Category Archives: Special Interests

I’m almost fifty years old and I’ve never roasted chestnuts. I’ve sung about it plenty, but never actually roasted chestnuts on an open fire. Never even ate a chestnut. Go figure. 

I often pull recipes out of cooking magazines and keep them in neat plastic page savers to create my own cookbooks. A few years ago, I collected a recipe for roasted chestnuts and mushrooms. Every Christmas I think about making it, but I don’t because I can’t find chestnuts in the supermarket and I never think to order them in advance. Yesterday, I’m in the supermarket in the produce department and I see a basket of chestnuts on sale for only 99 cents. Clearance special. Ye-haw. I pick up two baskets thinking I’ll try that holiday recipe at long last. Cool.

When I get home, I flip open my recipe book and see that I’m supposed to use canned, roasted chestnuts. Mine are raw, still in the shell. No problem. I’ll just figure out how to roast them. They’ve been doing it for a hundred years (the song is proof) so how hard can it be? I go on-line to get the know how and learn that I should cut a slit in the shells (no easy task, I assure you) put them on a cookie sheet, and roast them at 450 for 20 minutes. Then, I’m to press the moisture out of the nut, remove the outer shells and I’ll have freshly roasted chestnuts for the recipe. I go about this laborious chore feeling very Christmassy. I’m humming the song, of course.

When the timer goes off I turn off the oven and open the door. A waft of smoke almost affiliates me. I cough and gag and pull out the cookie sheet to see little black, shriveled chestnuts rolling about. I put a few in a kitchen towel to “squeeze out the moisture” but they’re as dry as a bone. Hummm….. I crack one open and even though it is hot enough to burn my tongue, I take a bite. Almost break a tooth. The nutmeat inside is as hard the shell and the taste is like a combination of cardboard and bitter chalk, not unlike taking a bite out of a raw cinnamon stick hoping it just might taste like donuts.

I spit out the nut, rub my tongue on the towel then take a huge gulp of coffee (I always cook with coffee or wine, depending on the hour and the dish being created).

Mark comes home and asks what I’m making. I tell him there’s a cheesecake in the oven (his mother’s request) and a sweet potato casserole (his favorite) and sage and sausage stuffing (Kent’s favorite). I just put a peach aspic in the fridge and I was getting ready to start a dessert using my homemade mint cordial (which came out glorious, by the way). I still need to make something chocolate because we’ve invited a few friends and I know they count on getting a chocolate extravaganza when I’m cooking. I’ll finish off or add to these pre-made dishes tomorrow while making the rest of the meal, but I like to get a good start and some things need to be refrigerated overnight. I tell him he’s getting spaghetti for dinner, but he has to wait. I’m in the throws of Christmas feast creation, don’t ya know.

I then point out my crispy chestnuts and give him an overview of my folly. He grimaces and says, “Good. I hate chestnuts.”

“When have you ever had chestnuts?”
 
“A few years ago they sold roasted chestnuts at the holiday in lights display at Callaway Gardens, so I tried them, remember? They were awful.”

“Well, that had to be because they were a mass produced, holiday gimmick. Chestnuts have to be better when made the old fashion way. It’s a pretty famous Christmas thing, roasted chestnuts.”

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that if the dang things did taste good, you’d find them everywhere this time of year, the same way cocoa drinks become the monthly special at the coffeehouse or peppermint finds it’s way into desserts or ice cream flavors.  Apparently, chestnuts suck and everyone knows it but me.

This morning, I’m going to the supermarket to pick up a pre-ordered prime tenderloin beef roast, my traditional Christmas Eve main course. I wrap it in puffed pastry trucking a layer of sautéed mushrooms under the crispy coating. While there, I might just look for those canned chestnuts. It’s the principal of the thing, you see. I don’t think it’s fair to give up an entire food product without giving it a fair shot, and if I find the one and only recipe that makes chestnuts palatable, it will give me something to brag about every December.  If nothing else, my roasted chestnuts and mushroom-onion sauté will be a horrible side dish that everyone can make fun of – but at least my kids won’t grow up to be fifty never having tasted roasted chestnuts.  I realize I might ruin the song for everyone, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take in the interest of food exploration.

So that’s my plan for today. I’ll be feeding everyone to kick off Christmas indulgence. I’ll start with the big bones I bought for the dogs, move on to the bananas and carrots I have for the angora rabbits and dig out some apples and carrots for the llama and horses. I’m going to clean the fridge so the chickens will have a bag full of wilted produce and fruit to pick at too. Then, I’ll move on to family and friends. I’ll seduce them with my melt in the mouth beef tenderloin and a host of gourmet side dishes, homemade wine, and cordials. There will be an inviting display of desserts awaiting them on the sideboard offering the promise of a sweet finale. This will help them relax, confident that everything I serve is great – then, when they are eating with relish and not paying attention, I’ll spoon those damn chestnuts onto their plate and see what happens.

There is a little Grinch in all of us.
 

Forget the North Pole. Santa lives in Blue Ridge. I see him all the time.

When I lived in New York, I was convinced I was in the Santa capitol of the world. This time of year, a Santa stood ringing a bell in front of a metal Salvation Army collection pot on every street corner. I’d throw in a few quarters as I passed by thinking, “Are you the one?” Sometimes these Santa’s had dark skin, bushy eyebrows, the wrong colored eyes, or they were too short or too tall. They might be women, young yuppie types, elderly, or so lacking “jolly-ness” that I wasn’t fooled a bit. 

In Blue Ridge, Santa doesn’t wear a red suit and he certainly doesn’t ring a bell to bring attention to himself. He goes about his days like everyone else with a twinkle in his eye and his bushy white beard ungroomed. Often, he wears overalls and work boots. Just the other day, I saw Santa at the hardware store. He was loading his truck with two by fours. As I passed, he nodded and winked. I gasped!

