We were expecting a line of thunderstorms yesterday, and with Eric finally having a weekday off with no outside obligations, we spent a full day together in the gardens getting some real work done. Oh, there’s been some puttering that’s happened — garlic beds that got weeded and mulched, potatoes and peas planted, some herb seeds here and there — but nothing like an all-day stretch of tilling and digging and sowing and planting. There’s lots more to do (there always is, of course) but it was a good start that left us sweaty and tired and satisfied.

But then, I couldn’t sleep. With the low rumble of thunder in the distance and the cool, gentle breeze coming through the open window, I should have been as unconscious as a teenager on the first morning of summer vacation. My mind just wouldn’t shut off. I kept thinking about the gardens, wanting to imagine what this year might have in store for us and at the same time trying hard not to think about it. Fretting about what hasn’t happened yet is so futile, and yet my mind keeps wanting to wander back to it, like a child picking at a scab no matter how many times Mommy said to leave it alone.

What will this year hold in store for us? Is this the “make-it” season we’ve been working towards, or will summer devastate us once again? Had I given voice to my restless wonderings, Eric would have pulled me close and soothed me to sleep with words of unfailing faith and utter conviction, but I didn’t have the heart to wake him up. My eternal optimist, he never doubts and he never waivers. I, however, am still entrenched (albeit, reluctantly) on the opposite side of that spectrum. Despite my husband’s best efforts to bring me into the light of positivity, the pessimist’s mantra of “hope for the best but expect the worst”, engrained since childhood, continues to cast clouds across my outlook.

I’m trying, I really am. I want to believe that those seeds, sown with love and prayers, will grow green and brilliant and bountiful. I want to believe that the triumphs will outweigh the tears, though tears will surely come. I want to show our children, and myself, that what we do matters, that hard work and patience are more valuable than quick-fixes, and a simple life really can be more rewarding than easy money. I fell asleep still swaying between the voices of my faith-filled heart and my doubting mind.

This morning, I saw my husband off to work and sipped my coffee as I surveyed our little farm. Last night’s rain washed away the pine pollen that had coated everything yellow and dusty. Our rooster, Luke, crows for his ladies with baritone gusto, the ducklings waddle to their favorite spot near the wading pool, the pigs grunt with pleasure towards their muddy wallow, and Charlie, our attention-loving bull, lows for someone to come pet him. I note that the bee balm and lemon balm both have returned from winter dormancy, and the thyme is putting off delightfully dainty flowers. Elsewhere, I see leafy potato tops have broken through the soil. In yet another bed, there is no sign of our asparagus yet. I wonder if something unfortunate has happened there and remind myself to make mention of it to Eric. The figs and pomegranates are leafing out once again, another welcome sight. Down in the main garden, the tomato transplants aren’t showing any signs of shock and that’s a very good thing. The Amish snap peas are about to reach the bottom of their trellis. I’m still amazed that they survived the last cold spell.

I look towards the place where we’ve planted our first flint corn, a piece Eric and I have decided, with our own double meaning, to call Will Field. It’ll be some time before we get any answers there, but the soil looks rich with vitality after the rain. It’s a good piece of ground, and the seeds should do well there. If I close my eyes, I can already see rows of proud stalks reaching for the sun. My heart whispers to my mind, “Faith is being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see…” and this time, my mind does not argue back. I know, and I believe.

Winter is all but over here and, with the fast approach of spring, our plans and projects are kicking into high gear once again. On our relatively young farm, things are always changing. Like watching a Polaroid develop, we’re still transforming right before our eyes. So many times, in the gentle dusk of a long day’s end, Eric and I have walked about the farm together, trying to look at it with the eyes of our future selves.
“When we take those trees down…”
“When we get the berry patch established…”
“When we get that paddock fenced in…”
“If we rebuild it over here…”
“I was thinking we should put it over there…”
“We can keep the chickens on this side, and put turkeys on that side…”

But one thing I keep seeing in my minds’ eye, one missing piece that even the addition of cows hasn’t been able to fill, has been the ducks. I’ve not spoken about it much, but life on the farm hasn’t been quite the same since Wanda died. Our Lady of the Barnyard left a bigger hole in my heart than I would’ve imagined. To not see her waddling about or splashing in her pool…well, it’s been a loss that part of me has never completely gotten over.

