It Only Takes a Minute

I get bored easily and when I get bored, I like to change stuff. My husband loves this. During Christmas vacation, I have done a lot of little tweaks around the house, in addition to my regular and new routines. The days are all basically the same as when I am at work (the beauty of working from home), but there is a little more promise when you don't technically have to be working.

Take today. I woke up and did my regular daily chores (feed and water chickens, get eggs, bring in firewood) and checked all of my media distractions (Facebook, email, Twitter, Pinterest...) and then was feeling a little flat. After two cups of coffee, I wasn't ready for an activity (cooking or reading, usually, and Downton Abbey if I have all my homework done) but I didn't want to exercise just yet (got a new elliptical for Christmas!), so I moseyed around the house, looking for something to change.

Then I saw it:

A cupboard door that wouldn't close started the whole morning

As Andy has settled in and started finding all of the fun little quirks that I have gotten used to after living in our house for almost eight years, he has come to call it the "Tim Burton House" because it's crooked, lopsided, quirky, and the construction and other related considerations are downright weird. (Well, the new part is odd and seems to have been built with the plans held upside down, but the old part, c.1886, makes sense...mostly.) I've always had a limited budget when it comes to renovations and repairs, so I get my reno-demo kicks from easy stuff like a coat of paint, a furniture reconfiguration, and other cheap and cheerful ways to make the place feel different. After all, I am in the house nearly all day, every day. A gal needs some change now and again!

But yes, when my eyes locked on the Tim Burton cupboard door earlier this morning, I immediately zoomed in to figure out why on earth it was ajar. Had the mouse that lives in the wall left the door open when he was trolling for a snack? Turns out the clasping mechanism was shot and bent loose from years and years of opening and closing. Sure, I could have gotten a pliers and just squeezed it back together, but there's no fun in that (plus it's a change you can't see and I was jonesing for some eye candy). I had read an article on open shelving about 12 minutes prior and decided that it'd only take a minute to make a nice change--and free up some counter space for my new Kitchen Aid stand mixer (another blessing of the season).

That's all it took for me to get to work. With each IM to Andy at work asking for various tools, drill bits, and other implements of mass boredom destruction, I knew he was getting nervous; I didn't want to tell him what I was up to until I knew it was finished without a problem (we learn from our mistakes). Off came the cupboard doors, a hole was drilled through the shelf so the microwave cord could access the plug on the wall below, and I moved this and that... and here's our open pantry area:

A downright Zen spot to make dinner

I have to figure that this will keep me from buying embarrassing food because it's all in plain sight, but I also like how I have a really great workstation in that corner. Everything is open and accessible. Neat.

And it only took a minute. 

Scrambled!

It has been a wet and cold week here on Hell Mountain. But let's not waste another minute with such weather-based Vermont pleasantries.

First things first: we had our first and second eggs! I found #1 this morning when I went out to release the flock for their day of foraging and otherwise extreme chickening in the woods behind the peeperie. But in a hugely disappointing, anticlimactic moment, it must be reported that the egg was in the water dish, cracked and ruined. As I dumped the old water out, the yolky vessel landed with a mushy thunk on the ground, its remaining innards mixing with the rain and slipping into oblivion. A photo-op seemed too tragic, especially when Don Chicken, our Rhode Island Roo', promptly and happily ate the abandoned, yet tender shell (this is an odd yet completely normal behavior for chickens; we still compost our carton-based shells though... it seems a little odd to feed them to the birds). Later on in the afternoon as I was putting them back in the peeperie so I could head to work, I noticed that one of our Jersey Giants was perched in a nesting box (good sign!) clucking happily (good sign!). She hopped out and I saw shell!... Well, cracked shell with the yolk already half-eaten (Don was shortly on the scene to take care of the rest). The consolation is certainly that the gals are new at the whole laying thing and, with bodies so big and shells so thin, it's no wonder there are whoopsies happening. But here's hoping they calibrate their internal GPS, point their vents in the right place, and stop stepping all over their precious cargo so that I can get some quiche up in here.