I saw two Santas at the Waffle House last week. Perhaps it was Santa and his brother. Their round stomachs filled the booth leaving little room for the plate of biscuits and gravy they were downing. White hair and beards covered the collars of their flannel plaid shirts and one wore a John Deer baseball cap. They were talking about how the endless rain is making a mess at their barns. Must be tough on the reindeer, I thought.

If you go to Copperhill, there’s a store called Christmas is Here and Santa is inside working the register. On a slow day, he works on his hand-carved wooden bowls in the corner of the shop. You can often see him whittling away at a chunk of wood, proving the elves need help once in a while. He doesn’t wear a Santa suit on an average day any more than an army recruit would go around in full dress uniform, but he’s always in a red shirt. Santa is a subtle guy on an average day.

We have our traditional Santa wanna-bes too. Good Samaritans decked out in red velvet pass out gifts at the bank or make an appearance at fundraisers. A traditional Santa rides the train to the Light up Blue Ridge ceremony and sits in the decorated gazebo in the park to take pictures with the kids. Mrs. Claus hands out peppermint sticks by his side. It’s a lovely holiday tradition, but this year I noticed the real Santa in the crowd, a bit of chew in his cheek and mud on the hem of his work-worn jeans. He was lifting a grandchild over his head to give her a better view of the impostor. Santa has no ego when it comes to having fun. He didn’t ho, ho, ho, but he had a hearty laugh and the way he hugged that child and gave her a tickle to make her squeal gleefully was the epitome of Christmas love to me.

Forget the corny, commercialism that is such a part of Christmas in areas of the country where commerce drives the soul and everyone is too frazzled to pause for a cup of homemade eggnog. If you want to live in a place where Christmas lives in the heart and even Santa understands you don’t have to put on airs, come to Blue Ridge. Christmas is as wholesome and natural here as the holly growing in the woods outside your cabin door, as the deer that dart from the fur trees as you surprise them on a walk, and as real as rubbing elbows with Santa at the coffee shop.

This week, I received my 200.00 prize money from New Southerner for winning the essay contest. Though I feel guilty that I haven’t been contributing to the family coffers, I couldn’t help but feel I should do something for myself with this, the first check offered for my writing. I want to commemorate the occasion, so perhaps I should buy myself a pretty piece of jewelry – a silver llama charm to wear on a chain or something. The essay is about spinning, but I don’t spin at home for lack of some needed equipment. Maybe I should buy myself a carder, which I’ve wanted for eighteen months now, so I can start spinning more as a reward for my writing about the subject well.

The problem is, the idea of buying myself this sort of gift just doesn’t do it for me. What I am feeling about my little ego boost is gratitude, so I want to use the prize in a way that reflects gratitude.

So yesterday, I pulled out my Heifer catalogue and I asked Neva to help me chose how to allocate the spoils. She wanted me to buy a pig, but when I reminded her the money was received for a piece about spinning, she agreed sending a llama to a needy family in a third world country would be most appropriate. This left us with an additional 50 bucks to spend, so we also bought a share in a “knitting basket”, which is two llamas, two sheep, and training to begin a small wool business. A family half way around the world will soon be spinning, not as a hobby but as a life sustaining occupation, because of my writing. They will pass the first born from their gift livestock to another needy family, making this is a gift that keeps on giving. Perfect.

Neva perused the catalogue and said, “Hey, they have donkeys in here, but they are only offered with an entire ark, and that costs five thousand dollars. Maybe when you sell your book we can get one of those.”

Ahem. I wish.

Positive responses to my Donkey book are now filtering in everyday from agents. I am floored. Humbled. Thrilled. The problem is, they all want an exclusive to read and consider the manuscript, so I have to go slow and pick someone I feel will be the best match for me, then prepare for the waiting game. Meanwhile, I worry that the other agents will lose interest if I don’t react in a timely manner. I probably shouldn’t have queried more than a few at first, but I had no idea the book concept would be received with such enthusiasm.  Nice to have this kind of problem, but I worry about shooting my wad of opportunity in one frenzied tumble. Best to make love to your book slowly, I think.

I keep going through the book, tweaking it a bit here, adding a bit there. I need to let it go and begin a new project and I know what I want to write next – another memoir, but this one about teaching someone to read. The book will be about self-education with parallels between growing up a dancer and growing up illiterate, two things that severely narrow a person’s world. I know it sounds like a stretch, but this will be a story about two women with diverse life experiences that actually have a great deal in common. They both overcome their limitations by opening a new door and expanding their horizons. At least, in my head, the idea has merit. We’ll see.

I also keep returning to my historicals. Writing those gritty stories is how I party in my head, lose myself in adventure and romance and spin tales to make my toes curl. Yes, in the end, I am a romance and history junky with a great love for another time and place. So shoot me. Man, I wish those were the books that had agents fobbing back my query balls. I still think I would be a kick butt romance writer with books that you could sink your teeth into (rather than silly costume dramas). Maybe someday . . .

Today, the family is going to Atlanta to see Ain’t Misbehavin then to a display of 100 decorated Christmas trees at a holiday expo. I saw this show on Broadway about 25 years ago, so I will probably leave feeling nostalgic, missing dance and the former, younger, me. I figure the Christmas trees will counteract any funk the Broadway fix might trigger. How’s that for strategic planning?

I am eager to put up our own Christmas decorations. I feel a need for festivity. I think it makes the cold easier for me to bear. Granted, I love the change of seasons and any excuse to pull out all those great layered winter clothes. I happen to think I look sporting in a turtleneck . I don’t mind cuddling in a sweater in front of a fire or driving around doing errands in a car with my butt warmer on high. But man, having to go down to the barn twice a day to crack the ice on the water buckets and wrestle with a stiff hose with frozen fingers gets old fast. Tis the season for lugging water from home because the pump doesn’t work outside, sinking into the mud and ruining your shoes, and getting dirty changing light bulbs in the chicken pen to keep the younger birds from freezing. Tis the season to pick ice icicles off of Donkey’s nose and battle the mice that suddenly discover the feed room the only dining hall open this time of year. Yeah, for the next three months it’s all big fun for Ginny.

