Just add gluten

Did anyone else notice the linguistic commonalities between "gluten" and that particular anatomical area that yeasty bready treats, um, enhance?

Before the big (and I do mean big) pregnancy I was limiting gluten and its kissing cousins simple carbohydrates. That minor struggle led to a 23-pound weight loss (and indirectly to the blessed cause of my regain?). Weight loss-schmeight loss. Not so much anymore.

However. An apricot muffin with homemade marmalade sure is delicious. And I really can't see myself from the back view anyway.

Fermentation, shots and one day at a time

It's not what you think. The seeds and pulp from two heirloom tomatoes attempting to ferment in my sunny (slightly schmutzy, it appears) kitchen window. Saving heirloom tomato seeds is easier than I had thought. This year I spent a small fortune on organic heirloom plants in four-inch-pots. Next year (Lord willing and the creek don't rise) I will start these seeds and have some to share as well.

The worst part of the experiment (outside of having my shot glasses otherwise engaged for three days) was the scummy disgustingness that develops as a byproduct of fermentation. It's important to ferment the seeds before drying. I understand that it helps to prevent next year's plants from developing any diseases too.

But gross nonetheless.

After scraping the bubbly gooey crust off the top of each shot glass (stir each container one time per day; remove fermentation crust approximately three days later) I rinsed the seeds very thoroughly and laid them on wax paper to dry. In our climate it took just a day and a half for them to skitter around, dry as can be on wax paper.

Then I labeled them in little envelopes and put them to bed in my seed catalog file.

Elsewhere on my kitchen windowsill: sprouts. This is very, very easy. Also easy to forget. It seems my chickens are getting my sprouts with regularity this summer. I don't have a hard time rinsing and draining them every day. It's the remembering to harvest (which just means eat the dang things) that's my apparent downfall. So one morning they're just perfect, and I mean to put them on top of some salad or in a pita for goodness sakes, but then by nightfall they resemble a tangle of full-grown invasive vines and I have to send them out to the henhouse. Sigh.

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I'm still dieting. Will this never end? Sixteen pounds down and one size down. I do think the low carb lifestyle (I just gagged a little on that phrase) is big in Hollywood for a reason. But what, my friends, will I do about bread? My lovely homemade loaves of egg bread. The crunchy crusty French bread. The homemade pasta.

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I can see myself now at a CA (carboholics anonymous? it must exist) meeting. "Hi. My name is Miriam... I used to think I could take just one bite. But now I'm taking it one day at a time."

Sideways like that

Honestly.

If I were to upload that photo one more time in an effort to get it to NOT be sideways, I think the little wires and etherwhatever that transmit all the intergook would just disintegrate. Disintegrate, y'all. As in "fail to integrate."

Which is pretty much where I am for the moment.

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The septic tank is fixed and thus we can flush that worry away. The well is producing enough water to shower. Well, to be precise, it's adequate water to bathe half of our family per day. It's putting a crimp in the girls' style. Not. In fact one of our children announced she wanted to set a record. A personal worst, as it happened. A record for number of days not showered. Ew.

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Real estate is booming in case you didn't notice. Or at least I'm working the hours as though it were. It seems to take the work of ten deals to cause one to close these days. Underwriters and appraisers and general everyday folk alike are cautious and prone to reverse their decisions. Realtors are prone to shave their heads and go into mourning over the fruitless time spent away from their families. (Just kidding about that last one.)

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We had a little round of the flu go through the Suite clan. It fell at the best possible time. Of course. It's always a good time to have one's limbs too heavy to move when one's children need to be carried up the stairs and served extra PediaPops in the middle of the night. Let me know when it's not a good time for that. Especially when the well is not able to support enough bleach loads to clean all the household bedding in one night.

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But hey! We rescued a chicken last week. The poor little leghorn was reportedly "charging" people at the village store all last Monday. So of course the clerk (the store owner's grandaughter-in-law and a lovely dental-hygienist-in-training) called up to Farm Suite, where we'll take in all manner of three-legged cats and apparently loco chickens.

