This Stuff Writes Itself

I had the good fortune (?) to attend the semi-annual Southwest Iowa Gun Show last weekend with Hubby. After paying our $5 entry fee and having a chance to buy a raffle ticket for an NRA membership (which we passed on), we entered the rooms of a subculture of this fair country that is full of material for this blogger.

On the right as we walked in was the kitchen with wonderful homemade smells emanating from it. Posted under the menu of hot dogs, roast beef, and various side dishes, is a small sign which says, "Practice safe eating, always use condiments". This sets the tone for the afternoon.

Entering one of the side rooms of guns and war memorabilia, we pass by a seller who says, "Free to come in, a dollar to get out". Just above said seller's head is a sign that reads, "Lots of bargains, a whole bunch of BS". No kidding.

I learned the vocabulary of the day -- "Hi-Point Guns", "Black Powder Rifles", "P-90s" (just like in the Sci-Fi movies). I saw the uniform of the day -- camo-print shirts, baseball caps, denim overalls. I also felt a bit out of place since I was one of only two women following her man around. I was taking notes and knew I'd get a lot of material. The other was about 18 and obviously trying to impress her beau by taking an interest in his interests. Ah, young love!

Vendors not only display their wares, but also their advertisements, politics, and predilections.

"Dog carrier and gun storage for sale". Yes, that's one unit that serves both purposes. Makes sense, I suppose.

"Davey Crickett -- My First Rifle (22 gauge)" Get those youngins off on the right foot!

Then there was this, written on a vendor's t-shirt:

Christian

American

Heterosexual

Pro-Gun

Conservative

Any Questions?

Yeah, just one...

Why is it, Sir, that you seem to tip the scales at about 350 pounds? And why am I not surprised that you do?

I know, that was two questions.

There is also some humor.

From a Montana rancher:

"Prayer is the best way to meet the Lord.

Trespassing is faster."

At the NRA table:

"I like cats.

They taste just like chicken."

A vendor selling bumper stickers:

"Warning -- Driver only carries $20 worth of ammunition."

And a little advice for the two of us ladies that happened to pass through:

"Men are like floor tiles...

if you lay them right the first time,

you can walk all over them forever."

Honesty Pays

Gather all the kids around as you read this note from Aunt Lizzie about how it pays to be honest.

Literally.

Here's what happened.

Hubby and I recently attended the Organic Farming Conference in LaCrosse, Wisconsin. What was not mentioned in the previous post was that Yours Truly attended as a mentor. With that moniker came some responsibilities and some perks. One of the perks was that the conference people were covering the hotel charges for two of the three nights we were there. Nice!

Well, when we checked out, we were surprised to find that all three nights were paid for. I asked the person at the desk about it and she looked it up and said that there was no note that we were to pay for one of the nights.

So, what would you do? Let it go? Let the conference pay for all three nights? Eh?

Well, ever since that day, many years ago, when I was probably about 10 years old and my mother refrained from giving the checkout girl at the grocery store an expired coupon and I asked her why she bothered to do that and she responded that her integrity was worth more than 25 cents, I have tended toward the honest side.

I sent an email to the conference people explaining the situation and offering to reimburse them for the night that I was supposed to pay for anyway.

Have you figured out what's coming?

Angie, the organizer of the accommodations at the conference, going the extra mile in figuring out what happened, figured out that the hotel had actually charged MY credit card for ALL THREE NIGHTS at the hotel. (I had given them a credit card for "incidentals" but hadn't incurred any. They figured out how to use it anyway.)

I would not have noticed that the charge was on my bill. I had assumed that the conference had paid for all three nights. When I did look up my account, I found that, in fact, the entire bill was on my card. Angie got with the hotel people and I am being reimbursed for the two nights that the conference was planning to pay for all along.

In this incident, honesty saved me over $200!

Let that be a lesson to all you youngins.

The Farmers in the Dell

The Organic Farming Conference is held annually in La Crosse, Wisconsin, during the last week of February. A hopeful sign of the times is that attendance has grown from 90 attendees 21 years ago to a resounding 2,600 this year!

One of the fixtures of the conference is the appearance and irreverent folk songs of Sinister Dane and the Kickapoo Disco Cosmonauts. (Don't look for them online. They don't have time to put up a website. They're busy farming and playing music.) They write their own lyrics to popular songs. You can probably guess the tune to "Help me, Round-up, Help, help me Round-up". Or, how about the tribute to Patsy Cline, "Cra-zy, for feeding sheep's brains to cattle...".

All of the food at the conference was organic, of course. All that could be recycled, was. Each attendee was given a glass mug to use for the duration of the conference. (No paper or styrofoam cups.) It took some years, but there were even compost buckets for things like banana peels and apple cores. Bravo! There was more tea than coffee doled out. The conference organizers didn't even bother with vegetarians. They jumped straight to vegans and gluten-free folks.

There were farmers of all kinds -- Amish, Mennonite, Sikhs, certified organic farmers, Birkenstock-wearing students, crusty old guys in seed company caps, university researchers, even a smattering of conventional farmers (they'll be converted soon). An encouraging note was that there were many young, beginning farmers.

I've worn many hats in my life (teacher, traveler, designer, artist, spy) but I must say that that of a farmer has been the most interesting by far. If you are anything like I was before venturing into this vocation, you may have assumed that farmers were dull, unintelligent hicks. That is what society has shown us about them. And the image is further degraded by conglomerates like Monsanto which have turned farmers into little more than hired hands, caught in the genetically-engineered seed/Round-up pesticide cycle.