Ah well. We all know the saying . . . . be careful what you wish for.

Hey I know! I should write an essay about the cold and it will win a contest so I can buy a heater . . . for some needy family living in Antiartica. That would warm my heart, if not my own tush. It’s a plan, man.

Today, coming home from a lesson with Kathy, I had a grand find. Several months ago, someone opened a little bookstore in a tiny, old church down the street from me. I’ve passed it several times, but assumed it was probably a Christian Book Store, buried in the midst of nowhere in a rural community that has more churches than gas staions and restaurants put together. Not the kind of place someone with my reading tastes would shop.

Today, I sailed past the store as I always do, but thought a bit of exploring sounded like a good way to avoid the work waiting for me at home, so I turned around in a church parking lot just past the gravel drive and went back. I figured, no matter what I found inside, I’d buy something just to support the tiny business. It never has cars in the parking lot, at least none that I’ve noticed. Actually, there isn’t a parking lot, just two empty grassy spaces under some Oak trees where you can wedge a car. Higdon’s Bookstore was once a small, white, one room church set back from the main road in a grove of trees, hardly a promising location for a fledgling business. 

As I entered the small enterprise, I had to admit that looks can be deceiving. You should never judge a book (or a book store) by its cover. The shop was as quaint as could be. Imagine a fictional store in a sentimental movie striving to invent such a charming atmosphere it would make moviegoers sigh and say, “those were the days”. Anyone who loves books could lose themselves in the simplistic, non-materialistic atmosphere created in this old church. The walls inside were lined with wonderful used books of all genres and interests. There were sections for mysteries, romances and New York bestsellers, but a huge section of Georgia authors, history, non-fiction, and classics too. Two stained, well–worn chairs were set up in a corner inviting customers to sit and read and the woman sitting at the desk was as friendly and delighted to see me as my own grandmother would be. I noticed she was reading The Life of Pi, and couldn’t help but ask how she liked the story. Soon we were talking about all sorts of books and when she saw that I was interested in the Georgia authors, she mentioned that a few local residents were writers as well. She said she was always particularly delighted when they came in. Of course, this opened up a conversation about my writing pursuits and what I was working on now, and she was as encouraging and interested as a person could be. An instant fan and cheerleader. Only in Blue Ridge! 

I have been going to the Margret Mitchell House to hear authors lecture for some time. Yesterday, I was scheduled to go hear Anne Rivers Siddons, but the event was canceled. I usually go to these things alone, because Mark is busy working and while I know he’d humor me and join me if I guilted him into it, the fact is, literary events are not really his thing, so I always invite, but never pressure him to go . This time, not wanting to spend another evening alone, I invited Denver. When I explained that she would spend the evening with posh Atlanta intellectuals, sipping wine and feeling ever so sophisticated as she listened to good literature, she was game. She even took off work. When the evening bombed out, she was actually disappointed, but I made arrangements to drag her next week to hear Charles Martin who will be promoting his new book, Where the River Ends. (It’s a remarkable book about a man (an artist) taking his fatally ill wife on a final canoe trip down the river to die, with disapproving family members in pursuit. They spend the journey reflecting on life, love and the world at large. If you love the concept of people taking a journey on the river, with the element of nature, family, love and art thrown into the mix– well this is one fascinating book. When I read the short description, I immediately bought the book and made arrangements to hear the author read. The storyline was very compelling to me.)

Anyway, I haven’t read Siddons material yet, and sure enough there was an entire shelf of her novels at the store. Since the author will rescheduled the lecture at a later date, I picked up several of her books. I also found a section of big print novels which my mother in law devours at the rate of three a week. I can’t seem to keep her stocked up no matter how I hunt for more reading material because large print novels are rather difficult to find, not to mention costly. I picked up several big print romances (her favorite) for a fraction of the price I spend even when I buy them used on Amazon. I couldn’t help but notice most of the novels I had to purchase for my masters were there, with titles by Toni Morrison and Alice Munro set up on shelves in positions of prominence. I thought, Gee, where was this store when I needed it? They may deal mostly in used books, but they don’t focus only on paperback gene novels or best sellers. It is a class act.

I found a book I haven’t read by Bill Bryson, (my hero) and eyed several others that I will come back for when I catch up on my ever growing “to read” pile. I spent 43.00 and came away with a grocery bag full of books. The woman working the desk encouraged me to bring in my books for trade. I warned her that I’m someone who could fill half the store if they let me, and she said, “We are hoping people like you will get involved in our exchange. Please bring in whatever you’re finished with.” She explained the store pays something for used books and puts the amount in an in-store account. You must pay ½ in cash for purchases, but your credit can be used for the rest. Sounds fair and economical for all involved. When I lived in New York and was too poor to purchase books at the rate I read them, I used to go to a paperback exchange with the same system. I loved it.

I could have stuck around for hours, but I had things to do at home, so I dragged myself away, knowing I’d return regularly. I’ll even bring my mother in law and let her pick some books out herself on Friday since I’ll be looking for something to do with her that day.

