Look! Up in the sky!

Above the little hill that shields our farm from the wind I did see some blue sky this morning. I did.

I did not stay up all night finishing Lacuna. I did not. There was still an hour or so before sunrise.

I had to stay up to bake the bread or else put the dough in the refrigerator, which is not my favorite thing to do with that yummy yeasty goodness. (Click there should you want the rambling recipe of my favorite bread. (And/or some commentary on bubble letters.) Go on. You know you want to.)

At the intersection of Quilt and Barn. With some out-of-character End Times discussion.

There's that patchwork barn from my road trip of a week or so ago. Really the dreamy light does not do it justice. Can you imagine how many pizzas that rancher had to buy for the teenagers who painstakingly used all the oops paint in a creative manner? (Imagine with me, if you will. 'Cause I don't know anything about this barn or its owner other than it made my girls and me smile and wonder and make up fun stories about its quirky paint job.)

Outside my window the forget-me-nots and lilacs have upstaged the fading show of daffodils and tulips. Daisies and columbines wait in the wings for the next act. This springtime is gorgeous in our area, and I'm almost feeling guilty because I know so many are suffering through floods and severe weather patterns. Friends of ours who are serving in the earthquake recovery of Port-Au-Prince, Haiti are already experiencing punishing heat. Other friends are just now driving home to Oregon from storm ravaged Kentucky. The news from around the world is bleak. The radio and television stations are talking about the end of the world and they're not singing lyrics from a pop song when they do so.

The African violets on my windowsill have nothing to do with the parade of blooms outside, with my continuing barn obsession nor with the darting hummingbirds nor mounting projects stacked on my sewing table.

And, honestly. My faith has nothing to do with predicting whether tomorrow is the beginning of the end of the world. I hesitate to say any of this for the record, on the world wide web. But my faith is in the thin vein of beauty and truth, an ore much more precious than a prediction of dire circumstances on a certain date.

My God is a God of mercy and, yes, I hope you know Him too. I hope that judgment day is not a reason for fear for you because none of us can achieve the standard but through grace. Amazing grace.

My pantry is full and, yes, I hope yours is too. But I hope you aren't just hoarding water and canned goods for a catastrophe but rather thoughtfully planning how to take care of yourself and your family and your neighbors if need be.

Oh I so rarely get on a soapbox here but I can feel myself stepping up there now.

I read on a web site today about how much food to store per person for certain periods of time, making my notes and commenting to myself how similar the lists were to the provisions the pioneers must have packed for their westward journeys. And right after I found myself nodding with the web site's writer, I read that I should instruct my family to never, under any circumstances, disclose that we have stored food for emergencies.

Really?

Because I want you to know, my real and virtual neighbors alike, that what I have I will share. That whatever we can do for one another in the event of an earthquake or storm or financial hardship is what we should do.

It's obviously easy to say this from my comfortable chair in front of my computer screen, electricity humming and refrigerator full, children tucked in and husband reading by the sound of the Giants game on the radio.

I have a comfortable chair, a comfortable life. I'm guessing you do too.

But I never want to be so comfortable that I forget that some others are decidedly not. I want to share my comfort, my knowledge of God's mercy and grace, before others are frightened into a judgment day panic mode just as I want to share my pantry's contents with a hungry neighbor.

Take care, dear readers and neighbors. And as you're driving through the countryside of life, imagining the motivations and small joys of your fellow man, remember too their likely pains and trials as they too try to gather beauty in a sometimes ugly world.

I don't think tomorrow is the beginning of the end. But I do think we should live like it is. Not with fear nor with secrecy but with confidence and compassion. I think we should, I should, be willing to be a little less comfortable while it's still an easy choice. I think I should (because I know you don't come here for the preaching) place more emphasis on the bits of beauty, the patchwork-painted barns and the blooming violets and the play dough parties, because they are my icons for the joy of the world, for the hope of grace and glory amidst difficulty and strife. A true icon is very different from an idol; an icon points us to a larger truth while an idol, of course, is a substitute for the Truth.