And then, this weekend, Eric brought home a little surprise.

Make that seven litte surprises.

They’re not yet a week old and as near as we can tell, after a very messy attempt on Eric’s part to sex them, we’ve either got one male and six females or two males and five females. I don’t care which way it turns out. They’re ducks, they’re ours, and I love them to bits. And that hole in my heart got smaller this weekend. A lot smaller…down to the size of a duckling.

It’s going to be good to see ducks waddling and splashing again. The farm’s just not right without them. And neither am I.

“Daddy, can we get sheep?”
My crochet hook slowed for a moment. This should be interesting…
“No, son, I’m sorry but we’re not getting sheep.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t have enough land for them. Sheep need lots of grass.”
“But we’ve got grass. Isn’t it enough for one sheep?”
“One sheep would get lonely.”
“How about two? Can’t we have just two?”

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon. I was curled up in my corner of the couch near the woodstove, working on yet another doily, while Eric sat in the recliner across the room, peeling garlic. What didn’t get planted or put in the freezer was finally being dehydrated in the oven and ground into garlic powder. He had put the documentary “Farmaggedon” on to listen to as he worked, and our son had walked in the room as a woman was sharing the sad story of her sheep being confiscated and destroyed by the powers that be. Ben watched for a minute, trying to process in his young mind why the nice lady didn’t get to keep her sheep, and then asked his father if we could get some to raise ourselves.

There’s been a change in my son the past several months, and it’s not a subtle one. Maybe it’s because when he asked why Daddy was leaving for work instead of simply going outside like he had been, I told him honestly that it was because we just weren’t making enough money from our little farm. Maybe it’s because he has finally grown past the “I’m the center of the universe” childishness and into the realization that there is a bigger world around him, one that operates on rules and work and cause and effect. A place where “I want that…” is no longer meeting instant gratification, but is now bumping up against the reality of “…then you must do this to get what you want.” Or perhaps we have simply reached that critical time when I as the parent am now realizing that all three of our younger children are no longer calling out “Me too! Me too! I want to help!” in a toddler-esque desire of clinging to Mommy, but because they genuinely want to be involved in what we do. For all the time and patient effort that Eric and I have given to discussing with all of them what we believe it means to be a family that works together, it’s a powerful feeling to realize that our earnest words have taken root in the soil of our children’s hearts. The day I heard our seven-year-old Benjamin say, “I want to do dirty work, too…” was the day I heard the voice of the man our son will become. And the day I saw all five children choose to help Daddy in the garden is the day I saw the future of our little family farm.

Someday, someone I’ve not yet met will say, “My grandparents started this farm with three acres and a dream and I’m proud to be following in their footsteps…” and they’ll be talking about me and Eric.

“I’m sorry, son, but we’re just not getting any sheep. But maybe, if your mom agrees, we’ll get some turkeys this year. Does that sound okay?”
“Turkeys?” Ben pondered this for a moment. “Well…..okay. We can have turkeys.”
“Thanks, Ben, I’m glad you approve.”
“Can I watch the rest of the movie with you, Daddy?”
“Sure, son.”
Ben climbed into the recliner with his father, anxious to watch more of the movie about farmers.

Dehydrating foods is something I’m determined to do this year, so when my husband said he wanted to try making our own garlic powder I was all for it. You don’t even need a dehydrator to do it.

First, you’ll want to break apart your bulbs and peel the skins from the individual cloves.

Next, slice the cloves thinly and uniformly, cutting out any bad spots you come across. Perfection is not needed here but keep in mind that thicker pieces will increase drying time.