I have always said that what I miss most since moving here is a Barnes N Nobel. I love the windfall of books on display at super bookstores, love browsing for things I don’t’ really know I want until I see them. The problem with having to shop at Amazon (which has been my bookstore since moving here) is that you have to have an idea of what you’re looking for. This narrows your exploration somewhat. The adorable little bookstore I stumbled upon today is better than any big franchise could be in my humble opinion. It’s intimate, cost effective, and the friendly aura adds charm to the reading experience. I’ve always been one who hates the cookie cutter element of franchises, so I’m particularly enchanted by the uniqueness of a place like this. I love the independence of a single store without a conglomerate doing the thinking for it. I love that there is history in the building and the fact that someone who loves books chose to open against all odds in the middle of nowhere and has created a shopping experience like no other. All they need is a coffee bar to offer the perfect book browsing experience, but then, expecting a latte with a novel proves I’m a victim of social training, doesn’t it? Coffee in a book store is a distraction when you think about it – a vehicle to get people to come in and hang around for reasons other than reading. It increases the profit margin and the traffic, offering something to keep the non-readers busy while the readers shop. But it certainly has nothing to do with reading. Break the cycle of marketing hypnosis and consumer manipulation, I say!  Who needs coffee at a bookstore? Anyway, if I really feel its necessary, I bet I could bring my own thermos, pull up a chair and share a cup a joe with the woman at the register at Higdons.

I love when you discover something special right in your own backyard – even though I kick myself a little for having passed judgment before seeing for myself what it was really all about. I hate discovering I’ve acted like some know it all, willing to condemn an idea before giving it a shot at success. If everyone thought like me and avoided going and to give this little store a chance, this charming place would be sure to fail. Shame on me. But I’m glad now something compelled me to go in despite my preconcieved notions. 

Higdon’s bookstore is a delight. I deserve what I get for having missed out on this convenient, sweet book heaven these past months. But I know better now and I’ll make up for lost time, not only as a die-hard regular, but by telling everyone I know about it.
Consider yourself told.

Yesterday, I decided it was time to take honey off my bees for the first time. I was nervous – not because I’d be robbing the bees (I don’t fear them at all) but because I had to use this new fangled honey extractor and my untried, heated uncapping knife and I had no clue what I was doing. I’ve waited over a year to do this, and I didn’t’ want to botch it up and have to wait another year to harvest honey.

I began by checking my two new bee hives, the ones I set up this April. Something is wrong. The comb they are building is erratic, lumpy and disconnected. It’s spilling out to the sides and attaching to the roof in clumps, while the nice, neat frames are empty. One hive has tons of new bees. The other one isn’t reproducing quite as well, but they are alive and trying their best. If they don’t get their act together, they won’t survive the winter, however. I’m thinking the erratic comb may be because I bought the new foam core hives that they advertise as being easier to lift (perfect for a woman) rather than the old fashion wooden hives. Perhaps the bees don’t like it. I bought both swarms from the same company. Perhaps they’re stupid, reject bees the company wanted to unload. Then again, maybe these weaker hives are being robbed by the stronger hive or they have caught a virus. I will have to do some research to see if I can rectify this problem or at least define what is going on. I guess it will teach me something – though I can’t stand the idea of another year lost due to the learning curve.

I then went to check my year old hive. The bees were abundant, swarming happily all about me – well, they were until I began to remove their frames filled with honey. Then they got pissed. I was shocked at how heavy a frame filled with honey, capped with wax is. Each one weighted about 7 pounds. Considering there are ten in a super, the box was difficult to lift. First, I had to remove the bees. I smoked them, and then put this stinky bee removal pad on the top of the hive. I almost poisoned myself, because I used my mouth to bite off the plastic seal on the top, and suddenly my tongue was burning and an awful taste overcame me. It’s not like I was eating the stuff, but for several minutes it felt like my face was on fire. I had a bottle of water in the drink holder in my mule, so I splashed water in and around my mouth and hoped for the best. Obviously, no damage was done, but it was another lesson learned. Respect bee chemicals – check.

The bees moved out of the hive, or at least most did. A few stubbornly refused to budge, and I swept them away with my bee brush only to have them fly around my back and return again. Gotta love hard worker’s tenacity.

Considering I am inexperienced at this, I was in a quandary about what to do next. Should I leave the supper box empty or fill it with blank frames? I intended to bring the frames back after removing the honey so the bees would have a head start refilling them, but how long would it take me to extract honey and would the bees freak out in the meantime? I ended up leaving blanks frames in the box and headed to the house to extract my honey. I also read you need to do this in a place where the bees won’t find you, so I set up my extractor in the garage.

I gingerly cut away the wax capping in one smooth motion as the instructions said. Clumps of wax filled with honey dropped into a pan. Neva and her best friend watched, coaching me as if they had some clue of how this should be done. When both sides of the frame had been cut away and it was now dripping honey, I slid it into the extractor. When four frames were ready (to balance the centrifugal force inside) I let Neva rotate the handle to begin spinning. She put some muscle into it, and suddenly honey came oozing out from the bottom spout – exciting,  but it was filled with broken comb and debris.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t spin so rigorously,” I suggested.
So she spun softer. Then the honey barely extracted and the frame remained gooey.
“OK, back to spinning faster,” I said, deciding that broken comb might be a normal thing. How would I know?
“We flipped the frame two times to get the honey extracted. In the end, the frames were still honey damp , but I had half a five gallon bucket filled and several frames to go. Wow.

When we were finished, we poured the honey through a huge strainer to remove the clumps of comb and one or two dead bees – death by honey suffocation– sad way to go.
The honey oozed slowly, purified amber that was thick and sweet once strained. I then poured it into bottles I had ordered for just this day. By the way, don’t use a funnel if you ever try this. Takes forever. The direct pour method is best.