Next up: Don't tell anyone, but it was so blasted chilly and damp this weekend that we cranked up the wood stove on Sunday. My No-Fire-Before-Thanksgiving rule might be a wash, but the coziness was certainly worth it (Andy and I were both in a fire coma about an hour after dinner). But it's upon us, winter that is, and the trees are signing about it just as shrilly as the cast iron pot on the woodstove. All of the rain and wind and chill that has come to roost over the area has been really confusing to us all. Considering that two weeks ago, it was in the high 70s (and even the low 80s) and now my weather.com widget says 51, it's no wonder that half the foliage is green, half is red and orange, and the other half is dead (yeah I said it: three halves). October has been true to its reputation for sure. I was just hoping for a not-so-cold open--literally.

But it's here, October, which means that it's time for a new Change One Thing. I've decided to curb nibbling while I cook.

NB: This is a technique you should really try (the changing one thing... thing). I have found it incredibly effective for steering the little things down a different path without much thought. Plus, statistically speaking, it only takes roughly 90 days for a change to become just another part of your life and starting with tiny stuff is a matter of good sense. One change a month minimum, knocking a couple down at once is always nice.

Okay, back to no nibbling... leading invariably to cooking, which requires some tasting along the way. Stopping it will be hard and involve a lot of trust in my own abilities, but I've decided to look at it through my escapist lenses. Now once I'm done cooking, I package it up, stow it in the fridge and at dinner, it's as if the help was here while I was in my office and left a tasty surprise. It's a spin, sure, but I'm looking forward to actually being surprised by and even a little curious as to how a meal comes out even though (spoiler alert) I typically don't disappoint.

Sunday I made this and you should too (Open that link in a new tab so you can finish my ramblings and get the recipe. It's for a light mac and cheese--light because most of the cheese sauce is actually creamy butternut squash! Said cheese sauce alone is something to crow about and I even used a dab of it to blush a ragout I, er the help, made this morning and will serve later in the week: quinoa and red-sauce-braised-kale stuffed into halves of roasted acorn squash. The ragout base is a roasted red pepper tomato sauce that I made last week. It's sensationally easy, a total riff (use what you have on hand), and comes together in about 90 seconds' worth of food processing. You can't beat the taste, quality, or price. I'm telling you, if you're still buying jarred tomato sauce, especially the luxe brands, you're wasting some serious coin. Make it yourself. It's easier than slipping in the shower, I swear. If I could write a recipe to share with you, I would.

Last up is my treat to myself, no special occasion or reason needed. After much wait from the day I pre-ordered it a few weeks back, The Night Strangers by Chris Bohjalian has finally been released and downloaded to my Kindle. I can't wait to read this book! October is the only month when I indulge in scary movies or books. There is something about the cold, damp air and early darkness that makes me crave a good scare and by all accounts, this book won't disappoint.

Unlike the chickens. Kidding, kidding!

That's life on the mountain --
~Kate

Fall falls on us

The Back 9 on Hell Mountain starts to turn

We have been having some glorious weather these past few days. It has almost been, dare I say it, too hot for this time of year! But summer is officially over and, after a great one, I am, like most Vermonters, ready to get out the flannel sheets and start wearing jeans again. Fall has always been my favorite season, even though it means that in a few weeks, September's less-friendly antecedent, October, will bring more grey, more rain, and the chillier temperatures that make me question my resolve to not use the woodstove until Thanksgiving.

Perhaps due to the impending nip in the air, autumn has always sparked the do-er in me--after all, you have to keep moving to stay warm! It's like my New Year; I feel ready to make changes and get things done. I can't seem to sit still... and that's even more so than usual! It's so nice to be able to bustle around again, without any heat and humidity making me feel icky and sluggish. My sense of a to-do list is more tangible when school/work starts up again, even though I have more time for everything in June, July, and August.

Free-form whole wheat boules, dense and chewy!