May you find Truth and beauty and rest this weekend.

(And may I return with a lighter post next week.)

I had something meaningful posted

But it's gone.

And now we can forget about me ever remembering it again. Follow? Me neither. Clearly.

But we're having a fine weekend. We're playing with the new chicks. (I know! More chicks!) I went thrifting and bought some very exciting vintage fabric. Some of it is for my canned ham renovation and some of it is for summer wardrobe sewing.

It's looking like summer will finally find us here in Western Oregon.

Look at Salvador! (And the church steeple across the road. That's a little artsy, isn't it?) I took that picture from my very ambitious spot on a quilt on the lawn, where I laid around and read Stephen King's "On Writing" for an entire afternoon. Manoman that's a good book. I didn't expect I'd think that, frankly, because most of his fiction is not my preferred genre at all. But his memoir/writing guide is brilliant, insightful, crazy good.

Sarah's loving "Goose Girl" and those yellow shortalls. I'm not sure she's taken them off except for at bedtime.

I'm loving my special Wild Salad with dandelion greens, violas, chives and mixed lettuces. A little balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil with crushed garlic -- yummy springtime dinner.


What are you loving? What are you reading?

And did anyone see my missing post or did I dream that?

I can see for miles

Oh my word. It's sunny and 70 degrees outside.

The camas are blooming.

The lambs are frolicing.

I can almost hear Maria singing.

(the hills are alive)

It's all too picturesque for blogland.

I hope your day is lovely as well. I'm going to plant something now.

True or False?

Girl Scout cookies are the root of all evil.

Or at least the square root of the circumference of my waist. Or some such math-like formula.

Discuss among yourselves.

Scrappy

My friend Lexie got a sewing machine and outed herself today as a fabric junkie. I suggest she enter a 12-step program. Step One: I''ll take that offending substance off her hands.

.

My sister (Whose blog is not public. Gah. What kind of sister of mine is not all about the attention?!) joined me earlier this year in retreating for a weekend of quilty goodness. She, too, is a burgeoning fabric addict on a slippery slope. But don't think I'm a pusher.

.

My friend Katie, also, she sews a mean streak. She sews dresses from pillowcases and slipcovers from remnants and probably was the inspiration behind a little book called StitchAholic. Her first step, I'm thinking, should be to hand over the stash to one who can watch over it for her. I mean, I'm prepared to help.

.

Today I sewed nonstop at my dining room table. I sewed through Sarah writing a riddle about Gandhi (who, it turns out, was quite riddle-worthy). I sewed through Madeleine applying for a patent (no kidding) for an invention that may or may not be revealed here later. (When she decides whether she trusts you, dear readers.)

.

I sewed through making umpteen cups of "cold cocoa" (known as "chocolate milk" unless you're a particularly particular child of mine) for Laura and through just as many sessions of nursing Salvador.

.

I sewed while Gracie spent her last day as a 6-year-old just as Gidgety as ever, never once glancing at the plainly visible increasing stack of finished items. Oh, to be that happy-go-lucky. Grace is a butterfly of a girl, you see, alighting on a flower here, a sunny spot there, gently unfolding her wings in the most springlike manner. Any other of my children would have had twenty questions, no fewer, for me, about the pile of bright floral and gingham fabrics. Any other of my children would have started asking me to sew something specific. Not Grace. Grace Hannah collects happinesses like I collect pretty bits of floral fabric. She just does. She can't help it.

.

Just last night, to give you an example of Grace's way of walking through the world, this same child burst into my bedroom at well past midnight. A headlamp blinded me as she excitedly bounced up and down on my side of the bed, waving two books in and out of the glow.

.

"I finished these, Mom! Do you want me to read them to you?"

.

"I want you to know what happens!"

.