Next, I had to decide what to do with the wax capping. It was filled with honey and I remember reading somewhere that you could melt it to make the wax separate. So I put this mess in my favorite cooking pan to melt the wax (big mistake). As it was heating, I got out my beekeeper’s book to see if it had any advice on wax preparation (Um… I couldn’t wait to read about what I was doing first?) I was supposed to use a double boiler to melt beeswax to avoid a wax fire, and there was no mention of honey separating. They did warn you that you would proabaly ruin the pan used. Oops. I poured the liquid mess into a paper container hoping for the best. This morning I inspected it to find the wax had hardened but was floating over a lot of honey. I threw this honey away however, not knowing how heating it the day before might have affected its longevity or safety. (More research required). I washed the honey off the backside of the wax and melted this mess again (in a small plastic container standing in a double boiler this time) This concoction is now hardening for Mark, who’s only interest in my keeping bees is his getting bees wax for wood finishes. I really hoped to present him with some usable wax but I have no clue if my experiment will work.
   
I did end up with 20 bottles of honey which will certainly last us the winter. I probably retrieved half the honey a healthy hive is supposed to deliver, partially because I had only one super to remove and it wasn’t entirely filled, and partly because I didn’t know how to extract efficiently to gain the greatest harvest. And I’ve left two huge boxes filled with comb, honey and brood for the bees to last the winter. At least I learned what not to do. By next year, with three hives to harvest (hopefully) and some awareness of what honey extraction entails, I’ll be far more graceful and efficient at the task. 

I put the empty frames out by the hives so the bees could clean up the remaining honey (I read about that in beekeeper magazine.) Later, I worried that a honey soaked frame would attract ants. Gee, everything new you try comes with a unique set of problems. I will check the frames today, and if they look OK, I’ll put them back and see how that works for the bees.

While I had my bee suit on, I decided to remove the basketball sized paper wasp nest at the end of our driveway. Usually we wait until fall when the nests go dormant to try to retrieve such things, but the wasps are a threat situated right where people walk everyday, and sometimes when you wait, rain, wind and animals destroy the nests. This one was too pretty to risk.

I approached slowly and cut the branch the nest was attached too, lowering the paper ball into a big garbage sack. Immediately, a hundred angry wasps emerged and swarmed all about my body and face in attack mode.
I was a little nervous, because while my bee suit is great amour around little honey bees, I’ve never tested it with more aggressive insects. Luckily, I couldn’t feel a thing, but still, I didn’t like all those nasty wasps covering me, so I walked quickly up the hill to the house shooing them away. Eventually, they flew off leaving me holding a buzzing bag of very confused and angry wasps, now trapped in the dark with their air slowly ebbing away. (Gosh it sounds creul now that I’m describing it.) The sack was literally vibrating with the motion inside, which felt more dangerous than it really was. I tied the top tightly, put it on the porch and happily got away. Today, I’ll move it to the barn storage area for a year long rest and by next year I’ll have a perfect, wonderful nest for decoration. I’m told if you spray these paper nests with hairspray they hold together for years. I’ll try that with the ones we retrieved last season and see if it works.

With jars of honey decorating the counter (had to show them off, ya know) I was feeling like nature’s personal chef, so I dragged Neva to the blue berry bush and we picked several gallons of ripe berries. Together, we made three batches of jam. I could have made more with our windfall, but when she wasn’t’ looking, I hid a bucket full in the freezer to make wine later this week. I bottled two more batches, one merlot and one chardonnay, recently and even put together a winerack to hold them, though I confess it was more to keep the house looking neat since it is for sale than because I wanted to display my wine. I make it faster than we can drink it and the bottles do build up. I have another 60 that will soon be ready to process…. Um…. perhaps another rack, like bookends would look nice. 


So concludes my culinary projects for one day.

Still no baby llama. Pulani’s udders are full. Her belly has dropped. She looks overly ripe.  I figure now that I’ve got my jam and honey projects off my to-do list, it’s time we finish off this llama ordeal. I just have to convince Pulani to work with me here. Fat chance.

I am dilligently working on a memoir now, and though it is hard to capture the level of honesty that defines a truly good book, I am happy with my progress. Writing is exhausting when done well, and it drains you to the core, so I find myself having to leave my computer to seek diversions every hour or so. I blog less because I simply can’t sit still anymore after my work. That’s a shame considering how much I value this system of keeping in contact with friends . And when I go to the barn or cook dinner, I continue working in my head – never a break from the project at hand.   I wish I could just get the book done so it wouldn’t keep swarming around my head like yesterday’s wasps. Sometimes I miss the days when writing to me was simply losing myself in a friviolous romance story, and yet, I’m compelled by other challenges now. Evolution. It’s a bitch.


    

Summer is a wonderful time for family . . . except for the fact that after about a week, you want to kill your sweet offspring The kids wake up everyday wondering what you have planned to entertain them, and after two days of Neva announcing she was bored and my answering “no, you’re boring” (very snotty mother, I can be) I decided to figure out some organized activities – quick. I signed her up for two sessions of Girl Scout Sleep away horseback riding camp (and a third  session that happens to be a mother daughter horse camp we will attend together. Once a girl scout, always a girl scout, you know, and I figure this is the closest I’m going to get to camping with my favorite girl nowadays.)

So, we scurried around getting her ready for a week away from home. It just so happens that as I was checking my e-mail for a camp confirmation, I received a message from the Campbell Folk School that they were offering a June special with guaranteed space and a discounted rate for local residents. As if on auto-pilot, I signed up for a class for the week Neva was going to be gone. It seemed like a good idea in the moment, because Mark has been working all the time, Kent is busy with friends and I’m alone most of the week anyway. My taking a class now would not interrupt the family at all. But moments after I sent in a registration, I was sorry. A week alone would be prime opportunity to get some decent writing done, sans guilt, and to spend uninterrupted time with the horses too. Damn me.

The more I thought about it, the more I really wanted to kick myself for signing up, but I felt it would be too irresponsible to forfeit the 50% deposit ten minutes after signing up. In the end, even though I was not very enthusiastic about going, I decided to attend because I couldn’t bear being that wasteful. I’m much more conscientious and careful about our resources now that Mark has gone back to work. I respect his efforts and don’t want to abuse his return as he strives to forge a new career.  