One of autumn's best gifts is being able to spend entire days cooking without breaking a sweat or feeling obligated to be outside "doing something." My crockpot had been unused on the shelf for so long that I had to wash the dust off before I used it last week to make Andy a big pot of beef chili (which I had to do entirely without tasting it, as this is my first autumn as a vegetarian). He said it was yummy, so I guess you can call me the Mother of Intuitive Chili. Our CSA from Lewis Creek Farm down in Starksboro-proper gave us oodles of cauliflower, carrots, and kale this week. I made a delicious fake-out of cheesy mashed potatoes with the cauliflower and toasted the kale into salty, lemony, crunchy "chips" that still need some tweaking, but could turn out to be a decent vehicle for my hummus addiction at some point. Tomato sauce is another perennial favorite that I played around with this past week. You almost can't mess it up and, no matter what direction you go in, it's always better than what you get at the store--especially when it's chock-full of fresh herbs from the garden (parsley and oregano, in this batch's case). With my new stove, I have been fearless. Baking bread without using my bread machine is a joy. The rustic forms are so much fun to watch through the glass oven door. I love playing in the kitchen! It feels therapeutic, productive, and creative; it's always a good use of my time.

The woodlot is full of tasty, creepy crawlies

But that's not what I did yesterday. Nope, none of it. Sitting outside in the hot sun, I was so incredibly thankful to be still on our little swath of forest. The chickens pottered around the woodlot looking for shade, grubs, and a spot to take a dirt bath, and the dogs conked out on either side of my big, green Adirondack chair (brought out of pre-Irene storage). I had my Kindle with me, but The Sit was far too enjoyable on its own. I couldn't be bothered to read or, more realistically, to try to beat it at Scrabble. After a summer of sweaty weekends on the go, spending time almost everywhere else besides home, to be able to let things move around me and not be a part of the motion was heavenly. I could have stayed there forever, my revived inner do-er was at rest.

When I woke up this morning, even though it was Monday, I had such a wonderful feeling of peace and accomplishment after a weekend spent enjoying the world around me. That's life on Hell Mountain!

That's it for now!
~Kate

We prep for Irene

It's hard to imagine that today--a gorgeous day on Hell Mountain with the sun shining, a breeze gently blowing, and toasty summertime temperatures--is preceding the touch down of Hurricane Irene in New England. Reports are saying that, at this rate, when Irene hits Vermont, she'll still be a cat-1 storm. Sure, not a big deal but considering the fact that she'll have come all the way from the southern Caribbean, up the coast, and this far inland, I'm more than a little concerned about the wallop she could potentially pack.

In addition to the impending doom that this lovely day is trying hard to hide (but slightly failing at, I'm a worrier), summer up here is already so criminally short and it feels like it's being cut even shorter now. Taking down garden ornaments, stowing the Adirondack chairs from around the fire pit, finding places for my plants to hang out inside, securing storm windows... Is it October already?

Surprisingly enough, we don't have a generator (yet) up here. In the seven-and-a-half years that I've been here, I bet we've lost power fewer than 10 times and it's typically in the winter. Despite the age of our home and the repairs that we do need to get done (we all have 'em!), we're set up okay for power outages. We swore off the furnace last year, so heat comes from the wood stove. Our cook stove uses propane and our water comes from a gravity-fed spring. Andy's going to check and clear the culverts tonight when he gets home so that the driveway doesn't flood or washout. I'll dig out the land line phone, like I always do in bad weather, and we'll probably end up wiling away the power outage with a good book and some cold beers.

Likewise, I got out into the coop today to make sure that the chickens had plenty of food and water. I'm not sure whether or not the fence to the peeperie (my affectionately mock-French nickname for our chicken run) will hold up, but we'll just have to wait and see. My sense is that the girls, the roos, and the duck will hunker down just like us, though I hope they don't camp out for too long on the porch that leads to the shed where the coop is. That's their rainy day hang out space and it's covered in poop!

What the storm ultimately does for me is call to mind what's in store for us this winter and all of the preparing that has to start while the sun is still beating down on us. Firewood is at the top of the list, of course. We also have to find someone or something (hopefully Andy and a new quad) to plow the driveway. Winters are tough up here and they add a layer of complication that's highly stressful and pretty gosh darn unpredictable.