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The girls named her Tallulah for her spirit. She's a gorgeous little girl who wasn't "charging" at all. It appears she is a lost or abandoned pet because she will leap into your arms like a lap dog seeking a cuddle. After a few days inside a chicken cage inside the henhouse (to help the others get used to her without the typical "pecking order" fights), she is one of our regular flock now, laying an egg a day.

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I have been reading about everyone's back to school anticipations, and in a few cases your children are already back at it! This has me freaked out. I mean, inspired to get my homeschool act together.

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And. On another up note (and I do mean up) I am back on the diet. My total loss is 14 pounds. I spent the last week on a "maintenance" phase in which I still had to weigh every day but couldn't "diet" and "shouldn't" lose weight. It's all too complicated for little (hah) ol' me. But now I'm back on all protein, all the time. Watch out for flying egg whites and falling scales. Or something like that.

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How was your weekend?

Blackberry cobbler alert

The diet was going great. Down 13.5 pounds. And then the blackberries started to ripen.

We might not blame the blackberries but rather the butter and sugar and flour mixture that tops them. Oh, and possibly the ice cream that tops that.

Easiest Ever Berry Cobbler

About four cups fresh blackberries

About one cup sugar

Juice of one lemon

Three-quarter cup whole wheat flour (white will work fine)

Three-quarter cup lightly packed brown sugar

One stick of butter

Stir the sugar and lemon juice into the berries gently. Pour into your favorite pie plate.

With a pastry blender, two dinner knives or your food processor, cut the very cold butter into the flour and sugar until it's crumbly and the largest pieces are about pea-sized.

Spread that mixture over the berries.

Bake at 350 for about an hour or until the juices are bubbling up through the crust and it's lightly browned.

Cool just enough that the cobbler thickens. Serve with homemade vanilla ice cream.

It's like that

I'm fairly certain cherries don't qualify as a protein, but when it's cherry time one cannot be bound to a commitment, dietwise, at least not a commitment which involves no fruit. Can one? I'm only asking for, um, a friend of mine. Yeah, that's it. My friend wants to know.

Down 12.5 pounds. I keep expecting to wake up and have gained it all back. Of course it's been so hot (106 here yesterday and 104 the day before; this is unheard of in our area) and I've been working so much (read: not able to find time to eat in between phone calls) that I'd probably have lost a little even if I hadn't declared war on refined flour and sugar. Right?

And because I just don't have faith in this diet despite its apparent short-term success over the last couple of weeks, it's sort of hard to be proud of myself. I'm not eating any brown rice, which was my main staple for decades. How can I be so carb-intolerant when all the complex carbs I was eating (and to be truthful, to which I plan to return) were so healthy? Why-oh-why.

Tonight I'm having a cold pesto zucchini salad. Yum-yum. Oh, and some cherries.

But then again I had ice cream

Woke up this morning slightly less irritable over the diet.

The scale wasn't down at all, but it wasn't up either. I rationalized that I have been losing steadily for two weeks --10.5 pounds down now.

Then I remembered that I had ice cream yesterday.

Hey, it was 105 degrees outside and we had a three-hour-drive (think Gilligan's Island, first episode) with Laura the Chatterbox (loudmouth would be more alliterative but she is my darling baby after all) and Gracie the Gleeful on our way to drop Madeleine and Sarah with their Tia for a week of fun and games (and me doing all the horse/rabbit/chicken/garden chores. oy).

I earned that ice cream. And so did my hips.

But today it's back on the wagon. How about you?

Just keep swimming...

Or is that 'keep climbing?'
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I mix up my Disney sometimes.

Nekkedd baby alert.

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For a little while that afternoon my husband put the inner tube on a leash so as not to lose track of Laura's lakeside meanderings. Did someone say redneck? Not on this blog they dint.

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In other news this week:

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Madeleine and Sarah return from camp (yes, again!) tomorrow.

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This past week they've been learning archery, riding other peoples' horses and swimming every day and in general (a-hem) not writing home. I think this is supposed to somehow prepare me for the ultimate separation anxiety of their (don't say it out loud) eventually growing up and leaving home.

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It happens in increments so small, more minute than the slow tick of the second hand, that I am lulled into complacency: My babies are little. Well, at least last time I measured.