Spread your sliced garlic in an even layer on a baking sheet and place in an oven preheated to 170 degrees. Ninety minutes has been our typical drying time but it may vary for you.

To check for doneness, try bending one of your garlic pieces. If it’s flexible, there’s still too much moisture in it and you’ll want to put it back in the oven. If it snaps cleanly in half, it’s ready.

I hope to have a mortar and pestle to use someday, but for now our blender will have to suffice. As you can see, most of the garlic has a fine, powdered consistency but there are still some coarse bits left. You can sift these out and try to crush them further if you choose. My family are garlic lovers and don’t mind the little extra bits in cooking, so I didn’t bother.

Making garlic powder is so easy, and now I have the satisfaction of knowing there’s one less thing I’ll have to buy from the store. I love it!

I’ve been in the mood for jambalaya, but when you’ve got a house full of children that don’t like getting their mouths burned as much as you do, it’s not an easy craving to satisfy. Still, I knew there had to be a way and this is it.  This is an easy jambalaya recipe the whole family can enjoy.  I added chicken, for my children that have not yet learned to enjoy shrimp, and kept the heat low for their tender palates, but still just enough to register. Adventurous eaters that like a little sweat on their brow can turn it up by adding 6-8 dashes of your favorite hot sauce. Hot or mild, this is some mighty fine eatin’. My family really enjoyed it; I hope yours will, too.

Jambalaya For The Family

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 pound smoked sausage, cut into 2-inch slices
2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut into chunks
1 tablespoon butter
1 medium onion, diced
1 green bell pepper, seeded and diced
3 stalks celery, chopped
3-4 cloves garlic, minced
1 14.5-oz can diced tomatoes, with juice
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 teaspoon fresh thyme
1 teaspoon fresh oregano
1 tablespoon Creole spice mix*
4 cups chicken stock
2 cups long-grain rice
2 bay leaves
1/4 cup lemon juice
1 pound medium shrimp, peeled and de-veined

*Creole Spice Mix
3 tablespoons salt
1 tablespoon smoked paprika
1 tablespoon onion powder
1 tablespoon garlic powder
1 tablespoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon black pepper

Heat the oil in a large Dutch oven over medium heat. Add smoked sausage and saute until browned, about 7-8 minutes. Remove sausage and set aside. Add chicken to the same pot and cook about 8-10 minutes. Remove to the bowl with sausage, cover to keep warm, and set aside. Add butter, onion, pepper, and celery to the pot. Saute for about 8 to 10 minutes, until the veg is tender and onion is translucent. Add garlic, tomatoes, paste, oregano, and thyme and spice mix. Give it a good stir, and cook for about a minute until all is well blended. Add stock and bring to a rolling boil. Stir in rice, sausage, chicken, and bay leaves. Return to a boil, reduce heat to low, put the lid on the pot and let it simmer for 20 minutes. Add lemon juice and shrimp and stir well. Cover pot, remove from heat and let shrimp steam with lid on for 15 minutes.

Pumpkins. It’s that time of year again. Everywhere you look, it’s pumpkins. Scouring through recipes of this harvest-time vegetable, I hear the voice of Bubba from Forrest Gump in my head.

“I know ever’thang they is to know about pumpkin. You kin barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, saute it…dey’s, umm, pumpkin pie, pumpkin cake, pumpkin cupcakes, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin bread, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin oatmeal, pumpkin soup, pumpkin risotto, pumpkin stuffing, pumpkin macaroni and cheese, pumpkin chili..”

Pause. Rewind. Did he say pumpkin CHILI?!?!?

Dat’s…I mean, that’s right. Pumpkin Chili.

This recipe makes a lot, which means two things. One, if you don’t have a six-quart crockpot, get one. Sure, you can adjust cooking times for stovetop preparation. But seriously, you want to cook this in the crockpot. Hours of these mouth-watering smells filling your home can make even the unpleasant chore of cleaning the bathroom a happier experience. Trust me on this one. Two, if you don’t have a large family like mine, you’ll have plenty for lunch the next day or so. And since my eats-like-a-bird, never-has-seconds daughter not only had seconds, but ate the last of it for lunch the next day, you’ll want to, too. You lucky thing.