So, with that said, I guess I'll go huck a few more logs from the pile into the shed... But maybe save a few for one last bonfire, even if it means hauling the Adirondack chairs back out to the pit.

That's it for now!
~Kate

A new year

Today is our first wedding anniversary. I like milestones because they lend themselves easily to reflection. To me, August 21, 2010 was the first of many days to look at where my husband and I are as a couple and also where we have come in our quest toward a real, live homestead.

Last spring and summer were all about the wedding, so we really didn't have too much time to think about the house and yard. However, after securing subscriptions to Grit, Mother Earth News, Natural Home and Garden, The Herb Companion, and Backyard Poultry (I'm a bit of a mag hag), a winter spent reading Storey's guides, Jenna Woginrich's "Chick Days", and "The Backyard Homestead", and a season of The Fabulous Beekman Boys, I feel like a totally different person than I was a year ago. To me, homesteading is a vocation, meaning it calls you. Not everyone hears the cry, either. And some folks think they do, but it's just another voice. I think Andy and I heard it loud and clear!

Two years ago in mid-to-late August, we had been dating for about eight months; he had just moved in to our 1896 farmhouse on 15 acres in the middle of nowhere (aka, "Hell Mountain"). Last year in mid-to-late August, we were getting hitched. This mid-to-late August? A rooster woke us up, I'm in an apron making a bunch of dishes from the latest issue of Vegetarian Times (the vegetarianism happened in March of this year) and Country Living, and he is so tied to the place that he's exploring a home-based business. Who knew?

And yesterday, I snagged a copy of Sue Weaver's "The Backyard Goat" at our (new) local Tractor Supply. So, who knows where we'll be next year! I can't wait to find out.

Montaroos and Capullets

Let's get one thing straight before we go any deeper into our relationship: this ain't a griping blog, it's a reality blog. It's going to sound a whole lot like a griping blog at times, but the point of it is more to capture our first few years trying to get the homesteading thing down than to sob out a "poor me" laundry list. No one reads those. My goal is to give information and, in doing so, try to at least make my reality-list-of-quasi-gripes-observations-and-mere-truths-of-fact as fun to read as I possibly can.

The chickens have hit puberty. Who would have thought this? The oddest part might be that chickuberty occurs at about three months of age. Thank goodness the same cannot be said for humans, though the lack of vocabulary and reliance on diapers might make things a lot easier. A few facts remain the same though, and I can speak to this not only because I went through the scourge of puberty myself, but also because I work with young people who, by fifth or sixth grade, are evidencing some of the very same behaviors as my three-month-old pullets are.

The females are incredibly skittish and won't go anywhere unless all of them go together (school dance bathroom trips, anyone?). This is fine when it's two or three chickens, but when you're talking about 10 confused, angsty chickitas, things can get pretty hairy. The other peculiar, but strangely familiar, observation I have made about my girls is that they could be grazing and foraging, digging in the dirt for worms and grass and all the good stuff the backyard has to offer, but as soon as one of them gets sketchy, she tweaks and they all follow suite. If that isn't 'tween groupthink, I don't know what is. And talk! Do they ever talk. I feel like my dad shouting down through the heat vent during one of my sleepovers. "Keep it down!" I find myself saying when I am trying to get in, get the food and water stocked up, throw down some extra pine shavings, stack wood, or just potter around the coop in general. They are the Pickalittle Talkalittle Girls if I ever saw them and I'm pretty sure they're talking about me, which only makes it worse.

This is all remarkably cute and quaint, sure. But the males are a roobescent breed all their own. As I mentioned, we have two of the fellas. Don (formerly Donna, named after my favorite aunt until we realized differently) is a roo I would equate to the sensitive New Age guy on your college's quad/green/student center lawn. Let's just say, if he could hold an old acoustic guitar and strum Smashing Pumpkins tunes 'neath the shade of an ancient oak, he would. The girls love him. He's big and ruddy and fairly quiet. He likes to snuggle. MAnn (formerly Ann, named after a wonderful friend) is that same college quad's aggro, football-tossing jock who, as he is walking to the gym (legs today, tomorrow chest and back), steps on the book of 13th century Italian poetry that Don had propped up against his fair trade organic hemp backpack. He doesn't say "Sorry bro" or even look back. MAnn is a JErk and an evil one at that. One night, I was trolling a Mag-Lite beam across the shed to get a head count before bed and, when the light hit MAnn, it was as if Alex DeLarge had taken up residency inside my chicken coop.

