Basil for Pesto

This year I really wanted to garden. But for the 3rd of the past 5 years, I had a baby instead. Ah well, babies are more fun and a whole lot sweeter.

Still, I couldn't get past the urge to grow...something. So I picked up some herb plants. Rosemary, aloe, peppermint, sage, and basil.

Since Elizabeth loves to water plants, most of them survived my Black Thumb of Death, all except the aloe, which I can't seem to keep alive no matter what I try. (The neighbor has some on his porch to which he does nothing as far as I can tell--and it thrives.) And the peppermint, which I planted under a faucet that doesn't drip. The basil was a bit yellow for awhile, but soon it greened up and filled out and now it's really beautiful.

So I picked some.

I've never made pesto before. But it sounded so good.

Pine nuts? How about toasty pecans instead?

Garlic. Parmesan. Oil.

Maybe I shouldn't show you this. The green mess doesn't do this deliciousness justice. Oh my. It was so fresh and good. I could have eaten it all from a spoon. I grew up in a home where we often sat down to meals where we'd grown virtually everything, but it's been a long time since I've had food I grew myself.

Instead of eating it with a spoon, I made a pizza. Chicken, tomatoes, and mushrooms. It would have been better with fresh mushrooms and sun-ripened local tomatoes, but it was still amazing. Even Billy liked it, much to my surprise.

Pesto pizza. I highly recommend it.

Grandpa and Grandma's Farm, Part 2

I posted about going to my parents' little farm last spring. We visited again last weekend. The kids had such fun...

Playing with big cats...

And little kittens...

Going to Cowboy Church...

Swinging on the front porch...(OK, we all enjoyed that!)

Napping on the couch with a comfy old quilt...

It was too warm for a fire, but isn't this pretty? One thing that inspires me when I go to my parents' is that my mom always combines function with beauty. There's very little in her home that is purely functional. It's pretty too.

I missed a shot of the new tire swing, where the kids spent most of their time, and lots of other good ones too. Next time!

Grandpa and Grandma's Farm-Long Photo Post

I have no time to write, but I took a mini break to upload these pictures I've been working on in small moments all week.

Last Friday we took my sister Hannah home (unfortunately my parents won't let me adopt her so I can have her at my house forever), and spent the weekend there.



We had perfect spring weather.




Here are a few obvious reasons my kids love going there. I think this sheep is a Columbia cross.




I *heart* old trucks!



The woodpile. It would be cool pic if I hadn't gotten that string or whatever in it. I was in too much of a hurry.



The kids love to feed the chickens (or boc-bocs, as Sarah calls them).




They lay these yummy beauties.




The kids also love to check cows with Grandpa. They watched this little guy play...




And this one getting a snack.



Gorgeous belgians!



It was a fun, relaxing visit. Just what we needed before gearing up for this crazy week.

For the Farmgirl in Me

I've recently discovered a few new farmgirl resources.

First is the blog Farmgirl Fare, which is supposed to be a food blog but mostly has beautiful farm pictures for each day. Love it.

Then my husband stumbled across In My Kitchen Garden and he knew right away that I'd like it. Lo and behold, it's a companion blog to Farmgirl Fare. More beautiful pictures, more wonderful information.

Through Apron Thrift Girl I found MaryJanesFarm Farmgirl Connection. And I also found the Homesteading Today forums. I don't have time for message boards, really, and the farmgirl thing is a distant memory and future hope, not a present reality...But I'm keeping these forums in mind for reference later. Even when I just get ready to plant herbs in pots.

Not a Cowgirl

My dad grew up riding horses in cowboy country. My mom spent summers with her grandparents. Her grandpa rode the Arizona-Mexico border checking cows for hoof and mouth disease. I was born in the rugged West where cowboy hats and wranglers are the uniform and rodeos the entertainment. Working cowboys were our close friends and my dad roped every weekend when I was a baby.

Gradually, the cowboy life faded from our family. My dad quit roping and then we shifted to an agrarian lifestyle with cowboy memories only a distant dream. Ball caps replaced cowboy hats and Redwing work boots took over for Justins. We had one lame old horse that no one could ride.

We moved to East Texas and bought a good-sized homestead. Our hobby farm life was a sweet one, but virtually untouched by any vestige of cowboyism. Agrarianism is where I was formed, where I grew up and married a preacher and moved far away, deeper into the South.

