Oh-ne-oh-ne-owns...

....or onions, however you prefer to say it. This year, we've got 'em.

We had to harvest our onions and shallots earlier than planned this year, primarily because we have some very hungry bunnies who have infiltrated our garden and have completely destroyed the carrots, peas, beets and beans, nibbled the potatoes down to a nub and might have claimed our precious onions next. Sure, people say that they won't eat alliums (garlic, onions, chives, etc.), but let me just tell you, these bunnies will! In fact, they slayed my first planting of garlic chives (and my hostas, pineapple sage, parsley) before I replanted them in a very tall pot that they cannot access. I am being undone by 4-ounce fluff balls, and that is annoying.

So today I started processing some of our onions and shallots. Whoa, Nelly! My house smells.... pungent.

Half of the onions are getting chopped and frozen, just under half are being dehydrated for seasoning and soup bases, likewise the shallots. The funk coming out of my dehydrator right now is eye-watering.

Up next, Padron peppers! I don't especially look forward to the resultant air quality that their processing will produce either, but there are bigger issues here - the "spicy hands". If you've ever prepared hot peppers at home, I know you know what I'm talking about. The capsaicin gets on your hands and anything you touch with your hands - eyeballs, nose - not mention when you visit the bathroom. IT IS BAD NEWS.

Gloves are an absolute must to avoid the spicy hands because no amount of soap & water, baking soda, milk, yogurt, vinegar or anything else will completely remove the oils. My hands were so fiery last time I processed Anaheim peppers (which aren't even that dang spicy) that I literally couldn't sleep.

So, learn from my fail and proceed with caution, fellow kitchen garden geeks! Happy harvest!

A Tale of Two Roos: The Superhero Edition

Major drama in the chicken yard a few nights past - Spiderman vs Batman (seriously). Batman is our mellow old black Cochin roo (pictured below) and Spiderman is our newest roo, who seems determined to climb the pecking order by any means necessary, up to and including the beating-down of his brother birds.

Our sweet Batty-boy

Why on earth would you have two roos? you say. Actually, we have four roosters! Darth Vader (a Black-laced Red Wyandotte/Australorp mix) is the king of the chicken yard, followed by the sweet and humble Batman, and lastly, Godzilla, a young Cuckoo Marans. Everyone got along just fine until Spiderman entered the mix.

Spiderman came along with four hand-me-down hennies that were gifted to us. Being that we'd had multiple roos already who managed to live relatively drama-free, we thought we'd attempt to gently work Spiderman into the mix. We're a few weeks in, and thought that things were progressing slowly but well in the right direction, until the other night.

When it was time to lock the chickens up for the night, Scarlet came upon a rattled, bloodied Batman cowering in a corner of the coop, not willing or able to hop up to his usual roost. He wasn't badly hurt - just his comb - but it was enough to get our attention. At that time, however, we didn't know who had done the damage - a fellow roo or an incompetent predator. The answer came the next morning, when Scarlet interrupted Spiderman trying it on again with poor Batty. Scarlet shooed Spiderman away and closed Batman up in the coop for his own safety, until we could figure out our game plan for restoring peace to the chicken yard.

Having got his little butt whooped twice in less than 24 hours, Batman was pretty traumatized, though, thankfully, not seriously hurt. We set him and his main laydie, Louise, up in a extra large pet carrier inside the coop.

It has been my experience that injured/shocked/recovering critters - especially poultry - feel better, heal better and plain-ol' survive better if they have a buddy with them during their convalescence. I also decided to keep the "private room" as it were in the coop and around the other birds (but out of reach of would-be attackers) to further lessen the trauma of the change. Two days later, Batman & Weezer are right as rain and back in the mix with the rest of the flock. Spiderman was swiftly removed to freezer camp, and all was made right again in the Yard.

The End

August Exhaustion

This morning I woke up to a fiery-hot pain in my shoulder. In fact, my entire right arm feels fit to fall right off. I think I've managed to figure out why...

...I've been knitting. A LOT.

...picking, washing chopping, slicing and grating dozens of pounds of squash.

...cutting and trimming up fifty-bajillion bars of soap.

...hand wrapping and labeling those same fifty-bajillion bars of soap.

Yes, my house is in ruins right now, but aren't my knits and soaps purty?! That 40ish pounds of squash that I put into the freezer last night is a different kind of purty. I feel very pleased with my level of productivity, but madre, my arm! :\

The Patchwork Farm Girl

If you had to choose: More years out of your life, or more life out of your years, which would it be?

These are the choices I'm thinking hard on just now.

At this moment, I'm leaning toward adding life to my years. I finally decided that enough was enough - I'm going ahead with the knee replacement. I know it won't bring back the knee of my misspent youth, but I can at least get my rump off of the couch and actively participate in our daily farm life to a greater extent than I do now. How much use and pain relief I'll get from my prosthesis is a mystery. It's a case-by-case thing.

When the pain and swelling get so bad now, that standing long enough to cook my kids breakfast ends up trashing my knee for the day, the idea of a knee replacement seems like a Godsend.

