Goat Love, Part 3: Learning to Milk

Read about our other Goat Love adventures here and here.

roadside attraction

Some people stop to smell the roses.

One of my favourite things to do when the stars align (ie. when I'm alone in my car, am not rushing to be somewhere, and have my camera at hand) is to stop to pet the livestock.

I was busy being nuzzled by one horse, when the thunder of hooves made me look up to see this fellow coming to check out this stranger in a toque.

 With much whuffling and snorting, he greeted his fellow-horse, and called the small herd of highland cows that were resting nearby to attention.

 (I need a bumper sticker that reads, "I Brake For Highland Cows"). The horse started interacting a little more feistily, so the cows decided to wander off to whiter pastures. They were kind enough to stop and pose for me.

 Then the horses went all wild-west on me, rearing up, hoofing at each other (is this a verb?), alternately pooping and sniffing each others' poop.

In the Ottawa Valley, this is what we call a Roadside Attraction.

::this moment::

::one photo, no words; one moment from the past week that I'd like to pause, savour, and enjoy in the years to come::

Visit www.soulemama.com to see other moments and to share a link to your own!

Have a wonderful, wintry weekend!

Goat Love: Part 1

I felt curious about goats the other day, so I asked Jude and Violet if they wanted to go for a road tour.

Laurie and Jack run their business, Opeongo Mountain Meadow Soap out of their home just off the Opeongo Line.

The view is beautiful, and the goats?

Well. It didn't take much to convince my kids that what our little farm needs is a few goats. They just spent some time with Laurie's kids.

I was sold on the idea when we tasted some of Laurie's goat cheese, and drank some fresh goat milk. An hour after Jude drank the goat milk, he reported that he had no bloating, cramps, or gas. This is the kid who hasn't had dairy since he turned two. To say I'm thrilled would be understating my excitement.

As if these faces aren't enough to convince anyone of the charms of goats...

Now we're on the lookout now for a couple of does of our own. Store-bought, pasteurized goats milk tastes...well, kind of goaty. Fresh from the goat, however, it is sweet and mild.

What's not to love? Time to start reinforcing fences.

something in the air

Can you feel it?

There's a chill in the air that has me wearing socks in the evening, and snuggling up closer to my husband at night. It has me wearing a sweater out to the chicken coop in the early morning, and craving the tastes of autumn.

I know. It's still summer. Technically. But the temperature in the evening is just a few degrees shy of woodstove-weather, and I find myself leaning eagerly towards those cozy fall evenings of reading and knitting in the kitchen.

For now, I will settle for a taste of something I don't make in the heat of summer:

Soup.

Today is our CSA pickup day, which means I have to use up last week's produce to make way for fresher fare. Three chairs pushed up to the island, three little paring knives, and at least three admonitions to be careful!

Celery is an easy thing for small hands to slice.

Mama cuts the onions to save little eyes from more tears than usual.

Carrots...

and zucchini are all added to the pot, sauted in coconut oil, with salt, pepper, and basil, till tender. Add six cups of stock, 3/4 cups yellow split peas, and 1/2 cup of rice. Simmer for 45 minutes, then whiz up till smooth. I have a feeling my children will proudly eat this soup without complaint, since they had a hand in its creation.

Their cooking zeal was not quite quenched, so out Jude went to gather apples from our old tree. With much paring and carving out of brown spots, we had enough to create a crisp topped with flour, brown sugar, rolled oats, cinnamon, and butter.

When the older two headed out to gift the chickens with all our seeds, peels, carrot ends and onion tops, someone was left behind to ensure that the apple crisp spoon was not neglected. Let no spoon go unlicked is her motto in the kitchen.

Lest you think, "Oh, her life is so idyllic! Her children are so responsible! She always says yes when her kids ask to help!", let me just add that Violet cut herself while slicing an apple, and wept, "I can see my skeleton! I can see the inside of my body!" (it wasn't quite THAT deep, but this girl does have a flair for the dramatic), and Jude protested mightily (for over an hour) when I confiscated his knife after I caught him wielding it, machete-like, over an innocent apple). We talked again about safety, and he announced that I am the meanest mother in the world for NOT letting him cook.

Still, the mouth-watering scent of apple crisp cooking on this cool evening more than makes up for the tears and the mess and the patience  required when cooking with children.

Fair Time

Things change slowly in a small town. Traditions get passed down year by year, so that when I attend annual events with my children, things don't seem too different from when I myself attended as a child.

The Cobden Fair will take place over the weekend of August 26-28. I know who will work the gates; the man who wraps the plastic bracelet around my wrist did it when I was 14. The kiosks selling airbrushed unicorn t-shirts and coloured feather roach clips will be set up beside the stage where step dancers and country singers will perform all weekend.

The Searson sisters, who went to high school with my husband!

The Centennial Hall will boast a farmers'/crafters' market, and we'll stop by for an ice cream at some point. The Curling Rink will hold the exhibits of garden flowers and vegetables, quilts, preserves, knitting, photography, and so on. We'll seek out the blue ribbons since we're entering some of the categories this year.

The ice surface at the rink will be transformed into a show ring; little boys and girls in white clothes and paper headbands will proudly display their calves and lambs, and we'll walk back to the barn behind the arena to see the young farmers grooming their animals for the next competition. Instead of video games, these kids' hands will hold blow dryers, brushes, clippers, and shovels to make sure their wards stay pristine for the judges. My kids will pet the lambs and their eyes will widen at the size of the cows.