Something happened right after I left, and I don’t even know what caused it. My parents went back to their cowboy roots with a vengeance. My sister married a cowboy and my brothers started to rope and ranch instead of training draft horses. Before I knew it my folks had joined a cowboy church and my baby sister was in rodeo and had the big belt buckle to prove it.

In the whole scheme of a life, they only took a few years off from cowboying. But for me, it was most of my life at home. I’m the gap child, the one who grew up and left without cowboy influence only to have it return later.

Who. Are. These. People. I say it jokingly, but with a touch of seriousness. They are at home in the culture they left for only a few years, but to me it’s virtually foreign, to my husband and children, even more so. It was a crazy feeling to feel a bit out of place at my parents’ home with a gathering of their friends because I was the only one in a skirt! (Those of you who know my family will understand this even more.) Farmers I understand. Cowboys, not so much. I like them. I respect them. I find their way of life appealing. But it’s something I know nothing about.

Of course I love my family and I’m as close to them as ever. But I'll never belong in this facet of their culture. That’s OK. It’s part of the transition of growth and change as each of us finds a new way of life in the new family structure. There are parts of my life that they will never understand either, and it would be silly to think otherwise. It’s just a little surreal. Different. Strange. I see their life as a continuous whole except for a gap that is most of my growing up. Something everyone else belongs to but me, the odd one. It’s like being on the outside looking in, admiring what’s on the other side of the glass, but not part of it.

Farmgirl

You can, they say, take the girl out of the country. But you can’t take the country out of the girl. It’s true.

This morning I hoed our city garden. It’s small, but at least we have one this year. Last spring Billy was still too ill and I was too pregnant to even consider a vegetable patch, much to Elizabeth’s disappointment. So this year Billy tilled the sunny spot at the upper edge of our hilltop yard, and he and the older kids took a trip to Paul’s Feed and Seed for plants—tomatoes, squash, melons, and a few other things. They planted them and I took pictures. Now a few little blades of grass have begun to sprout up around our tender plants, and it’s my turn. I hoed between the rows and between the plants. It didn’t take long. Like I said, our garden is small. But it was just the activity this displaced homesteader needed.

I have a beautiful life. God has led so clearly each step of the way, and I’ve never had a doubt I’m in His will and that this spot is where He has me. Which is a good thing, because I really miss my old way of life. Tears come to my eyes sometimes when I realize that, at least right now, my children won’t wake up early on a chilly morning to go see the wobbly new calf born in the night or gather warm brown eggs from under cranky hens or sit on the front porch and watch the sunset or ride horses in the pasture. Sure they can do those things when they visit their grandparents, and I’m grateful for that, but it’s not the same as having them available to us daily.

Without any suggestion from me at all, the kids say, “We wish we could live in the country. We wish we were farmers. We want a horse.” Right now that’s simply not an option. In fact, it’s a little absurd to even consider, since we can’t even keep up with our yard. (I have a hard time moving to the outdoors when indoors still needs so much attention.) But I look down the road and dream. Maybe…someday…

We live in one of the most serene old neighborhoods I’ve ever seen. I’m fortunate and thankful. But I hope that one day I’ll see a little more space between me and my nearest neighbor, a couple acres with a big garden, fruit trees, and a few hens to scratch around in the dirt. A milk goat or two would be nice. It may never happen. And if it doesn’t, that’s OK. I believe with all my heart that God is not limited to the country. After all, the early church began and exploded in large cities, and one day we’ll live in the New Jerusalem. If God keeps me in the city forever, I’ll accept it with joy, knowing that He predestines our places of residence. But still there’s the tug of love and longing for what I knew first.

I’m at peace with whatever God decides. Whether for a short time or forever, there are many things to love about the city. And whether for a short time or forever, we can be city farmers. As I gain momentum and conquer my home, I can move to the yard and help keep it orderly. I can help with our little garden and plant flowers and herbs. I can share with my neighbors and feed my family from the bounty we grow in our little patch of earth. I can picnic with my babies under the giant oaks and listen to the wind in the branches. God is good, whether in city or country. That’s what this farm girl will never forget.


P.S. I have to add that I wrote this a couple weeks ago after I had weeded the garden. Right now it is all full of grass again. I think my farmgirl self needs to spend another morning with the hoe, don't you?