In my Facebook profile, I call myself a "chicken chaperone" because I really couldn't think of a better name for what I do than that. Today, however, I realized that I can't keep chasing them around and trying to keep MAnn and Don away from the ladies. At least not for a few days. It causes so much stress (for me or them, I can't decide who gets it more) and they just can't stand to be apart. Tonight, I finally had the [French breakfast] radish and let them all bunk up together again, after two nights of keeping them separated. MAnn and Don took a perch on the roofline of the coop and the girls all clamored to get next to each. (The fact that they totally ignored the nesting boxes I installed this afternoon was more than hurtful.) I can't compete with that, so I guess I won't.

That's it for now!
~Kate

Here we go...

Lots of folks are blogging these days. Lots of those folks have chickens, make zucchini pickles, enjoy sharing information and opinions, live somewhere you've never heard of, and can make a fairly ordinary life seem decently entertaining.

Hey, I do all of those things. Does that mean I should blog? I think you'll be the judge of that. But I'd like to give it a try.

Now for the Q&A portion of the inaugural post. It'll help you get to know me and decide if you want to keep reading.

Q: What's the story with "Hell Mountain"? Is that really where you live?
A: No, we live on Norton Mountain in Starksboro, Vermont, a small town somewhere between Burlington and Montpelier. It's quite lovely up here now, in mid-August, but by January you'll know why my husband (who was born in Connecticut but would never admit it) dubbed it Hell Mountain.

Q: You're on the chicken bandwagon (with every other American yuppie). Did you do it for love or money?
A: I did it for eggs, which I don't currently eat both due to textural issues and the fact that I am a cheegan.

Q: Cheegan?
A: A vegan who can't give up eating cheese. It's my dairy crutch and the addiction is shameful. I made the word "cheegan" up. It's apropos, but I also worked in advertising for almost 10 years. You can't shut that stuff off.

Q: Back to the chickens.
A: My dream plan, after a winter's worth of research to find the cold-hardiest, egg-layingest breeds, led me to carefully select a dozen day old chicks and two ducklings from a mail order operation in Middlebury. I am not going to name it because I am not particularly happy with how my order on paper translated to what I actually am raising right now. My intention was two Buff Orpingtons, two Buff Brahmas, two Araucanas, two Jersey Giants, two Black Australorps, two Rhode Island Reds, and two Khaki Campbells (the ducks).

Q: I am not sure I like where this is going.
A: Agreed. But let's press on. They were all cute as buttons, but as they grew I realized that the ducklings (which were three in number due to a processing mishap) were looking awful mallard-y, the Brahmas were white, the black chicks (Australorps and J.G.s) appeared to be all the same, and a R.I.R. and Araucana were shaking some pretty roosterish tail feathers. So my order and winter's worth of research were flat-out botched by the aforementioned, yet unnamed, peep vendor. One of the ducklings got out and was snagged by our Jack Russell, Douglas. The other one flew away. The R.I.R. roo is okay-fine and will probably make a good protector of the flock, but my suspicion is that the Araucana roo is going to be reinvented as coq au vin. He's loud and rough with the ladies. There's no place for that, not even in a place called Hell Mountain.

Q: Is that all you do? Complain about chickens?
A: No, I'm actually an elementary school teacher. I complain about kids too.

Q: Interesting dichotomy.
A: There are a few parallels. My non-chicken-based job is to run the after school program at Bristol Elementary School. I also recently gave myself a job teaching there because I know how talented I am as an educator and how valuable I am as an employee.

Q: When can we chat again?
A: As soon as I have more to say which, knowing me, will be fairly soon.