Grab onto your bowls, folks. We’re going for a tasty ride….

Pumpkin Chili

Inspired by the gracious and lovely Natalie who is far more than just a girl who cooks.

1.5 pounds ground beef (or turkey or chicken)
1 pound sausage (I used pork, venison could work as well, hot or mild is up to you)
1 15 oz. cans dark red kidney beans, drained
1 15 oz. can light red kidney beans, drained (if you don’t have light red, two cans of dark will suffice)
2 14 oz. cans pumpkin puree
2 28 oz. cans (or 4 14.5 oz. cans) diced tomatoes, juice and all
4 cups broth (chicken, beef, or vegetable)
1 large onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 large red or green pepper, diced (optional)
2 Tbs brown sugar
3 tsp cumin
1 tsp salt
1 tsp pepper
2 tsp dried parsley
2 tsp dried oregano

For chili:
Brown ground meat with salt and pepper. Add onions and garlic (and pepper, if you’re using it) until translucent. Put meat and vegetables in 6-quart crock pot. Add the rest of the ingredients and stir carefully (it’s going to be quite full) but thoroughly. Cook on low for 6-8 hours or high for 4 hours.

Option:
Turn this chili into a stew by substituting stew beef or cubed chicken for the ground meat. You won’t need to brown the meat, but you’ll still want to saute the onions, etc in 2 tablespoons olive oil.

Recently, I was reading an article in Mother Earth News about their “Homesteader of the Year” and I couldn’t help but notice an interesting commonality amongst the winners. Either they had a lot of land, or they had jobs outside the home.

Now before you go jumping to conclusions, let me state this clearly: I am not jealous. That’s not what this is about. It struck me as being notable because it highlights the improbability of everything we’ve tried to do in terms of making a successful go here. How does anyone make a living off 3.5 acres? Apparently, no one.

Including us, for the time being.

This morning, my husband got up at 5:30, drank his coffee, read his Bible, perused the news, went out to the barnyard to open the coop and feed the animals, came back inside to give me a kiss goodbye and left for work. He started a new job.

I’m grateful that we’ll soon have a steady income again and I’m most definitely not looking this gift horse in the mouth, but it still feels bittersweet. Already, it’s strange to sit here at my desk and not be able to look out the window and see my husband working diligently at what he loves.

Our farm is in transition now. Our dream has not died. Our faith has not wavered. Our work is not done.  For now, it’s just a change of season.

Nothing remains the same, neither should me and you
Gotta have faith in the way, in the way that He moves
As the seasons change – Jagged Edge

Twelve months ago today, I said goodbye to my old blog and began a new journey here on Unpaved Roads. My purpose at the time was to encourage and, hopefully, inspire others to embrace life wherever God leads by sharing my own experiences from “outside the comfort zone”. Whether it related to my role as farmer’s wife, homeschool teacher, homemaker, or simply as a member of the human race, I hoped to show that there’s always something new to learn, that setbacks and failure are often an important part of the learning process and nothing to be afraid of, and that the greatest joys can and often are found in the simplest things.

In many respects, I know I’ve fallen short of that goal. In the past year, I’ve not written nearly as much as I’d wanted. I didn’t tell you about the time we tried to process fifty-seven chickens by hand in two days, or my first foray into cutting my own hair, or the elation of watching my son read on his own for the first time, just to name a few.