There is something undeniable about Grace. She is enthusiastic; she's single-minded until she's inevitably distracted; she's effervescent. It didn't occur to her last night that she busted herself for reading well past "lights out" just as it didn't occur to her today that I might be sewing her birthday gifts in plain sight. She's just so full of joy, that girl. She's good medicine in a world that doesn't seem fluttery nor innocent right this minute.

.

What did I sew, you ask?

.

I slashed through a lot of my own personal stash creating a wardrobe for Grace's as-yet-unmet dream doll: Samantha, a beauty of an American Girl that my mom bought for our gorgeous middlest's seventh birthday. Samantha now has one period (1904-ish) outfit, three skirt-and-sweater sets and a pair of pajamas. Grace also has a lookalike skirt set so she and Samantha can dress in matchy-match glory tomorrow.

.

And now I feel as giddy as Grace! I can't wait to wake up in the morning and see her open her gifts! I couldn't be more pleased to bust through fabric than for this reason. It was a delicious day of sewing and school and reflecting on Grace's sparkly seven-year life.

.

Plus I made some room for more fabric. Isn't that the way it works?

RETREAT! Retreat. Retreat.

Retreat. Now there's a word that loses its meaning quickly upon repeat.

This weekend I am blessed to be among friends and fellow fabric hoarders at a once-yearly mystery quilting bonanza. I have chosen my fourteen (so not a typo) fabrics at the store and from my vast stash. I have wiped down various coffee spills from my sewing machine cover and I have assembled my seam ripper, that most important of portable quilting paraphernalia, and other ephemera necessary for cutting little bits of cloth and re-assembling them into something near art.

I am likely visiting quietly over and under and around the hum of a dozen sewing machines. At my table are moms and grandmoms and young career women and starving artists. We all have some things in common and it is not necessarily what you might think. Our color sense and our politics vary immensely. Our ages range from 25 to 80.

Our commonality, then? We are retreating. We are purposing, if you will allow that dubious verb, to give ourselves a weekend of beauty and productivity. We are breathing in and out and it is a meditation, this endless stitching while barely remembering to sip at a cup of tea.

In my preparations for the retreat I found myself frantic. Go figure. Instructions for the baby. Meal planning and preparation for the family. Last-minute laundering, mopping, swishing and swiping in (vain?) hope of returning to somewhere to sit, somewhere to lay my sewing machine down.

I even emailed my husband to say that the getting ready phase could be crazy, because I knew I'd be relaxed at some certain point. When we leave on vacation I'm usually similarly frantic with the packing and the pressure until we are seated, mocha in one hand and novel in another. Then comes the whoosh of relaxation, of ease. Nothing to be done! It's already done! I am without duties!

Not really sure where I'm going here? ME neither. It's just that, when I was getting ready for the quilting retreat, I kept hearing that Civil War movie cry of "RETREAT" in my head. There was a general chaos and sense of near-danger in the urgency of the moment. And yet now? I'm retreated. I'm out of the battle zone (yikes... not that my home is that!) and in another kind of zone.

Hope to show you some quilt squares, maybe a finished top, when I return. And I hope your weekend is restful. I hope you experience your own retreat, without, possibly, the frantic trampling out.

Ole! A cheap-to-free pinata that you can make too if you're so inclined

My kids don't think it's a party without a pinata.

I think driving into town just for a pinata is a waste of gasoline and time (yes, call me a killjoy if you like).

We can't use a balloon covered in paper mache because we have one child with a latex allergy. That would have been my go-to method for creating a homemade pinata in the past. What to do?

Oh, to count the problems a country mom can conquer with an oatmeal canister, some Elmer's School Glue and a bin full of tissue paper. Not only does it make a fine (if a tad too sturdy) pinata, it makes for a full afternoon of messy crafting fun.

First we dug in the craft bins for tissue and a suitable cardboard canister. We didn't choose a cereal box because the shape of the oatmeal box seemed like more fun. Upon further review I might choose to use a cereal box because it might be a little easier to break.