Then we'll walk around the outdoor track where horses pull wagons and carts, to the horse barn. This has always been my favourite stop at the Fair. Percherons and Belgians stand quietly like tamed giants, stamping their plate-sized hooves, their tails and manes braided up prettier than Rapunzel's. I'll talk to the boys, now men, that went to school with me years ago, and lift my kids up to gaze into those horse's long-lashed eyes.

The midway is what the kids come for: the smells of dust, cotton candy, popcorn, and French fries, with a bit of grease thrown in. The young men running the rides look as bored and shady as they did when I was a girl, and I'll wonder again (as teachers do) if they've finished high school. Soon, heat and hunger will drive us to a concession stand to fill up on some greasy, sweet, nutritionally deficient snack.

Ah, the Cobden Fair. It's one of the best of its kind, if you ask this small-town girl. In a world that sometimes changes too fast for my taste, I can always count on the Cobden Fair to bring me back to a time when making good pies and preserves mattered, and a man was judged not on how much money he earned, but on how well he'd trained his team of horses. Maybe we'll see you there!

For information, call the Cobden Agricultural Society at 613-646-2426.

The Land

July in the Ottawa Valley. The sky is at its biggest and bluest, the clouds are at their puffiest, and the greens are at their greenest.

While we complain about the record humidity and head for the beach, farmers are hard at work, cutting and baling hay.

The corn is working its way towards being as high as an elephant's eye.

And the only witnesses to my forays across the road and through grassy ditches, camera in hand are

these curious bovines.

This is the landscape I crave when I'm far from home, and every July I'm reminded why I've chosen to live here.

Emergency...Kind Of.

When you live out in the country and have three small kids, you worry about things. In the winter, I worry about fire. When I was pregnant with Margot, I used to lie awake making escape plans...Violet, who was one at the time, would be strapped onto my back. Jude, age three, would hang onto my neck. I'd shimmy down sheets tied together. Forget the fact that I was 8 months pregnant at the time. In my imagination, I gained superhuman upper body strength, and catlike agility.

When my husband is away for a night or two, I make sure all the windows are locked, double check the doors, and often dial my neighbour's number, then hit "end", just so I can hit "redial" if there's an emergency.

I'm not actually a paranoid person, generally. There's something about living way out of town, though, combined with exhaustion, that does things to my mind.

Last night, for some reason, my neighbour's number just didn't seem like enough. So I thought I'd dial 911, then hit "end". Because dialling "redial" is SO much quicker than dialing 911.

Did you know that 911 connects automatically, even if you hit "end"? I didn't.

Almost immediately, I got a call from OPP dispatch. They were going to send a car out, in spite of my assurances that all was well (aside from the fact that my husband left his three children in the care of a slightly delusional woman who calls herself "mom").

While this may seem like overkill, I find it reassuring that the police check in, even if the caller has confirmed that the call was accidental. Imagine a woman in a situation of domestic abuse, being threatened by her partner to tell the dispatcher that everything was fine.

Within 30 minutes, a cruiser pulled into our laneway (it was now about 11:30 at night). The floodlight scanned the farm (I'm sure the neighbours were wondering if I was being busted for late-night crafting), and the officer approached the house cautiously.

I came out on the porch in my shawl, and introduced myself. The officer is also a mother, and sympathised with the fact that I'm on my own with three kids for a few days. She took a look around the house, reassured me that yes, 911 does work, (and quickly, even if you don't speed dial it!), and told me she was nearby if I did really need her during the night.

I almost called at 5:30 a.m. when Jude woke up with a nosebleed.

And again at 6:15 a.m when my kids woke up for the day.

It may be time to store a baseball bat under my bed, to give me peace of mind when I'm here alone at night. If that doesn't suffice, I know that the OPP will be here if I ever need them.

Farm Friday: The Pirate Ship

Some kids live in cities or suburbs and attend classes, lessons, courses, and tutorials of all sorts.

Such things are not inaccessible to country kids, but it's a little harder when you have to drive 45 minutes to the nearest "big town".

Nah, country kids are lacking in opportunities. Life on a farm is boring.

Oh, except for the pirate ships.

I can take no credit for this construction; somehow, my husband conjured it out of some old 4x4s, logs, planks, and a tall post that was already in the ground, without my noticing (until it was done).

A bicycle wheel became the steering wheel (I know there's a technical term for that but, not being a mariner, I wouldn't know it). Old ropes serve as rigging, and that old windsurfer sail that's been kicking around for years? Just the right touch for this seaworthy craft.

Jude declares himself the Captain, and finds lots to occupy his imagination in this pile of boards.

This piece from an old bamboo windchime is the telescope...land ho! Check out that piratey stance (and that ever-fashionable pj pants and rubber boots ensemble!)

Grace O'Malley, the Irish pirate queen, drops anchor, then gets ready to hop in a rowboat to head to a nearby island, seeking treasure.

And the ever-present, pantless Cabin Girl practises her "Yarrrrr!"

My husband is a creative guy. He fixes things around the farm in his own quirky way. He sees purpose in items that others would write off as junk. I spend a day with the kids, and feel frustrated at how little I get done. He spends a day with the kids, and creates a Pirate Ship. God, I love that man.