New Year Goats

It's been so long since I've posted, there's really no way to bridge the gap. Here is what I've been thinking today.  Maybe you too are dreaming of goats?

New Year Goats

Another dreary new year’s day

and I am dreaming of goats.

Nubian, Nigerian dwarves,

good for the craggy Texas Hill Country

far from this cramped and cagey

Northeast. Those goats!

Comforting wool and shiny black eyes

loveable gals all swollen and

able, giving gallons and gallons and

gallons of dairy. I float

in a vision of buttermilk fat

glistening gold, rich enough

to hold my weight. A plethora 

of goods I will make 

with such bounty,

soaps and lotions

Cheese and more cheese

Goat milk flowing fresh

and free daily to nurse

my small family to wholehearted health

two sweet nannies with long flopping ears

will tether us warmly, gently so gently

to a sunbaked earth,

a hay-smelling world.

Transition

Transitions are rough business. 

The transition from winter to spring this year has been particularly harsh. As the South and Midwest live through the horror of devastating tornadoes and floods, which passed within a few miles of my daughter's home and razed Tuscaloosa where she and my son went to school, and my home state of Texas suffers extreme drought and wildfires, my heart goes out to those who are reeling from the dangers of simply living on this planet.  And my heart is equally gladdened by the incredible power of community to pick up the pieces and give thanks.

I'm sure my own transition, the letting go of my Austin home and setting myself right again in New York, is somehow woven into this poem...

Transition



Jilted Winter
releases her bitter
clutch in rages,
wreaking litter of lives,
pelting possessions:
Scraps of photos.
Teacup shards.
A muddied shoe.
Hurled beyond miles
to strangers’ lawns,
disbelieving eyes.
Scorned, she
twists, flattens
scorches
drowns.
She casts us away.


We reel toward
the open arms
of Spring.
Mornings beckoned
by soothing breezes,
a lavish sun and
gleeful dogs.
Kind eyes of
nodding strangers.
Bask in drifting
petal confetti,
laden trees
in showy promise.
We drink her in,
forgiveness sweetly
on our lips.

 

At Last!

Coming back to blogging is akin, I am feeling right this minute, to returning to Earth on the space shuttle. Though isn't that a strange analogy, since it is into cyberspace that I am returning, having spent lo these many weeks living fully in the real world. And yet, going through such a revolution as I am, moving from the A-town to the Apple, from the five-acre farm to the uber-urban, I have been living in my head sped up in double-time, triple-time. It's the chipmunks in here! No, even that is not enough; I have a head full of bees is what.  Getting some of it down, finally, in words does feel like coming home. I bet I sleep a little better tonight.

How to pick up where I left off? In this winter of extremes, I have shivered in snow storms on two coasts, the First and the Working. I even visited the Calm Coast and drank up the zen of Sausalito for a few days, basking in the rare winter sunshine there (though I was working, so it wasn't too relaxing).  My temperament has zigzagged like the nation's thermometer, buoyant at my new adventure; dipping dangerously low at times with uncertainty. Elation to severe crankiness, like the flash freeze that hit Austin a couple of weeks ago, the mercury dropping a degree a minute for half an hour.  And now? I believe I am hovering in the mid-ranges at the letting go of a former life, ready to swing in either direction with the faintest breeze. It is exciting. And it is saddening.

But fear not! (I say this to myself quite a bit lately.) I am taking the old me with me.  To prove it, I give you a couple snapshots of my unfurnished apartment (where I am sort of camping) in the Upper West Side, a block from Central Park, where the light is good and the lilting snippets of kids' voices wander up through my windows as they make their way to school. (I have landed in the neighborhood of schools, it appears, and kids are kids are kids everywhere, it also appears.)  I have lit into a world where kind doormen have helped me with boxes and not only is the familiar Whole Foods up the street, a very quaint locally owned natural foods store is even closer.  Most importantly, my husband's daily phone calls assure me his physical self will soon appear.  And with him will come real furniture! 