But there's a heck of a lot more to the process than just replacing a broken part and getting on with life. There are a lot of potential complications, firstly, that my prosthesis will expire before I do, necessitating a second fairly involved surgery, and the possible removal of even more pieces of my leg bones.

*Shudder*

Secondly, I have to be extra careful about preventing and quickly treating infection in my body for the rest of my life, lest the infection become blood-borne and travel to my new knee, necessitating surgical intervention to disinfect or possibly replace the parts. What does that mean for me? Antibiotics before every dental visit, seeing my doctor sooner rather than later anytime I suspect that I have a sinus infection, or any other otherwise-small bacterial infection. I'm not a fan of taking antibiotics, so this caveat is no small impediment for me.

Thirdly, my body and my family have already been through the ringer this year. Our car accident in May broke my arm and my thumb, spawned a pair of brain bleeds, gave me a wicked, lingering concussion, erased a good chunk of my memory, and cost me about 20% of my scalp, which took three months to re-grow, even after plastic surgery. Should I really even think about putting my body and my poor, put-upon husband through another round of incapacity?

And lastly, though this is a fix of sorts, my life won't be quite the same anymore. On my list of permanent can'ts are things like running, jumping and jogging, or anything else that could be considered a high-impact activity. Not that those figure greatly into my daily life, but still, when someone tells you that you can't do something, you grieve the loss of that freedom a little. They're also pretty adamant that I avoid falling down on my new knee. Now that could be a problem for me. Gravity and I don't always get along so well. Soon, I'll have to be extra-extra careful not to wipe out in a giant pile of chicken crap or step into a molehill, since apparently, I've not been precisely fastidious in avoiding these pratfalls up until now. I'm glad that someone out there has faith in my ability to pull my shizz together!

So, there it is. The good, the bad, the annoying and the practically-impossible, all laid out just like that. If I had a sincere love of couch surfing and piling evermore crap on my husband's to-do list, I could ride this messed-up knee thing all the way down the line. But I don't. We bought a farm because I wanted to work a farm, not play armchair quarterback to my poor, overburdened hubbin. So in spite of all the downsides, can'ts and possible complications, I feel like my only real move here is to take a chance on this procedure.

The length of time I have here on earth is completely uncertain, as my brush with mortality in the high desert taught me well. I have to be decisive and take the best advantage I can of what lies directly in front me, and that is working this farm, building a family business and experiencing life and exploring the world with my husband and daughters. And the knee I have now won't get me there, so in the end I guess there really isn't much of a choice...

I'm gonna do it.

Slip-Sliding Away

I fell down twice today while doing critter chores. I'm in my mid-30's, if I haven't outgrown my clumsiness yet, I think it's safe to consider myself officially, permanently gravitationally-challenged. Maybe my next move is to take preventative measures like wearing a helmet at all times, or sewing a hemorrhoid donut pillow into my chore pants?

All I know right now is this - two wipeouts in the mud and all of the animals tucked in for the night means that pajama/cocktail hour has arrived and that soon, all shall be right with the world again. :)

We have a Farrrmerrr doon! (Again)

Last time there was a Farrrrmerrrr doon it was because a single bite of undercooked chicken had it's revenge on me.

This time, it's muh back.

Apparently osteoarthritis wasn't content simply destroying my knees, and so set it's sights on L5-S1 and went to town. And it SUCKS!

Certainly not helping anything is the fact that, while collecting eggs yesterday, I full-on wiped out on the rain-slick clay, jarring my already cranky back and breaking half a dozen eggs in one fell swoop.

So, just the noo, this farrrm lass is a wee bit poorly. And she hasna held back on the pain killers, and may have been reading a wee bit tae much o' the Outlander Series while layin' aboot. Maybeh.

The Perils of Fresh Fruit

Today, in spite of my wanky back and the drizzly weather, I decided to pop out to the yard and try to pick some of our apples for canning and juicing this weekend. It did not go great. Learn from my fail(s), friends-

#1 - Buy one of these. You'll be glad you did.



#2 - If your apple trees are very tall, you're going to have to "upgrade" your picker in a method we like to call "Jackson Style". i.e. - Using 9/10ths of a roll of duct tape to affix an addition old broom handle or random stick to the existing handle of your picker, thereby extending its reach. Can you appreciate the advantage gained by Jacksonizing our picker?



#3 - PROTECT YOURSELF. I wore only a hoodie and earphones. This was highly dumb on my part. What you need, my friends, is something more along the lines of a welding helmet, or Major League Baseball catcher's uniform. (I'll betcha the Yankees have one that's not being used right now. ZING!)

I took an 8-ounce apple, which fell from a height of 10 or 12 feet, to the "chest region". Annnd that's when I was done for the day. If there are any mathematically gifted among you who can calculate how hard/at what speed that apple slammed into my lady lumps, I'd love to hear the answer, if for no other reason, than to underscore the great dangers of urban farming on a very small scale.