But you see, it’s because I’m still learning the fine art of balancing. Yes, even at this late date, I’m still trying to make room for all the things I love, all the needs and wants and must-dos. In my heart of hearts, I’ll never stop wanting more hours than there are in a day because there will never be a time when I’m not wanting to do more. I want to spend hours working outside on the farm, hours teaching and learning and laughing with my children, hours in the kitchen cooking and experimenting, hours taking pictures, hours crocheting, hours reading, hours cleaning and organizing (yes, I’ve sometimes been known to *gasp* actually enjoy cleaning!), and hours to write. I know, every sane mother will say, “Wendy, there’s no way to do it all!” I’ve read many a blog post telling me that very thing (and yet, mysteriously, they still look, to my eyes, as if they do…why is that??) but it is a drive I cannot quell and have no real desire to do so. And if you were to ask me why, I’d tell you…

…it’s because in those hours of doing, trying, laughing, crying, struggling and cheering, that is where life happens. But with only twenty-four hours a day, something will fall by the wayside and, in this season, it’s been my writing. Given the choice between taking time to put my thoughts together coherently enough to express them, or drinking it all in with overwhelming love and gratitude for each and every moment, I keep choosing the latter.

Perhaps this year I will learn how to write it all, but I will never give up on attempting to live it all.

Our lives are made in these small hours
These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate
Time falls away but these small hours
These small hours still remain -Rob Thomas

At long last, we’ve reached that point in the season when the figs have ripened! Last year, I struggled to save our figs from the chickens and ended up with only enough to make two pints of preserves. This year, thanks to some re-designing in the layout of our gardens, we had just enough spare fencing to protect the bush from the ravaging poultry and have put up six pints so far! (In all seriousness, I have to admit it really was hilarious watching the chickens try to jump up and get their beaks through the fence to the figs! But don’t feel badly for them, I was a good farmwife and threw some of the riper ones their way for a treat.)

I’m going to share with you my version of fig preserves, but as I am not a canning expert by any means, I feel it’s necessary to put a disclaimer here by way of the research I did on this. According to the Clemson Cooperative Extension, figs fall into the category of “low acid” with a pH of 4.9-5.0 so it’s necessary to add lemon juice to raise the acidity for safe water-bath canning. Here’s where it gets a little tricky for me…the recipe I used last year did NOT call for lemon juice. Now, did we not get food poisoning because we used those two little pints relatively quickly, or is there more to the story? I’ve done some research and here’s what I’m seeing…

1) Figs are low acid.
2) Accredited food safety experts say you must add lemon juice.
3) Emeril Lagasse, John Besh, Paula Deen, and probably a few more notable culinary professionals do not use lemon juice in their fig preserves.

It’s logical to believe that food safety experts really know what they’re talking about when it comes to canning and preserving. At the same time, I have a hard time believing that not one but several well-known people who make a living preparing food would put their name on recipes that could actually kill people. Who to believe??

And then there’s this guy. He’s been eating his mother’s non-lemoned figs most of his life with never a problem. More importantly, though, he had a food science friend of his actually test his canned figs and guess what? They were deemed safe because “the sugar content is high enough to decrease the ‘water activity’ enough so that the pathogenic bacteria cannot grow.”

So my take on it is this: Do what you believe necessary to ensure your family’s health and safety. My first pints of figs did not contain lemon juice and we were none the worse for wear. This year, I added lemon juice. It’s your call.

Fig Preserves

1 pound freshly picked, ripe figs, washed and stemmed
1 cup sugar

(You don’t have to do this in one-pound increments, but keep the fig/sugar ratio 1:1.)

In a stainless-steel pot or saucepan, combine figs and sugar over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally.

As the syrup begins to bubble gently, reduce heat to medium-low and cook for 30 minutes.

While you’re waiting for your figs to start bubbling is a great time to get your water-bath canner going. You want to boil the jars and keep them hot until ready to be filled, and simmer the lids until ready to be placed on jars. (Sidenote: When I first started canning, I had a terrible time getting that magnetic wand to work for picking the lips up and out of simmering water, so my darling husband bought me a Norpro Canning Lid Rack. It’s relatively inexpensive and I highly recommend it for anyone that does any amount of canning.)

Fill hot jars with hot mixture to within 1/8-inch from the top. *If using lemon juice, add 1 1/2 tsp per pint before filling with preserves.