So, despite reservations, I went to take a cloth doll-making class. It turned out to be a delightful week, primarily because the class consisted of some of the nicest women I’ve ever met. They were full of good-cheer, artistic enthusiasm, and positive encouragement. I had lively lunch conversations with people taking other classes too, not the least of which included a boisterous meal with a table full of blacksmiths that couldn’t resist sharing jokes and teasing any woman bold enough to crash their table. Nice to know I can still give as good as I get.  

My best buddy was a 71 year old woman from Atlanta with the most positive, nurturing personality I have ever had the good fortune to meet. I want to be like her when I grow up. She tried making a doll that looked like Opra. She wants to send it to her favorite star.


A established quilt teacher took the class and made her dolls out of recycled materials. She used casset tape for hair and cut up credit cards for decoration.

Everyone had a different style and unique vision. It was fun to see everyone’s first attempts at doll making.


Two art teacher’s took the class and incorporated multimedia techniques to create doll works of art. They labored to make a perfect doll with more patience and understanding of visual art than I could ever demonstrate. Remarkable. Her doll is “Icaris Falling”. She wouldn’t dare put a face on it, for fear it would be ruined.
 

I’ve always had an interest in fiber arts and love creating characters (on paper or in my head), so the subject of doll making appealed to me. The teacher is a renowned doll artist, with work featured in several doll books.

Her work was fun to see – here are some of her creations on display to inspire us.

(She called this one ‘Armed and Dangerous”)



I found cloth fairly doll-making easy to grasp, because if you have a great deal of experience sewing (which I do) and are comfortable with the human body (I am) you only need common sense to come up with something that resembles a person.  I made three dolls in the time my classmates made one. They called me “gifty” since I seemed such a natural and proceeded with such ease, finishing a doll a day. Honestly, I think I was just less conscientious than they were. I was having fun with trial and error and wasn’t too hung up on perfection. I consider any craft class a learning experience and I don’t need to go home with a perfect creation to make it seem as if the time spent was worthwhile.  If I like doll-making, this would be the beginning of my journey and my early dolls would be beginner attempts anyway. If I don’t stick with the craft- why stress to create something perfect  -you are only dabbling for fun.   I guess I should take the subject more seriously – but hey. . . it’s a doll.

When I got home and showed off my creations, Mark said, “You made dancers? Why?”

“As a matter of fact, that happens to be a wood sprite,” I corrected, pointing to my standing doll (which I made to practice wire frame characters.

“A wood sprite . . . in perfect arabesque and on pointe? Ha. That’s a dancer. Accept it. You can’t stop making dancers.  If you can’t do it in the studio, you’re gonna do it with a sewing machine.”

Eesh. Can I help it if, when drawing a pattern from scratch and assembling a body I happen to make it in the vision of the bodies I’ve been staring at for the last 45 years. . . . Every body in my mind is at least one part  dancer. The natural state of humans is to keep in motion. (Physically – mentally) Dancers then are perfect examples a person living fully.

So my dolls all ended up willowy with beautifully pointed feet. Shoot me. They rest in flexible poses that suggest movement and relaxed grace. That is my idea of beauty. 

My teacher didn’t instruct us on face technique. She makes her dolls face-less because faces are so difficult and she is never happy with the result. I stumbled through and did the best I could with my faces by guessing how to go about it.  Had I left the faces off, I suppose they would look more “arty”. I admit the results of my face-bearing dolls are nothing to be excited over. But to me, the face is the soul of a doll – the place where the character and personality rests, so I had to try . A doll without a face seems incomplete – like a person without a personality. I think it is a cop-out to avoid this most difficult part of creating cloth figures. I figure I’ll take another class on cloth doll faces someday and see if I can improve. Till then, my amateur dolls with silly mug smiles will have to do.

But what I must say about my hand-made original dolls is that I adore the intimate elements only I can appreciate. My doll’s hair is made of wool fiber I collected from my first llama (boo-hoo). One has hair made of the first yarn I ever spun – hand died with marigolds I picked in the garden. The bodies are made of fabric I used for the first quilt I’ve ever made (I haven’t played show and tell with my quilt attempts yet, but some day, I will.) I wrote words on the arms of one doll to remind me how to make sense of life. “Contemplate . . . Write” These things make the dolls seem special to me – as if they are representative of my private world.

Neva will be going back to camp another week in July, but I won’t be running off to play next time. I’m committed to using the time wisely to make headway with my writing – no frivolously playing with dolls. I’ll chalk up the first week she was gone to a summer kick-off – silly “camp fun” for us both just in celebration of the warm days ahead. I must admit taking the class was good medicine in a way, because I’ve been starved for companionship and conversation lately, and that is always in abundance at the Campbell School.

It was a nice experience, and I chose not to ruin it by feeling guilty about what I wasn’t doing all week. That is the key to happiness, I think, accepting that your life is composed of all the choices you make along the way. You must always focus on the good rather than dwell on the “other path” and what it may have led to. You must trust that the choices you made were right for you at the time, driven by your deepest needs. Not that my deepest need is to play with dolls – but perhaps getting out, visiting with others, being distracted and other forces were the true motivator this week. They say children learn through play. No reason to assume adults are not the same. Embrace play and you grow.





  

We’re home. Exhausted. Heads filled with more information than a mind can process, but at least, we’re home. For all that I like travel; I’m only one part wanderlust and two parts homebody. When I’m gone, I miss my donkey.

This week was grueling, in a fascinating sort of way. We learned about coffee from the grounds up (no pun intended) beginning with history and moving to various points of origin to discuss how altitude and environment differs the product. We toured a roasting house to see just how they take organic green coffee beans and roast them to different consistencies to bring out the different qualities of the bean. We learned how to “cup coffee” which is the official way buyers taste beans to determine their nuisances and quality as each crop is harvested.