I brought a ball jar and cuttings of lavender and rosemary from Dreamfarm--sweet smells of home. And I have a New Yorker on the counter.  Old meets new. But, which is which?

My little pitchers and jars against a twinkling New York nighsky.

So thank you, dear friends, for inquiring about the move, for perhaps checking in from time to time, dismayed at the interminably static page, wondering where the heck has Dreamfarm Girl gone?

I have gone to the city. But I have returned.  And now I look forward to seeing what each of you has been up to!


Always~
Dreamfarm Girl

Please Pardon My Rust

Usually when I write a post, it starts in my head like a little sprout that peeks out a bit timid but full of promise. Then somehow it becomes...like the tender thistles jutting their brave chins against the gathering stormclouds --?

Nope, that's not it at all. 

It morphs, dreamlike, into a brewing cauldron of soup into which I drop potatoes, sausage, mushrooms, herbs -- mmmm, maybe oregano and thyme? And just a pinch of Mexican marigold, but be careful, that's a bossy one who likes to take things her own way.  And then a swig of cooking wine, shredded sharp cheese and some milk. Cream you think? Even better. And voila! Soup's on.

Yet what has happened in this word-starved, thought-hungry month? My brain froze in a brainfreeze, is what. And now that our President has acknowledged the Slurpee's deliciousness, we can all admit our intimate knowledge with the Slurpee brainfreeze. You know what I mean.  It's as if time stops, and all one can do is vacantly announce, "I've got brainfreeze!" and everyone nods, slightly sympathetically, but not too much, because really what is there is to say? It's just brainfreeze.

Oh, I've got some good excuses all right. Haven't we all?  But what have I interesting to say now? Let's just skip to that.

So!

Um.

Truly, may I ask, what is blogworthy? Once you get away from the habit, nothing it seems is worth writing into the ether.

Don't worry, it's not depression. This little light of mine is shining! I've been happy.  (I also apparently still have vestiges of vacation Bible school lingering in my brain.)

It's not boredom. I have cooked up storms in the past weeks. I have sewed till my thumbs turned into red tomato pincushions.  I have Christmassed. (What? Are you really going to tell me that's not a verb in my precarious state?)

To heck with not giving excuses.  Did I mention I'm basically doing two jobs right now? And getting ready for the move to NY? Preparing my house to rent out? Finding out just which teensy closet on the Upper West Side is just the right place for me to cram my whole house into? Unloading my valuable treasures I once thought I couldn't part with? Getting sick and slowly getting well?

Ah! Maybe there's the little nugget I am looking for.  When I took to bed for a full 24 hours to simmer my fevered self down (and wishing I twittered so I could claim to the world I had the vapors -- admit it, aren't you just dying to say that, just once?), I read a fabulous book, The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. It's a memoir of her crazy upbringing by genius and devoted, yet 99% unfit-to-be-parents. I saw a little of myself in her cuckoo mother who is Artistically Inspired But Lacking in all Practicality and Common Sense Despite Sounding Deceptively Pragmatic; however I am more her mirrored twin, Practically Inspired But Lacking in all Artistic Sense Despite Sounding Uncommonly Artsy.  I suspect we have a similar trajectory for success.

Regardless, it's a fine book and I heartily recommend it. And it can be read in one bed-ridden day, with naps! The truth is, I could not put it down.

There. Meaning has been found in today's blog. And it goes with the picture, too.
Struggle little tender shoot. You can kick some ass if you just keep at it.
A-men.

Happy New Year, y'all. 

Pineapple Cheesecake, We Love You

In our family, Thanksgiving = pineapple cheesecake. Most people have never heard of pineapple cheesecake, and more's the pity. This humble little dessert is nothing short of heaven and home and holidays, all rolled into one 9" pie pan of graham cracker encrusted, creamy sweet vanilla pineappley goodness.

**Mmmmmmmmm...kiss** 
(That is me, the cook, smooching my fingers into the air at the dreamy thought of it. Dang, it's good!)


