world." Why is it more intellectually stimulating to run, say, an office than run a household? Having been a secretary for an academic office at Loma Linda, I submit that the facts show that handling people of any age is similar! Surely, to be in charge of training characters and raising healthy bodies from the home must be significant. I can tell you it beats the holy hell out of any other job I've ever done in terms of sheer difficulty and scope, and the amount of self-discipline involved.

Thank you to those of you who are still reading after this lengthy exposition. I feel better now, and hope you do, too. This afternoon, I'm making raspberry jam with the kids. I'll be trying to quadruple the recipe on the pectin box, and considering my math skills and the amount of chaos likely involved (despite the advanced age of some of the participants), I can tell you I sure as heck will be using my brain.

Neurologically yours,
kristin

Look! I AM Ma Ingalls! ... Oops, No, Sorry, False Alarm

So yesterday I made 8 quarts of strawberry jam, with 10 more to do today (I forgot -- seriously forgot -- to make it last summer and the family reaction this last winter was memorably horrified). I just use the regular-old freezer jam recipe on the pectin box. It's so good ... I can still remember H.M.S. Richards, Jr., sitting at our dining room table when I was about 11, talking to my dad after Sabbath dinner was over, and eating my mom's strawberry jam out of the crystal bowl with his spoon! As a total aside, I consider it one of the luckiest things in my life that I got to sit at Sabbath dinner listening to people like Alden Thompson, Clifford Goldstein, Leonard Bailey, and the aforementioned Elder Richards debate theological and philosophical things with my dad. If there's a better education for a broadened religious mind, I'm not sure what it is (short of somehow getting C.S. Lewis et al in there, too).

ANYWAY, my point (and I do have one) is that I gotta tell you I felt quite smug about my homemaking talents, and I do really feel so satisfied when I make good stuff myself. Here is my lovely assistant, the talented and 6-year-old-with-a-wiggly-tooth Mara, looking absorbed and serious as she fills a freezer carton:

And, after that moment of smugness, let us now observe what the rest of my country home kitchen looks like -- surely, it must be sparkling clean and homey!

Sigh. Now, if I were Scott's grandmother (my personal standard for homemaking excellence -- that woman was a MARVEL, and lovely to boot), or even my own mother (pretty darn excellent herself!), I would not have left that kitchen until it was cleaned up and counters cleared. Wanna know what I did? I laid on the couch and watched: #1) Euro Soccer Cup -- Poland vs. Russia (Up Germany! -- sorry, getting carried away); and #2) NBA Finals Game #1 -- OKC vs. Heat (in any rational society, the Heat -- with the possible exception of Shane Battier, who I love -- would drop off into the deep blue sea). In between game moments, Scott and I made snarky comments about silly commercials.

I get SO close ... and then just fall off the bandwagon. On the other hand, I rather enjoyed my evening. Like I told Scott, if it had been up to me to settle the West and tame the wilderness, we'd all still be packed into the East Coast. I must go now {ahem} the Kitchen Fairy appears to have missed this house.

love, kristin

p.s., Benita, it's more fun to make the jam with you! I thought of you!

Dang It, I *Hate* Being Responsible!

Some character trait (read: "flaw") of mine means that I get really, deeply cross when anyone suggests that I "have"/"should"/"ought to" do something. Those words just make my back teeth tingle. I immediately do not WANT to do whatever it is I have/should/ought to do.

I feel especially this way about health things. Do NOT mention to me the things I have/should/ought to be doing regarding nutrition, weight, etc., etc. I don't want to cast any stones here, but I understand some people inherit this trait from their fathers. MY father, certainly, has none of this tendency. I'm just saying.

The upshot of this in my life is that I am *ahem* rather more on the plump side than I was, say, 20 years ago (I know, I KNOW -- none of you noticed, huh??). I also am not exactly an exercising maven (those of you who know me well know my running mantra: "There is no need to run unless you are being actively chased by a large, carnivorous mammal"). My doctor, bless her dear heart, never actually harasses me about things, although I think she might be muttering "BMI" as she leaves the room. However, she finally put her foot down and said that I had to start taking blood pressure medication. WHAT?!? Apparently, my blood pressure, while not sky-high or anything, is getting up there.