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But I blinked and the oldest two are really not babies at all. Their opinions alone are enough proof of that. Their abilities and likes and dislikes -- all evidence mounting steadily in the case for growing up independent and smart and funny and confident and all the things we theoretically want for our children but then we get whiplash when we recognize that the development of those same qualities in our children means they're less dependent. That they don't (temporarily, I hope) think mom is all that funny any more. At least not as funny as the latest Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

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They're excited to know things I don't know. Like archery, for instance. And how to program the remote.

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But back to the news (or what we like to call newsworthy):

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I'm on a diet. Six pounds of sheer misery and no carbs in sight. I'll keep you posted unless I fail miserably. Also, it's a little competition with my carb-cheating buddy Kate. So go cheer her on if you want. Just not more than you cheer for me.

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In the first day of the protein festival I accidentally ate chocolate. In my defense I was cleaning the kitchen while taking a VERY STRESSFUL phone call (gotta love the real estate market when it causes me to be compulsive about my countertops) and then I found a chocolate under the crockpot. You don't keep chocolate under your crockpot, you say? It's an excellent hiding spot since no one in your family is likely to touch that appliance. Just sayin'.

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Anywhat I was wiping down the counters, cradling the phone to my red hot ear and listening intently to the demise of yet another deal when I spied the Dove delightfulness and UNCONSCIOUSLY unwrapped it and popped it in my mouth. (Or would that be subconsciously? Whatever. I wasn't really paying attention.)

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I realized what I was doing almost immediately so... people... dear readers... I SPIT IT IN THE TRASH.

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This was the moment at which I knew Atkins can cause insanity.

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Also this was the moment a nice loan officer thought I was hawking up a disgusting unknown item or maybe wretching at the aforementioned demise of the deal. Little does he know that no mere commission loss could be as tragic as the waste of good chocolate.

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Six pounds, people. And only forty more to go.

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And BACK TO THE NEWS (the digressions get worse with Atkins insanity, don't they?):

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Laura had her 18-month checkup this afternoon. She's perfectly healthy, no ill effects of the last visit. I did remember to bring a latte for the nurse. So besides being healthy and happy, she's a COMPLETE PILL. She kicked the doctor. She yelled "noNOnoNOnoNO" at the top of her lungs to all of his questions. Except she counted to five for him (baby genius, I know) and she hasn't even done that for DADDY yet.

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Contrary.

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Other nurses came in to admonish her that she's six months early for the terrible twos.

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After the doctor visit we (Grace (the model big sister all afternoon) Laura and I) went to visit Grandma and Grandpa in their back yard. Laura wickedly approached the gorgeous potted flowers with a glint in her eye. At the last minute she stopped pulling on the blossom and took a big sniff instead. She knows how to push Grandma's buttons. And just so he didn't feel left out, she laughed uproariously at Grandpa's jokes and tickling but refused to do any tricks for him either. No counting. No saying new words. No show here, folks. She even refused to distract them from their incredulous response to my news that I'm going back to school. (Who said Dad doesn't read this blog?)

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Contrary. Next thing you know she'll be growing up and off to camp just to prove me wrong. Or right. I can't keep it straight because I need some CARBOHYDRATES.

Remember?

I remember that certain feeling of being 9, and too big for the ride-on toys, but still wanting to play. Actually I played anyway. That was a great thing about my parents, and in fact my whole childhood: it was okay to be a kid for a long, long time.

I remember this quilt from that sale and oh, how I wish I'd bought it. There's a shopping rule that goes something like, "walk away -- if you still can't live without it tomorrow, go back and get it." Yeah, that rule is stu-pid. Especially with yard sales.

I remember when I wanted a lavender hedge and a white picket fence. And now I know how long it takes to harvest that lavender. Don't tell anyone, but we're making lavender sachets and lavender eye pillows for Christmas.

I remember being that quick to pose for a photo. Grace Hannah steals the show, even at an airshow.

I remember how badly I needed a dark-chocolate-covered glace apricot last week. It's stress reduction in a dried fruit, my friends. I took that picture on my steering wheel. Then I went to Epicurious and learned how to make them. It might be more frugal, but it's not going to be good for my Derfwad Manor-affiliated 5K project. Maybe I'll give chocolate apricots away for Christmas with the lavender (yeah, right). In a related matter, there's a minor 5K update in the sidebar. No new hiney pictures though.