Every year for Thanksgiving I make Grandma Punkin's pineapple cheesecake legacy. The recipe is simple, but it commands absolute reverence. All familial mouths water in anticipation of it. Giddiness breaks out when it is born from the oven.  A hush descends across the table when it is served.  Treaties are signed over who gets how much and when.

Most people wish relatives and friends a Happy Turkey Day; my son's texted holiday greeting this year? Enjoy the pineapple cheesecake. Notice the lack of an exclamation mark, indicating not so much happiness for us, but a lament for his own pineapple cheesecakeless meal.

Once when my daughter was in college, she decided not to come home for Thanksgiving. The Wednesday before, she called begging for a ticket. She needed that pineapple cheesecake.  Another time her brother came when she could not; we boxed up a hefty slice and Southwest Airlines carried Thanksgiving to her.

And this year, a new era has begun. My daughter Caitlin -- for the first time -- made Grandma Punkin's pineapple cheesecake for her own Thanksgiving celebration. She texted me to let me know her plans.

Did she have the recipe? I texted back. Yes, she says. I had given it to her a few years ago. Ah, I remembered. She didn't have a food processor then and the graham cracker crust is impossible without one. And don't even think about buying a pre-made one -- horrors! (Once I dared not to buy a prefab, but pre-crushed crumbs to use in the recipe.  You'd have thought me an unwashed heretic. Mutiny was considered. I pleaded for my life, and fully believe I was spared because I was the only one in the house who knew the recipe and had the potential to make another one the right way.)

Remember to use only real vanilla, I texted. Yep, she replied, those three letters assuring me the family recipe was in capable hands.

But was it?? After the crust was made (Honeymaids, crushed to a whisper and added to a lake of melted butter, then pressed lovingly into a pan), she texted me again. Made it myself! the text proclaimed. (Look ma! No hands!)

As the minutes ticked by, as I knew that beautiful crust had been filled and committed to a 350 degree oven, I admit to being nervous. Could she do it? Would she capture that thick creaminess topped with a whipped burst of fresh juicy tangy sweetness?  Would she ever so gently lay the topping on the baked custard bottom so that it didn't break through?  Would she watch the custard like a hawk so that it firmed up but didn't dry out?  Would she leave it in precisely 22 minutes? Drain the crushed pineapple so that it wasn't too soupy? Use good pineapple, not a generic brand that is never sweet enough?  Well, would she??

She sent me picture mail when it was done. It was perfect. It was a fine, fine moment.

It was, in fact, a moment I realize I've been waiting for. Not for 22 minutes, but for, oh, almost 27 years, when I first became the mother of a daughter. That day when my daughter begins to pick up the the threads of tradition I've laid out for her, and make them her own. When she has taken all the years of watching, and produced it in her own way, for her own self. And she did put her own twist on it. Her pie is not round. But as you can see, it's perfection!

From Grandma Punkin, to whom we owe a big Thanksgiving thanks for all her great Texas cooking and recipe-sharing (next Thanksgiving I shall do an ode to cornbread dressing), and before her Grandma Bowen, from whence pineapple cheesecake came, to me -- a lucky and grateful daughter-in-law, and now to my daughter, and soon to my stepdaughter Carmen who also wants to learn to how to make it, and I would bet even to my son who will want to give it a go (or find a pretty girl who will) -- the family traditions carry on. And don't we all need them?  When life flies by faster than car window scenery, and when what shows up in your life one day that is not at all what you expected to come to call, biting into that comforting delicious pineapple cheesecake year to year is a constant that reminds us, love and family are always here. Some things are right and always will be.

Some people may have ties that bind, but for us Dreamfarmers, it's the pies that bind!

(The next generation pineapple cheesecake lover: my great-niece Eva Grace.)



The Dog that Caught the Car

Moving, and not moving, is deep in my psyche.  I have been moving or not moving all my life.  Which is to say, my family moved a lot when I was a kid, and when we weren't moving, that was almost as much a presence as moving, since it was only a matter of time. Oh, once I got to be a tween I got pretty good at fooling myself that I'd never have to move again, till Dad came home with new orders and the cycle started all over again. I cried and hated it. Till we got somewhere new and I never wanted to leave. (Again.)