Then we cut a millionbajillion squarish pieces out of stacks and stacks of pastel tissue paper. If you were very patient you could make a pattern. We are not that patient.

Then we spread Elmer's in small patches on the canister and on the lid. A couple of girls worked each side of the pinata. Picking up a square at a time, we twisted the tissue around the eraser end of a pencil (remember this technique from making tissue daffodils in preschool?) and pressed the twists onto the glue-y cardboard tube.

Presto-chango, over a mere two hours of mess the cylinder became fluffy and princessy and fit for a birthday fiesta.

We poked two holes in the top of the canister walls and threaded a long loop of curling ribbon through. Then we filled it up with candy and treats and popped the decorated lid on. Don't forget to decorate the bottom too!

It was kind of hard to break but it was really pretty for a freebie.

So THAT's why one bagel costs $1.25!

oldGluten intolerance notwithstanding, we Suite family members love our bagels. When we do venture into a college town near us, we enjoy a splurge at a local bagel shop as much as the next Scrabble-playing girl.

And while we have for years been okay with baking a loaf of yeast bread (or five), making homemade bagels seemed too ... mysterious ... for us.

Until this week!
This was the week I donned one of my trusty vintage aprons and my courage. I cracked the Betty Crocker for procedural help and began with a yeasty bread dough of my own non-recipe.

(Roughly four cups of white flour, one cup of whole wheat. Two eggs. A cup or so of warm raw milk and a couple tablespoons of melted butter. Three teaspoons of yeast. Some kosher salt. Knead until your shoulders hurt. Rest. (The dough and yourself.) Let rise in a covered bowl until roughly double in size. Or, you know, use your bread machine on "dough" and a recipe. Whatever your modern homesteading heart desires.)


An hour or two later, split the risen dough into two, then each of those into six equal parts.

Roll each lump of slightly stiff dough into a ball and then make a hole in the middle. Stretch the little lump into a sort of a bagel shape. Contemplate this shape as a metaphor for a stage of life, an icon of ... something. (Not really. It seemed funny to me at the time.)

Check to make sure the baby is still asleep because you have a lot of steps left before you have bagels.

After the bagel-shaped lumps of dough have risen for about 20 minutes, broil them about two minutes per side. Betty says they're not supposed to brown. But I didn't read ahead, so mine did. Oh dear.

Meanwhile boil six cups of water, Betty says, with a tablespoon of sugar. Next time I'll boil more water in a bigger pot or else use multiple pots.

Pop the broiled bagels into your boiling/simmering water for seven minutes. I turned mine over halfway through because, hello, they floated like tiny life preservers. I promise I'm not speaking metaphorically again. A bagel is good, but it's not that good.

After they're all boiled, bake on a well-buttered (Betty says "greased" but that word grosses me out) sheet for about 25 minutes at 375 degrees.

Imagine you've died and gone to a bagel shop.

Imagine all the varieties you'll make next time. Blueberry. Onion. Cranberry. Parmesan. Not necessarily together.

Toasting optional!

I Sedum chairs?

I love sedum... and I love garden art... but I've never done anything to marry those two loves... until now.

When a painted, weathered porch chair lost its seat. That'll happen if you water a basket of geraniums on it all summer long for four years straight. And then, ahem, you use the chair as a stepstool to hang a banner for a yard party.

So the seat parted ways with the rest of the chair... and met up with some scraps of chicken wire. Cutting the chicken wire to size was the hardest part of the project. It helps if you take time to find wire snips instead of figuring the kitchen shears are "close enough." Don't ask how I know.

My lovely assistants gathered moss and carefully lined the chicken wire with a cushy planting area for sedum, which will love the airy drainage. I hope.

.

And on a side note, does it seem that my sorta-kinda-how-to is really more of a "how not to"?

Case in point. Moss and chicken wire will not support actual sitting.

.