Gray clouds of gloom. I finally decided perhaps I might have to get more serious, and get over my character flaw. I refuse to take blood pressure medication; that's just silly. On the other hand, I also refuse to have a stroke, as that's even sillier. Logic (not that I'm proficient at that) seems to indicate that my other option is to improve my health -- particularly weight and cardiovascular strength. Ick. Just typing that is causing that tooth-tingling problem.

My brother-in-law, Sven-the-Personal-Trainer (I know, I know -- yes, that's his real name and profession), recommended this YouTube video to me for inspiration: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUaInS6HIGo

It actually IS rather inspiring, as well as interesting -- particularly on the side of "small changes make for big results." I also found a nice place to walk -- my doctor lives on a one-mile residential loop, so after dropping off my progeny at school, I go park my van at the end of her driveway, greet her gigantic German Shepherd (who makes me nervous, although Tika is always very well-mannered), and hike around a couple of times.

There. I'm being responsible. I hope you're happy.

And now, an honest moment in my day. Observe the following: Mara dancing to the Eurythmics (in a special dancing costume picked by herself; cowboy hat NOT optional), various animals cluttering up the rug, and folded laundry decorating the back of the couch. I'd like to say this is an anomalous picture, but that would just be a lie. It's pretty much like this here everyday!

Love, kristin

Catching Up

As usual, I'm behind. On the blog and on everything else, if that makes anyone feel better!

Last week, Scott, myself, and our friend (and vet!) Andrea Adams drove down to Rogue River (in southern Oregon, near Medford) for a cheesemaking class. I will now quote an email I wrote to a friend about driving from here to there and back again (dear J.R.R.!):

"Can I just say that I am not the spring chicken I once was? Before I was, say, 25 Scott and I drove, at various times, from WW to San Francisco (straight thru) and then four days later San Francisco to Seattle (straight thru), eastern Montana to WW (straight thru), and Loma Linda to WW (straight thru). (That sentence had enough commas to qualify for the Charles Dickens Comma Award.) It seemed an absolute breeze. Sure, one got tired of sitting on one's bum, and sleepy. But now, driving (riding) 8-9 hours from Medford to WW makes me long for a traveling epidural just so I can't feel my lower back anymore! Danged aging process."

And boy was I right when I wrote that! Who knew that one actually would get older and one's body wouldn't just spring happily along like when it was 23?

Anyway, philosophical musings aside, we spent three days at Pholia Farms, which is a goat dairy and creamery, and produces award-winning raw-goat's-milk cheeses. I learned SO much. Gianaclis Caldwell, the owner/cheesemaker, is really serious about proving that small and raw-milk cheesemakers can produce high-quality and safe cheeses. So we learned all about testing the pH of milk and cheese (unusually high acid contents can indicate high bacterial content), doing bacteriological tests, etc., besides actually making cheese. In a perfect world, you see, we would have a nice little side-business as artisanal cheesemakers. What I did learn at this class, though, was that it's pretty impossible to have a "side" cheesemaking business without have a random couple of highly-trained and at-least-fulltime workers to run it. This will be a bit of a facer, as the British say. I'm trying to imagine where I'm going to put this in my current schedule. Perhaps between teaching and the laundry? Skip making any meals? Cancel piano lessons and basketball camp and require the children to stay home and clean out the barn? (On the other hand, I guess that's what Almazo Wilder did for his childhood, and he seems to have turned out well ...)

Anyway. At least I know how to make cheese now! I'm fairly sure no one will ever end up mistaking me for Almanzo Wilder's mother ... or, for that matter, Ma Ingalls. And now I will leave you with some very. cute. goats. (and yes, the baby goats do have little todder-sized slide/climb units to play on -- they work great!):