Can I hold your dirt?

I put an ad on Craigslist.com a while back -- advertising our hay bales for sale. A young, college-age girl called and we made arrangements for her to come over and pick up her bales. Like most customers, a 10 minute chore turned into an hour-long discussion of chickens, "Whereyafrom?" and other farm-related conversation. Turns out, she and some friends have formed (what sounded like) a hippie commune, where everyone gets to live on the acreage for free, so long as they help with the garden and their joint booth at the farmers market.

The area where these folks have their farm is near a sandy creek about 10 miles away from me. When this young girl turned and saw our garden, she freaked out. She kept asking what we amended our soil with. We explained that this was only our first year with the garden, and we didn't do a thing except till it up. She couldn't get over how dark and rich it was...and finally just asked, "Can I go over and touch your dirt? Can I hold it?"

That's the first time I've ever been complimented on my shirt dirt.

She even paid cash for one of our surplus roosters.

I like that girl.

Summer's End

I pulled our jackets from the back corners of the closets today. Our days of swinging barefoot in the summer sun have come to a close.

Thrifty Genes

I failed to inherit the thrifty gene. I don't wash and reuse Ziploc bags like I should, and I've been known to throw out clothing that needed mending simply because I knew I would never get around to doing it. I've always admired my maternal grandparents and their ability willingness to save, create, and reuse.

My mother brags that my grandmother would bring friends to her house in the midst of the depression, and her friends would drool. There was canned chicken, tomatoes, eggs, and preserves aplenty. They rarely went without a good meal.

My grandmother has rescued every fern and dying potted plant placed along the roadside, and within a year has them looking better than a newly purchased plant from the finest nursery. My grandfather disconnected the light in their doorbell to save on energy costs. No lie.

Recently, my grandparents brought my husband a stack of my grandfather's old clothing . Hubby is always ruining shirts on the farm, so it's a nice way to recycle. My grandfather finally retired, so he had a good excuse to downsize his wardrobe. I just had to take a photo of one of the shirts in the bunch.

My grandfather worked as a civil engineer for about 60 years. Like most nerds engineers, he had to have several pens and pencils available at all times. To this day, he carries a few writing instruments in his front pocket for working crossword puzzles. Well, sometimes my grandmother would find an exceptionally nice shirt at a garage sale or Goodwill, but it wouldn't have a pocket for my grandfather's engineering tools.Thus, the tail-pocket was born.

For as long as I can remember, my grandmother has cut off the shirttail and sewn a nice pocket on my grandfather's work shirts. She is so ingenious!

The title of this post reminds me...

    Following the birth of my 3rd child and a subsequent weight gain,  I went to an endocrinologist to check my thyroid levels. When all of my tests returned normal, he told me that I just had DNA that liked to store fat and that it's probably what saved my ancestors from many a long winter. He said I am blessed with "thrifty genes." Doesn't that sound a whole lot better than "You're fat!"

What's on YOUR answering machine?

A friend of mine posted this on facebook yesterday. She is a teacher, and this was an answering machine greeting that she heard when she called one of her students. I think it is hilarious!

...this is the outgoing recording on an answering machine I heard today: "I'm a cotton-picking, cornbread-eating hillbilly, the government's broke, what's in your wallet? I'm out feeding the chickens, answer to the beep." 

 

Time for some couture

I received the sweetest comment on my last post from a new reader. I visited her blog and realized she has a love for design. Her beautiful photographs made me realize that someone new to my blog would wonder "Where is the couture?" Well, I aimed to post items only relevant to farm life on here because I wanted to record all of the ways that the farm has changed who we were into who we are now. I still love design, even though it's become less of a passion as other stuff has become priority!


Anyway, so here's one example of how I got my blog name. Some couture to add to the country...

This room started off with 8.5' ceilings, dark moulding, and nasty sheetrock. It has since gotten new windows, so I need to take some new photos. It's hard to believe that we gutted that room, vaulted the ceiling, refinished the floors, hung sheetrock, and put a young toddler in that room over 2 years ago.

Posting these photos was therapeutic. I needed to show off something couture:



to make up for feeling oh so country:

We've had a week of rain, and I counted 20 pairs of muddy shoes by the back doors last night. Hubby and I returned from an evening out and couldn't help but laugh and take this photo with my phone. I couldn't even fit them all into one photo! The kids would have NEVER gotten away with this at our old house!

Frozen Corn on the Cob

While eating supper tonight, I was reminded to blog about the ears of corn we ate. This past summer, after picking, husking, blanching, cutting, sauteing, and stirring corn for hours, I was tired of "putting up" and searched online for alternatives. I read somewhere that you can freeze fresh ears without blanching them, so long as they are frozen within an hour of picking.
Simply take the husks and silks off, wrap the cobs tightly in aluminum foil, and place in a Zip-Loc freezer bag. Freeze immediately. Obviously, you can't do this with all 300 ft. of corn, but it's nice to save some with the cob on.
The corn was delicious!

Stir Crazy

I'm going stir crazy and no spoons are involved.

The weather is beginning to cool off, so it's incredibly tempting to be outdoors right now. The fall garden isn't finished, the roosters haven't been slaughtered, the fence needs staining and mending, and I have a million projects I want to begin in the yard.

The baby is 5 months old now, so it's really difficult for me to get things accomplished outside. I've tried strapping him in a stroller, but he'll get fussy or I'll have to stop what I'm doing, de-glove, and nurse. There's nothing like being soaked with sweat and then nursing a baby to make you BOTH want to take a bath. Then, by the time I finish nursing, I've cooled off and it's difficult to get going again!



I've tried to put him on a blanket in the grass, but he's crawling now. The last time I attempted this, he ended up choking on grass and was bitten by an ant.

I usually spend his nap times catching up on inside housework. Every now and then, I run outside to water the plants or feed the chickens, but getting involved in an "outdoor project" during nap time is out of the question. They don't make baby monitors with enough range, and most of the projects require the help of my husband (who is at work.) Perhaps I should reverse that to "most of the projects require me helping my husband."

My husband suggested that I pump and hire a babysitter for the weekend.

#1: The last time I tried pumping (2004) it threw off my milk supply for a week. I don't think a garden is worth suffering any amount of engorgement.

#2: I don't even own a working bottle.

#3: Even if I had someone watching the baby (with bags of breastmilk,) I'd still have to stop and pump every 3-4 hours. Anyone who has smelled wet chicken feathers will understand why I don't think I could stop culling chickens to pump. No amount of Germ-X could make that a safe choice.

#4: Mercy on the poor soul who would have to rock my ninny-baby to sleep without a big boob in his mouth.

I keep telling myself to just accept that I must hibernate inside until next spring, when the baby will be walking and (hopefully) able to toddle in the grass while I work. We are considering that this may be our last child, so I am also trying to be content in holding him all day and savoring every minute of babyhood.