I'll share pictures after I plant the sedum, which I have to dig up from between rocks and in a wheelbarrow I planted last year. Then I'll place the whole sculpture (artfully?) in the garden.

.

This was a fun, free project and it feels good to be back to making something out of nothing. Very farmgirl frugal of me.

.

Also? I know my puns are not that funny. But I crack myself up. And not just when falling through a porch chair.

.

What projects are you planning? Planting? Falling into?

The cherries are green and the rabbit hutch is ... pink

Try to pretend that photo's a depth-of-field experiment and therefore artistic-like. Also? Try to imagine we've already repainted the pink rabbit hutch to its proper barn red.

.

I am so beyond excited for the cherries on our new little trees. Last year's planting of the orchard was a milestone for us. This year the cherry trees are the clear overachievers among the spindly saplings. Thank goodness they all survived last summer's drought and last winter's cold snaps. The apples and pears and plums (o my) are looking healthy but fruitless. It's another good lesson in delayed gratification. Sometimes the lessons I need are my least favorite.

.

Unfortunately over the winter I lost my Meyer Lemon to a string of seven-degree nights. The tree was a gift from a friend and was actually bearing lemons along with heavenly scented flowers so the loss of it was super disappointing. (Read: I left the blackened tree up until just last weekend, when I finally felt the pressure to give it a proper funeral.) I did replace the lemon tree with a much, much smaller version that can come indoors in the cold weather. As my brother would say, it's on the ten-year track to becoming a real tree.

.

More of that patience training is in my future it seems.

.

Our Brown Turkey Fig tree is right on track for this area, however; it's just now budding out with what should soon be huge leathery leaves on a five-foot-tall unassuming stick of wood. It's miraculous, really, that something as delicious as a fig should come from (frankly, I hope the tree doesn't repay my compliment by refusing to bear fruit) such an ugly wintertime specimen.

.

One more new-to-us tree on the property is the dogwood. Oh, how I love a dogwood tree. Ours is sporting three tiny blossoms. I wonder how the nursery forced it to display those big, fat, glowing white bracts last year? Maybe I need to build it a little shelter. Or, you know, maybe I need to consider that some dogwood trees don't appear to bloom for years after transplanting.

.

Practice patience. Focus on the positive. Bring the lemon tree inside in the winter.

.

All lessons I could have learned by reading books, made real by my garden.

But wait! It's a gardening post!

The dog found that harmless little garden helper snake during our recent outdoor project weekend. Thank goodness for "zoom" on the camera. Regardless of its reputation as a soil helper and pest deterrent, Grace and I stayed far, far away. Everyone else thought it was cute. (I'd like to redefine cute for certain members of our family.)

I think it's more than a little ironic that Laura will literally and unashamedly roll in chocolate and will happily but surreptitiously eat cat food, but has a conniption over a little garden dirt on her hands. She gets only one of those traits from her mother.

And now we get to the gardening part! (Those are not sea creatures but rather small hairy representatives of being truly rooted at this home. In fact, we've now lived here nearly four years... a record in our oft-moving marriage. Planting of a long-term crop is significant, I tell you. And also? When a parenthetical statement gets this long it probably should be another post.)

Mr. Suite dug two 12-inch-deep trenches for my new asparagus crowns. The dog just supervised. I explained to him more than 10 years ago that the only unforgivable dog sin is digging in the garden. He seems to understand.

After the trenches were prepared, Madeleine carefully mounded dirt at 15-inch intervals and lovingly placed the roots over the mounds, staking each mound as she went. For two weeks I've been sifting soil onto the new growth. In three years we'll eat homegrown asparagus. I'm pretty sure there's a lesson in delayed gratification here. (Um, and at the risk of getting all philosophical on you, there might be a lesson in the totally foreign concept that we won't move in a seven-year span. Yikes.)