I remember saying that I'm not usually very sneaky. But recently I have been doing a lot of sneaking. I can't seem to help myself walking through the gates of abandoned old church lots and barnyards and... the pictures are worth it!

Two Scoops. And A Little Blackberry Pie?

Today I was thinking about my book group from before parenthood. We read "important" books and sometimes went for months attacking themes such as labor rights, or women-writers-only, or women-writers-who-used-men's-names, or Shakespeare revisited, and on and on ad nauseum.

Then I got thinking about how these days I mostly read newspapers and popular fiction and parenting freak-out (otherwise known as self-help?) books. But my life is a lot, and I mean a lot, better:


That's Madeleine and a whole slew of neighbor farmkids at our community's annual ice cream social fundraiser for our rural fire department. The children (and lots of the men) use real fire hoses to play a sort of water tetherball, and a bucket truck gives rides up past the powerline in order to terrify the mothers, and of course there's copious amounts of homemade pie ala mode for $1.50 a bowl.

The pie was what made me move here. Sometimes I say it was the fact that our house was originally a country church, and sometimes I say it was the fact that the nearest Interstate is 15 miles away, and sometimes I say it was so I can hang my quilts out to dry without any pesky CC&Rs, but it was really the pie. (The same pie that ruined my 5K efforts. This week.)

The Ice Cream Social. Reason #403 not to post my precise whereabouts on the Internet.

At this year's gathering, we were still newbies since it's our third year here. But at least we're newbies who know a few of the old-timers well enough to shoot the bull about, well, Old Jack's bull. Who passed this year. It was a big topic of conversation at table six in the fire hall. He's looking for a good Angus, if you know anyone who's selling. AND we're the newbies who earlier this spring fixed a very important water valve protection box thingy. Well, that contribution was purely from the Eng-Gen-Eer, but I can take credit too. It's in our pre-nups.

You know what else is in our pre-nups? Not mentioning little sidetracked moments like that when one of us (okay, it's only ever me) fails to post an update on the progress of a little thing like a commitment that I (I mean, one of us) made at the inspiration of someone as cool as, say, Mrs. G.

Alright already! I didn't move my rear for squat this week. Ha ha, I didn't do any squats either. I spent quite a bit of time sweating over the huge change that centers on our homeschooling decision, but that kind of sweating doesn't count toward the 5K goal, now does it? And then I blew it completely by running away to the beach for a couple of days:

The side of that thing says "point of view" in raised letters. Ah. Luckily, or unluckily as the case may be, my point of view does not include a reduced rear this week. No matter how many times I twist around really quickly to see. And this is the very reason there will be no picture of said rear this week. Because it and the accompanying chub elsewhere on the body is pretty much exactly where it was a week ago, maybe with some extra company for warmth and companionship. But it all depends on your point of view. (If you are REALLY, REALLY far away from me, you can't tell.)

In fact, also this week I had a little health exam for life insurance. My blood pressure is excellent, I'll have you know. Also, cholesterol, lovely, check. But when it got down (up?) to the weight portion of the event, I found myself needing a paper bag to breathe through. Then I started explaining in a really fast-talking manner that I only just (Seven months ago. Hush.) gave birth to a baby. And then the (kind, sweet, paid-by-the-hour) nurse said I wasn't so far out of the acceptable weight range for my height.

And then she measured my height. Which, friends, is shorter than I reported on the form. Shorter than it says on my driver's license.

CAN PIE MAKE YOU SHORTER AND FATTER?

I think I need to run back to my favorite place to contemplate this turn of events. If only I could find a sponsor for another getaway to the coast. Possibly the fire department would be interested. I could ride in that open-air truck, and wave, and throw candy, like a 75-mile-long parade, all the way to the Sylvia Beach Hotel. It would be good for publicity, right? Every rural fire department is looking for a parade princess who's in her late 30s and a couple of inches shorter than she remembered.

this little piggy

This little piggy went to market. All the time as retail therapy. But now she lives in the boondocks and it is well documented that buying $50 worth of gasoline to make a splurge purchase or two is too depressing and thus requires real therapy. And this little piggy's friends are tired of being free therapists.