Coffee tasting is not unlike wine tasting. Cupping is a blind sampling procedure that is traditionally done with four cups of each bean (to factor out the rare rancid bean that may skew results) a silver spoon and an odd slurping technique which filters air into your mouth with the coffee to bring out the unique properties. Sounds ridiculous when you’re witnessing the act, but the noise is supposed to make the flavors engage more readily on your palate. At a cupping, you first smell the bean and later, the coffee aroma by breaking the layer of fresh grounds after water has been seeped over them – one time only to get the base essence before the liquid is disturbed. Next you sip, savor, and spit. Not exactly a sexy thing to watch, but it sure is a remarkable way to taste coffee. As a non-smeller, I had to accept that I would be a very poor addition to any serious cupping event. Ah well. It was still fun to see this vital process of the coffee business, and it taught us enough so that we can put together a less stringent consumer version for coffee shop customers to help them learn how to judge coffee if we want to begin a monthly coffee club someday. Consumer education – now we’re in an area I can get excited about. Just thinking about the possibilities is fun.

We got our official barista certification, which means we can make every coffee drink known to the modern world. We can extract the perfect shot of espresso, steam milk to a thick, creamy texture (none of that dry foam gunk that poor coffee houses and big chains push on un-savvy customers) and we can even free pour a design (they call it latte art) on the surface of each cup. The outer ring showcases a dark creama, while the steamed milk folds in and surfaces in a heart or rosetta (leaf-like) design. Yes, we are coffee masters now. Got the certificate to prove it. It was awkward at first, and Mark and I both felt clumsy and old and out of our comfort zone– but being a barista is not unlike bartending, and once I made that connection, I soon rediscovered my old “it’s like riding a bike” rhythm. I can’t say we excelled beyond others in the class, but we old dogs finally learned the new tricks.

We worked on over a dozen espresso machines and as many grinders, sampled products, even learned to use a contraption called the Clover, an eleven thousand dollar coffee maker which makes each cup of coffee fresh with the perfect amount of fresh grounds, water temperature, and seep time. Yep, in some fancy restaurants they offer a full coffee menu featuring various coffees from different origins, then sell each cup dependant upon quality for seven to eleven dollars. Mark and I laughed imagining anyone in Blue Ridge looking at a menu with more than two kinds of coffee (regular and decaf) or seeing them going for over two bucks. Ha. But it was interesting to watch this machine in action and witness coffee taken to such an extreme level.  I guess there are die-hards in every industry. It was a true luxury to sample different high end equipment before buying.

We learned the business of coffee house management. Eek. Gave me a headache. We can now figure out cost of goods, and learned all the nitty gritty formulas for budgeting and doing projections. Luckily, many of the elements we covered, like balance sheets or projections are transferable from our previous business. For those in the class who never owned a small business, it was very daunting. In fact, we’re told it’s not uncommon for people to attend this school, then decide that perhaps opening a coffee shop is not for them. Most people haven’t a clue how much work and detail is involved. Heck, neither did we. This school is a serious reality check. We went through a few days of feeling disturbed and depressed, but we came out of it stronger as the information sunk in. Always good to really understand the challenges you’re going to face. And we kept reminding ourselves that we are not opening a coffee shop – we are opening an Appalachian art gallery with a coffee bar in it. Big difference.

I learned about kitchens, professional cooking elements and food prep too. Cool.
We ended up hiring the consultants to do an ergonomic design for our kitchen and coffee bar so every appliance is set up in the most appropriate way for efficiency. This also gives us the electrical and plumbing specs for the health department and a list of exactly what we need to buy . That was one huge panic out of the way. Sigh. And as a student in the Barissimo academy, we get discounts on appliances etc…. Turns out the school paid for itself in about ten seconds as we discovered the benefits to come.

All in all, enrolling in this program was the smartest thing we ever did, and certainly worth every cent, even if it did mean sacrificing a trip to Europe once again (it’s always something). I think the awareness gained, the total enlightenment of what this business is all about, will allow us to make decisions which will hugely increase our odds of success. And if you’re going to do something, might as well do it well. If nothing else, it was good for our soul, settling those demons that kept whispering doubt in our ear. Running blind is a sure way for former graceful dancers to trip. Now, at least we see the path.

Portland is a beautiful city – not that we got to enjoy it. We never adjusted to the time difference, so I was up everyday at 3:30 and ready for bed at 7. Yep, I’m a party animal. We pretty much went to school, got saturated and exhausted (combination of thinking too hard and sampling caffeine by the gallon) then went to the hotel, had a glass of wine, and crashed. We did do a coffee house tour with the group, which was inspirational. Portland (along with Seattle) is the coffee capitol of the USA. They picked us up in a limo and drove us to the major coffee houses and roasters giving us a chance to see many of the theories we explored in class, practiced and in action. I was fascinated with the baked products on the shelves – seemed like they all had French pastry chefs locked in the back room. I think I gained ten pounds this week just from sampling croissants alone. Gee, it was a tough job, but when faced with those flaky crusts, serious research seem necessary.