So we started the garden with some cabbage, a few rows of peas, a dozen rainbow chard and a half-dozen varieties of lettuce. My role is greatly reduced (to that of supervision) by virtue of being in the magical third trimester. See how that's working for me? It's better than last year's unending physical labor. So far. In a month and a half or so I guess I'll make up lost "ground" with another kind of labor.

My $2.99 family room makeover ... the tease edition

Those are the mix-and-match fabrics I grabbed from my stash for a much-needed sofa slipcover.

Needed? Nah. (I am so mortified to post that picture. It's almost as bad as the kitchen before of yore after which Lexi exposed evidence, hotly debated by me, of a tequila/margarita "habit." Exposed stuffing... almost as bad as suspicion of drinking on the blog.)

.

We've actually had a SureFit slipcover on this sofa for the past few years or so. I think the brand name SureFit is ingenious in the same way a small car becomes "comfortable" in the advertisements. Of necessity there's no mention that you can't get your knees to fit between the steering wheel and seat. In this manner, the SureFit slipcover, while cute, needs constant adjustment, tucking, cursing, and so it's time to make a fitted cover for the body and new upholstery for the seats to hold it all together.

.

I wanted a new sofa even though this one is unbelievably comfortable. Well-made in that annoying heirloom furniture way. (Ugly but too good to throw out.) It's just, um, not my color scheme and it's HUGE. It takes up the entire den. So I wanted a new sofa even before some mysterious strange phenomenon (can you say "my children never jump on the furniture"?) started pulling the upholstery and underlying thin layer of down and feathers to bits.

.

However: I shopped for MONTHS for a new sofa before deciding to tackle this project in the face of my shopping failure. (Hardly a first. Shopping and me, we're like t --- h --- i ---s.) I have slipcovered before, friends, and it's not a job for a girl in her third trimester with accompanying asthma, pre-term labor, a family to feed, etc.

.

Nevertheless. I'm sewing. And I'll keep you posted.

Good Good Friday

We're having a quiet day at home with our hot cross buns. Hope your day is blessed as well.

But ... Daddy can buy them back, right?

I baked some bread for a fundraising auction.

Gracie didn't want to see them leave.

She knows how to make her mommy feel appreciated.

Fun with flatbread

Hmm... mine looks a little pasty compared to the loaf on the cover of the book.

I've been baking with my fantastic birthday gift book Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day. I still make sandwich bread the "old fashioned" way, but it's fun to make focaccia and French bread too.

That photo is my first-ever loaf of focaccia. It was pretty flat. And underdone. The book recommended against using the boule' the first day... did I listen? But I'm learning. And that's fun. The authors, Hertzberg and Francois, have just published a new book featuring more whole-grain recipes. (Too bad my next birthday is so far away.) But the latest issue of Mother Earth News includes a few of them! Hurray for frugal and fun!

And healthy. A-hem.

Welcome to Nice

We don't live anywhere near Nice in the literal sense. I think it's in California, although without a quick Google map check I can't be sure. (And even then, with Google maps, who knows.) We drove through this charming town on our way home from my favorite city:

We also don't live near San Francisco, not close enough to have visited since last summer.

But I have my ten thousand two hundred and forty eight pictures to comfort me. And my sense of Nice. As in, nice to be home. (Even when the cabin fever is causing some of my over-abundant head of hair to thin. I'm sure of it.)

***

So this morning I was putting some split pea soup ingredients into my slow cooker. Who doesn't love a slow cooker? Honestly. And homemade soup at the end of the day? Too good.

Grace Hannah (5) passed through the kitchen and gasped as I emptied half of my canister of dried split peas into the Crockpot along with diced carrots, onions and a ham hock.

"What's for dinner, Mommy?"

"Split pea soup. Yum, yum." Because you know if I don't add that she'll never grasp that some people prefer their legumes without a fuss. And the additional bribes of grated cheese and homemade biscuits and a big glass of fresh milk. Right? EveryMom is with me on this. I'm sure of it.