This little piggy stayed home. A lot and went a little nuts with the four children and the accompanying neighborhood children and the animals pooping inconveniently and the garden and the laundry pile being so needy and all. So she decided to adopt a blog, and then this little piggy had something to do (that approximated free therapy) while the laundry pile grew.

This little piggy ate brown rice. Because she was raised vegetarian and is now (happily for 16 years) married to a meat-eating man who wears Wranglers. Then all that meat and potatoes (and pregnancy and blog reading) led to the necessity of joining Mrs. G's newest project. Mrs. G is unbelievably brave and a beacon of hope for this little piggy as she faces her late 30s realizing with great wisdom that the 40s are right after that.

This little piggy had none. Because even brown rice is called fattening if you load it up with Yum sauce and cheese and avocados and follow it with ice cream for dessert. Also, this little piggy saw a hugely unflattering photo of herself on her friend KL's blog and does not need to post any worse picture in order to feel super-motivated to motivate. She also can't believe she just linked to that photo, but in the spirit of coming clean and sharing the two readers she has with her good real-life friend, she decided to be a brave little piggy and blow the house down (while mixing her fairy tales).

This little piggy went whee, whee, whee all the way home. Because there is a big humongous hill to climb to get to the track above the school above her country church-turned-home. And climbing that hill will likely, if done repeatedly while pushing a double jogger, gain her the 5K patootie this little piggie is after. So coming back down the hill this little piggy decided that more ice cream (just a little of the skinny cow variety?) was in order.

5K Assessment

9/29/08

Okay, so I fell off Mrs. G's of Derfwad Manor hind-end reduction list. But I didn't fall off the 5K wagon, I just can't bring myself to put the word a** on my blog... because I get enough googlers looking up s*xy farmgirls, and I don't need that kind of attention.

I do, however, need attention. Especially my exercised area:

In addition to hiking up and down the massive hill on our road, pushing at the very least a 20-pound baby in a jogging stroller, we have joined a gym.

Don't panic. It's not a meat market gym, it's just a gym. In fact the lobby looks like a Starbucks.

I'm working out. No pants size lost yet, but I do feel better.
Earlier that project:

M-Kay.

I asked my daughter to take a picture of my behind today. This is because I didn't want to ask my husband to do it.

But I promised Mrs. G that I was gonna get brave. So I asked my daughter. I knew she wouldn't fail me and I was pretty sure she wouldn't snicker.

This brings me to a story (are you surprised?) about my butt. I have broken my coccyx twice in my life, because I'm lucky and graceful like that. The first time I fell on the frozen sidewalk of our cute riverfront rental when we were newlyweds. Then I rode a Greyhound bus for approximately 99 hours to meet my husband, who was working at a very cool but distant internship over the Christmas break. Break, hah hah.

I didn't know my butt was broken, but I did know I couldn't sit down. We found out about the broken part of the event later on in the ER. I do love my husband. He was really cute at 21 years old. I think they call that a hottie.

Anyway, when I broke my tailbone that time, my husband's sweet grandfather was still alive. He used to call us just about every day even though (or because?) he was helping pay the fledgling engineer's way through school in another state. For about a year after my fall on the ice, he started every conversation by saying,

"Hey, how's your butt?"

Well, if Papa was on Earth today, he'd be SHOCKED to know that I was posting a picture of it on the Internet. He'd be shocked there is an internet.

I'm not as embarrassed about the behind picture as I am about a little (big) problem with my arms and, frankly, this:

Now that'll give me heart palpitations.

But this is about more than coming clean with embarrassing photos and stories. (You oughta hear about how I broke my behind the second time.)

This is about IT'S NEVER TOO LATE.

I am power walking the hills around our farm 6 times a week for a minimum of 45 minutes. I am drinking 64 ounces of water each day. Tomorrow I am finding a gym for a Pilates class. I am trying not to eat as much, but that part of the plan is still fuzzy.

Thanks again, Mrs. G, for inspiring me and so many others to do this. See you next week.