I could go on and on about coffee and Portland – but in a nutshell, it was simply a very educational experience that left us fueled with new confidence, ready to charge ahead into a new endeavor with enthusiasm, rather than dread. And we met some wonderful new friends. One man was from Russia, wanting to begin the coffee craze there. One was a recently retired army man from Texas, hoping to open a kiosk. A couple is opening a drive through in Wyoming. A fellow from New York is opening a sit down coffee bar, as well as two girls from Portland. There was a girl whose family owned a cabin resort, and she is opening a coffee shop in an old farm house, only a few hours from here. We will be sure to attend her opening. But my favorite couple was the mother and son from Belgium who owned a huge bakery empire. They decided to change their lives and sold it all off to move to Canada, only to find themselves bored and feeling like they had lost an arm, so within two years they opened a new bakery which immediately got highly successful (It’s not just a bakery as you know them – they service all the area hotels and restaurants and have a staff of 50 working around the clock – for example, they make 1500 pie sized lemon tarts a day.) They came to the school because they decided it is time to add a gourmet coffee element to their sit down store and they want to do it right. I spent lots of time picking Marie’s brain to learn about the baking business. Pierre was young, full of humor and always willing to share his discoveries, so I tried to position myself on the same machine he was on whenever  I could. As they talked about what motivated them to make changes in their lives,and how they learned that retirement is not all it’s cracked up to be, Mark leaned over to me and said, “Recognize this tale? Same story, different language.”

Coffee school was intense, but with good people going through the experience along with us, it felt as if we were not alone in our questions, concerns and fickle excitement. We were learning with friends.

 
We are turning our attentions to other factors now, such as art gallery management. And believe it or not, I came home and enrolled in some cooking classes at a culinary school in Atlanta for February. I want to study pastry and cake design and other elements that will allow me to feel professionally adept in the kitchen. Most coffee shop owners do the prepared restaurant scoop and bake thing, or purchase their baked items from bake shops at discount, but you know me. I’m a hands on sort of girl. Even if I wind up going an easier route in the end, I gotta dig deeper into the core at the start, just for the foundation a grounds up education offers.  Besides which, I think it will be fun to learn the tricks of the cooking trade, and now I’ll have a  super kitchen to play in, so why not? They say the way into a man’s heart is through his stomach. Well, considering I’m getting gray and I’m no hottie anymore, this gives me a fighting chance to earn a rare wink from a hungry man still. Desperate motivation for an occasional flirtatious grin, you may say, but there is an odd sort of romance about becoming a cooking heartthrob when all else is starting to wither and sag.

We spent the week with the biggest coffee geeks imaginable. I don’t mean this in a derogatory way – just that you never met people with such passion for a beverage. They were all deeply seeped into the coffee world, winners of national and international barista competitions, consultants and serious teachers. And I loved hearing them talk coffee, imparting so much knowledge it made our head spin as they tried to turn us all into coffee aficionados – purists at heart. Reminded me of Mark and I when teaching dance instructors about youth dance education. We cared so much about the product – we were determined to send qualified people into the world with a deep appreciation for the art.  These coffee geeks are the same, wanting us to truly understand quality, and I admired them for their devotion to perfection. I confess, I can’t get nearly as excited about coffee as I used to get about dance, but nevertheless, it is always heartwarming to be in the presence of people who love their work. And they did indeed leave me with a deep appreciation for coffee and gratitude and respect for the many people involved in the industry. (For the record, I’ll never order a cup of coffee from Starbucks ever again – but that is the price of understanding a concept deeply.)

I’m now all hot to go on a trip to a place of origin someday– to meet the indigenous people of Ethiopia or brazil and meet the individuals that grow the fruit (coffee begins as a cherry, and the bean is the pit of the fruit). I want to see people dry the beans, and carry them to market in baskets balanced on their head…. That will be later, when I can write off the trip and write an article or two about it. I’ll use in house promotion as my excuse. See – every step you take in life leads you to the next – especially if you are creative and think beyond the box.

Anyway, that is the cliff note version of our coffee trip. I won’t get into the emotions (good and bad) about the experience, or talk about the culture shock we always feel when thrust into the city again. We had our testy moments, moments we wanted to shuck the idea and just go home. A few “almost” fights. We had our moments of excitement too. One highlight for me was an evening spent in the biggest used book store I’ve ever seen – it encompassed a full city block with multi levels. You had to walk from color coded room to room, often using an elevator and a map to see all the different subject matter. It was crazy. Mark had to call me on my phone to find me after an hour of wandering. Wish I had a store like that near me. Of course, I came home with a suitcase filled with books.

Now, I’m not going to blog about our plans for our  new business anymore, because some things are best left under wraps, and business is definitely one of them. But you can see the new direction we are going…. When we are deep in the throws of building and it seems things are taking shape, I’ll unveil the project in all it’s glory – even if i’ts only limping along. Till then, I’m going to let this subject matter go for awhile. Use your imagination.

I spent the twelve hour flight (time change and changing planes made it a grueling trip) reading books on teaching and preparing writing seminars. I am very excited about this facet of my life too, and I have every intention of becoming a kick butt writing teacher now. This is something I really do feel excited deeply committed to accomplishing. I want to help others discover the great soul lifting experience of self discovery through writing. Coffee is great and all, but in the end, I look at our new business as a home base for housing many other interests– the things that rock our soul.  Coffee is just the beverage served in the background. For Mark that involves building, design and wood crafting. For me, it’s going to mean building a home to gather people who love the written word, a place for teaching classes, hosting readings, creating book clubs, food enthusiasts groups, and creating mind tweaking evenings about other interests too… artist lectures, performers,  etc….

So, the pie of my heart and mind is dividing yet again, allowing me to serve many slivers to the world–  and this new business is only one slice. Writing, cooking, wine, fiber art, literacy advocacy, and of course, my donkey, each take up a slice too. And dance. . .  I must confess, the diverse new interests I’ve leapt towards do not replace my former love – they only add to the rich diversity of my life as it unfolds. I am still a dancer, only I am now an aging dancer with a donkey who can make a fine pino grigio and an orgasmic espresso. I’m a dancer who can write a romance novel that makes your toes curl, and I can even crochet you a hand spun scarf while you turn the pages.

Life is a savory meal – but you have to acknowledge your hunger and be willing to take a bite to truly taste the full flavor of everything on your plate. Some offerings will be bitter and some sweet, but either way, remember – a person’s gotta eat!