"Oh, okay." Wait for it. "But when you're out of the peas can you pleasepleaseplease buy more?"

"Of course!" This is the moment when my deranged or at least deluded homemaker self believed she's come to enjoy pea soup or at least to appreciate a well-stocked pantry.

"Oh, good. I need those for gluing to things at craft time."

Welcome to Nice. Where we build bridges to food appreciation in innovative ways every day.

Homemade baking mix... no hydrogenated fat!

So much cuter than Betty Crocker. And free of hydrogenated fats, too.

All cryptic flattery of my baby girl aside, I have to tell you ladies (And gentlemen? Any?) that I have SO MANY homesteading/homemaking adventures that I just never post about.

Sometimes it's because it's a big flop, like whole wheat-oatmeal bread on a humid day. Or a dress that's hemmed cattywampus and has to be hacked off to become a swing top. Or overplanting the green beans and ending up with a new resident crow flock that won't leave. I could go on, because, as I've said before, I would get voted off "Survivor: Homestead Edition" lickety-split.

So sometimes I don't write about my projects because they don't work. But more often I fail to share my experiments and day-to-day home projects because I'm a little intimidated by all the truly talented crafters, writers, bakers, photographers, seamstresses and so on in this lovely blogosphere.

You know who you are.

But I haven't seen anyone posting this particular take on a quick biscuit mix. And since I came up with it all on my own, and since it really works for us, I thought I'd share. (Despite my worries that someone will say, "sheesh, she's a little late to the party, hunh?" NOT that any of YOU would do that. No way.) So if all the cool kids are already on board with the homemade baking mixes, just humor me. Because you're gracious like that. And because it was a little breakthrough for me, so maybe it'll help someone else.

Enough with the backing into the lead already.

I give you:

Miriam's Homemade Hydrogenated-Fat-Free Quick Mix

8.5 Cups all-purpose flour (I use half whole wheat)
1 T baking powder
1 T salt
2 t cream of tartar
1 t baking soda
1.5 cups instant dry milk
2.25 cups coconut oil (this is found in the baking aisle next to the Crisco and is solid at room temp)

In my biggest mixing bowl I whisk together the dry ingredients. Then I cut in the coconut oil with a pastry thingamajig until all the pieces of coconut oil are smaller than the size of a pea and evenly distributed. You can use your food processor in smaller batches.

This mix works great one-f0r-one for whatever you'd use Bisquick for: waffles, pancakes, biscuits, muffins. It's convenient and of course free of hydrogenated fats.

More baking ... and the chickens are molting

"Molting" is one of those words that sounds exactly as it is: gross-me-out, gag-me-with-a-spoon, molting is revolting. Seriously. There's nothing cute about a laying hen with half her feathers on the henhouse floor. (Picture mange. Only poultry. And you know, natural rather than fungi-created.)

You'd think everything about my sweet little fluffy egg producers would appeal to me. But you'd be wrong, because as molting creatures they are mostly featherless and charmless creatures. Also I have been (gasp) buying eggs, which annoys me to no end. Once you've switched to free range eggs there's almost no going back. Unless you have to make cookies. So I'm buying eggs.

And ... I'm feeding cat food to the hens. I heard this farm girl tip from one of the old-timers at the general store. Something in the cat food supposedly makes their molting stage speed up and their cute fluffy egg-laying selves return.

Who knew I could be so fickle?

A little rain, a little Scrabble, a little bread

The girls and I have been writing in the rain. Doesn't that sound dreamy? Good old Oregon downpours beating on the skylights while the animals all huddle in their shelters and the family snuggles up with their notebooks and pens and a slice (or three) of oatmeal cinnamon swirl bread.

Even Grace (5) has been learning to play Scrabble with us. Word to the wise: "Kid spelling" and Scrabble can work just fine as long as you don't have any 9-year-old spelling gurus unwilling to go with the flow.

Don't worry. It's nothing a little more koko and toste won't cure.