My adult life is the plant born of these constantly shifting roots.  I have become attached to places where I swore I would not leave. And then, I left. I have taken on identities later abandoned. But those identities never really escaped me; they just became a layer I built upon.  This last layer's been building for quite some time. If my life were a layer cake, I'd be toppling over in a massive confectionary disaster.

And now. And now!  After year upon year upon year of Dreamfarm life here in sunny South Austin, Texas,  I have been offered a new path. A very different path. And I am going to take it!

Your very own Dreamfarm Girl will be relocating to the very antithesis of Dreamfarm. Like the North Pole to the South, like the day to the night, like the meadow to the metal.

Which is to say New York City. 

(Noo York City? Get a rope!) (Tell me you're not too young to remember that commercial.)

Yup. I am the dog that caught the car.  I have been offered a job that I cannot turn down, and holy cow what happens now.  But truth be told, I have been ready for the next exciting thing in my life-work (which I prefer to worklife, which is so much less than thinking of it in terms of the work I want to accomplish in my life). For some time I contemplated that the next exciting thing would be quitting my job, being a creative and selling my wares at the farmer's market, on Etsy, and artsy-craftsy fairs.  Maybe do some freelance writing.  Write short stories and poetry.  Monetize my blog.  Alas, this plan did not promise to pay my bills or land me gently into that goodly rest of retirement.  A promotion at my nonprofit organization did.

But it's so much more than that! I am energized to be thinking about making a contribution in a new way, to stretching my brain and testing the waters I have surrounded myself with.  Once again, after quite some time, I find myself whispering, I can do this!

And so we're off to the Big Apple.  And don't you think that big bad apple could use a little DFG energy?  (Okay, it doesn't care. I know it. But who cares?)

There are a few odds and ends, like dealing with our 5-acre house, barn, shed and gardens (anyone want to rent it? buy it? come to a massive garage sale?), and till then I'll be zipping back and forth. But I'm hoping in a few months we'll be nestled in a sunny apartment with my herbs growing in the window and my paintbrushes and the DFG blog given new inspiration.

Of course, it's not without some sadness.  I've been surrounded by family and friends here and that is not an easy thing to let go. But when I think of how letting go used to be the harsh closing of an airtight door, with only memories to connect me to the past, this is nothing like that. We will be back to visit often.

Here's to new challenges, new muses, and new scenery!  Because even though Dreamfarm is about a very wonderful place, it's also about keeping your eyes open and letting the world come in.

Sunday come to call

I have read in books that Sunday once was a day for calling...on your neighbors, family, friends.  And doesn't that sound lovely, a world where Sunday means socializing? I do love my Sundays, but mostly they are spent becoming one with my house through the generosity of Mrs. Meyer's cleaning products.

Today was not so different, except I did have a few visitors come to call.  Foremost, my sissy and I sat at the kitchen table for a good hour over Italian sodas. That just did my heart good.
 

But she is not the only one who came to call.  A dapper fellow in a black and white suit and a dashing red cap fluttered into my world and banged quite noisily -- not on the door, but on the tree. (I know, he is hard to see, but you must admit that red cap is quite the eye-catcher.) When I tried to get a little bit closer, he took a fright and headed for another oak. But as he did, who should I spy?

This slinky neighborhood lady, who belongs to no one but herself, and stealthily wanders the neighborhood acreage. I call her Inky. (There have been perhaps dozens of Inkys in the years I've lived here, or there could be just one. With at least nine lives. She is quite resourceful, that Inky. And leery of all things human. So I was quite honored she stopped by and stared. And stared some more.)

But that is not all, folks, that is not all at all!  Just as the afternoon sun was high in the sky, I heard my new neighbor making quite a ruckus. You might even say he was braying.

Meet Bandit.  My new neighbor donkey. Isn't he just the sweetest???

And the best news is I get to visit with him any day of the week, not just Sunday. I think we will become great friends.