But the average family farmer is nothing like that.

There is an authenticity to farmers. There is a common bond among us, borne of the feeling of comrades-in-arms as we all work with, or fight with, Mother Nature. There is a true grounding, literally and figuratively, to those who work on the land. There is a leanness to life. There is an innate intelligence in figuring out any number of measurements. There is a keen sense of community, helping each other, joining forces. There is immeasurable respect among the ranks of farmers.

I am honored to be one of them.

Live and Learn

Lest anyone is actually following this blog and my tips on starting plants from seed, take heed!

After two weeks of fighting mold on my seed trays, I threw them all out and had to start over. It seems they didn't get enough air circulation. So, while I had the proper potting soil, the proper lighting (on timers, no less, to have more light per day than the sun can provide right now) the proper amount of water, the proper temperature (between 70 and 80 degrees), I failed to provide the proper air circulation!

Ugh!

So, it seems that one must open up those clear, plastic lids at least once a day for about an hour to allow for air circulation and, thus, inhibit the ability of that pesky mold to grow.

But it's still early enough to get new seeds going!

Ah, the cycle of life and death, the pas de deux with Mother Nature, the rhythm of the seasons, the thrill of the harvest, all come together to create the secret of happiness!

Happy gardening!

Happy New Year!

On February 10th, I spent the afternoon with my daughter's third-grade class. We wrote Valentine's poetry and the children played games and, even though I made my annual contribution of an attractive tray of fruit (which is always devoured), society still demands an obscene amount of candy. So, the children overdose on sugar. I try.

But what lends February 10th another degree of importance, at least in our neck of the woods, is that it is eight weeks before the last average frost date and, therefore, the day on which we set up the greenhouse and start our seedlings for the spring planting later on. This year, our first seedlings will be celery, cabbage, bear's garlic, and leeks. In another two weeks, we'll add peppers, tomatoes and eggplant.

(For more detailed information on how to do this yourself, see the original greenhouse blog entry from last year.)

The days are getting noticeably longer. The sun seems to be shining more brightly. The remaining snow may be fighting to hang on, but we all know it's a losing battle.

Here is the first two of what will eventually be eight shelving units taking over our living room and the table of lovingly mixed organic potting soil in the foreground:

A close-up of one of the seed trays with its own grow light:

So, while January 1st may be the official New Year, I would propose that Valentine's Day be the natural New Year. It is when life begins anew. It is when the birds return to the trees in our backyard, singing their morning songs. It is when the crocuses and tulips start thinking about popping up through the blanket of snow. It is when one's spirit is lifted out of its winter slumber to do that farming thing all over again.

Happy New Year!

The Spice of Life

Since getting into cooking again recently, I, of course, had to have some new cookbooks. So, my dear new Sis-in-law, who, like me, has the good fortune to be married to a Russian, recommended the following Russian cookbook:

It is encyclopedic in its coverage of the dishes of all the former Soviet Republics. Its recipes are very true to the authentic ones and we've already enjoyed Chatchipuri (Georgian cheese pie), Chibureki (meat pies) and tonight it's Chicken Tsatsivi (chicken in a walnut and spice sauce).

Which brings me to my spice cupboard. I'm going to do you a favor by NOT showing you the"before" picture. But, since I needed about eight different spices to mix together in my new mortar and pestle (yes, also a recent purchase), I decided it was time to dig deep into the cupboard to 1. find the spices I needed and 2. clean and organize the cupboard a bit.

Well, it was like going on a treasure hunt! There were green peppercorns from Guadeloupe, ground saffron from Moscow, real saffron from Spain (thanks, Dad!), various curries and garam masala from India, organic maple butter from Canada, Japanese panko (bread crumbs), and our own dried peppers and herbs from last fall's garden. There were three versions of cilantro and two of celery seed. There was whole mace. There was Kazak soup mix.

Here's the "after" picture:

My most surprising find was the ground mustard. Apparently, I forget that I have it and purchase a new bottle of it whenever I'm making a recipe which calls for it.

No one needs seven bottles of it, I'm sure.

Love and Death

Unlike the protagonist in Jose Saramago's recent novel Death with Interruptions, in which Death decides to take a vacation from Her duties, She is alive and well and making Her rounds in our neck of the woods.

She paid us a visit this morning.

Our beloved Felix, who was on the mend from recent ailments, took a sudden turn for the worse. At 9:30am, I noticed that his breathing was very labored. I called and made an appointment with the vet for 11:15am and, when I went to get him a little before 11am, he was already gone. The vet surmised that he must have aspirated something to have died so suddenly.

Here he is cuddled up on our other cat, Angel, just two days ago.

He sat and slept by Dad all day yesterday. He had been gaining weight. He seemed a little lethargic, but otherwise alright. His personal history had been much more dramatic than anything that was going on here.

After getting bitten by another cat, being duct-taped as his triage, chased off to live in the cold wilderness for six months, reappearing as skin and bones, suffering a respiratory infection, among who knows what else, it seems that he burned through his nine lives in short order. (He hadn't reached his second birthday.) At least he got to finish his days surrounded by love and warmth.

And while he may be "only a cat", and while "there will be other cats" to love, each being is unique. Felix was a lover, not a fighter. He got very attached to us, and we to him. He even maintained a peaceful coexistence with, almost an affection for, our spayed female, Angel (who is pacing around the house now wondering where he went).

As the breath of life left his fur and flesh and bones in an immobile, cool stillness, I realize that we must content ourselves with that small vestige of his spirit that remains -- memory.

Requiescat in pace, Felix.