Wipe rim, place lid and seal ring to fingertip tightness. Process in boiling water bath for 10 minutes. After processing, remove jars from canner with your jar lifter and set on folded dishtowel on the counter to cool. Enjoy the ping of the lids sealing. (Mine all pinged within 5 minutes of removal from the water-bath, but you can give yours up to an hour. If you don’t get a ping, use preserves within a week, two max, keeping opened jars in the refrigerator.)

Like I said, these little jars of awesomeness don’t last long in my house so, depending on how much you have, you can either share with friends and loved ones or hoard them for yourself to enjoy all winter long. The choice is yours. Enjoy!

My father used to say that it was a miracle any of us were here. Then, he would tell me the story of his mother to prove it.

My grandmother was born in an apartment house in Brooklyn, New York, a daughter of Italian immigrants. But what made my grandmother’s birth unique (or perhaps not so unique, given the times) was that she was stillborn. A doctor was present at the birth and, after laying the dead child in her mother’s arms, left to retrieve a death certificate. The story goes that my great-grandmother cried and cried, tears streaming down her cheeks, splashing onto the face of her lifeless daughter, the sound of her grief filling the house….until joined by the cries of her child. The tears, my father said, brought his mother to life. Dad would then go on to tell his favorite part of the story, that being the return of the doctor. According to Dad, his grandfather threw the poor man down the stairs, yelling, “Whadda you gonna do, bury my children alive?!?”

My father would tell me this and other stories, miraculous events that happened before I was born. I had no reason to doubt he was telling the truth as he knew it, but I never believed these were the sorts of things I would ever experience personally. Miracles happen, but to other people. And Dad, seemingly reading my thoughts, would always say, “God has something special planned for you, Wendy. It’ll happen, in time.”

Fast-forward these several decades later, and here I am wondering about God’s plans and my place in them. I’m just a woman trying raise my children as best I can and help my husband run this farm, but I believe He has a reason and a purpose for having me here. I’m no expert at what we do, but I’ve learned lots in the past two years and I’ve gotten good at it, if I do say so myself. I’ve learned about butchering chickens and cleaning gizzards, how to tell fresh eggs from old, and I’ve even learned that the first thing to do with a listless hen is scoop her up and check her vent. (Yes, I’ve saved a chicken’s life by swallowing my squeamishness and pulling some unidentifiably gross muck out of her rear. My stomach still clenches at the memory even while my chest fills with pride.) I’ve learned that broody hens can be fiercely competitive while mothering sows are more community-minded. And I’ve learned that though a missing hen may eventually turn back up later with a passel of chicks behind her, the reality is that if you free-range your animals, some can go missing without a trace. When you hear packs of coyotes moving through the surrounding woods at night, when you see the turkey buzzards landing on your barn roof for a spell, even a greenhorn like me knows that just because you didn’t see a dead body doesn’t mean your animal isn’t gone. It still confounds me how a piglet disappeared in broad daylight not twenty minutes after I’d counted them all. No body, no trail, no squeal, just gone. Even Eric, my eternal optimist, concedes a loss when there’s been no trace for a week.

Such was the case with Cosmo.

What I tell you is the plain truth. A dog was left on our property on purpose, that was a fact. Cosmo disappeared, that was a fact. No one saw so much as a feather of him for over a week, that is a fact. And suddenly, one morning, he was simply there again.

I’ll never know for sure what happened to him, and I’ve been mind-boggled ever since he returned. Am I sure it’s our Cosmo? Oh yes, he’s the same Cosmo…and yet, not quite the same. He’s a little withdrawn, not quite as eager to approach us as he was before. More disturbing, there’s a bluish spot on his breast that wasn’t there before. I don’t know how it got there, but it’s fading now. It reminds me of the Blu-Kote we use when we tag a pig’s ear to help it heal, but there’s no sign of injury under the mark. And he acts as healthy as he ever did. Wanda can testify to that.

I used to call him a rock star. Now I call him a miracle.