What do you do with

1200 garlic scapes?

Make garlic scape pesto!

Here's what you need:

One pound garlic scapes, chopped

1/3 - 1/2 cup chopped and toasted almonds

1/3 cup fresh basil

3/4 - 1 cup grated parmesan

(use the good stuff here, none of this pre-grated grocery store stuff)

3/4 - 1 cup extra virgin olive oil

Put everything except the olive oil in a bowl of a food processor and pulse to a fine uniform consistency. With the motor running slowly drizzle in the olive oil until you reach the desired consistency. Makes about 3 cups. Serve over pasta, boiled potatoes, mixed into scrambled eggs or just dip some good crusty bread into it and slurp it up. Yum!

Next up: pickled garlic scapes.

I read that garlic should be planted under the light of the last full moon in the month of October. And the planter should be naked.

Two years and 2500 bulbs of garlic later I think this theory holds water like the old tarp stretched over our woodpile - not very well. We haven't planted under moon light and definitely not while naked (though perhaps this might scare away the rabbbits?) but the locals acknowledge this is good stuff. Take the following story, for example.

A knock at the door. I go to answer. An older man in jeans and plaid flannel stands before me, hat tilted back on his head and a stand of white hair shooting out from under the brim. I look twice to confirm that a piece of straw isn't dangling from his lower lip. He's stepped straight from the set of Green Acres.

He shuffles from one foot to the other, a slow barn dance of a move to some unheard music.

"Yes?" I ask.

Shuffle, slide, shuffle. "Bought some garlic last week," says Plaid.

"Oh," I say, waiting.

"I said, I bought some garlic," he says again, this time shouting.

Ah, this gentleman is hard of hearing. I nod my head vigorously to show my understanding. "Yes," I say loudly. "That's good."

Plaid snorts like a horse on a cold morning. "It was," he says, grudgingly, nodding slowly. "Damn rights." He eyes me, the pen I hold in my uncallused hands, the yoga pants and hoodie that I'm wearing. "Know how to tell it's any good?" he asks.

I shake my head. Plaid leans in. Winks. He's in his element; he's going to tell this obvious non-farmer standing in front of him something about farming. Some bit of knowledge that he's winnowed from the fields over the years. Something more valuable than you can learn from books and paper and pens.

"People take a step back when I talk to them. Then I know it's the good stuff." He nods once, firmly. Stands up to his full height again and hitches up his jeans, thumbs through his belt loops. "Thought I'd get some more."

Turns out Plaid eats a head of garlic each week. Prefers it raw, cloves snapped from the bulb and popped straight into his mouth, skins and all. No time wasted with mincing or pressing, sauteing or roasting. Nope. A minimum of one raw clove per day straight into his mouth. Keeps back the riffraff. And hasn't had garlic like ours in years.

I'm not sure how old he is but with his garlic consumption I'm sure he'll still be around next year. Note to self: next harvest, set aside five pounds of garlic for Plaid.

Part two - Pass the bread please

I stand corrected. 

In my previous entry on rye bread, I mentioned a bakery located at 57th and Fraser in Vancouver. A reliable source informed me that said baker is called Breka Bakery and is actually located at 49th and Fraser. So, if you've been wandering around the lower regions of Fraser Street, drooling over the thought of a good loaf of rye, head north young man. You'll find what you seek.

Another bread discovery worth checking out if you're in Victoria, BC: Wildfire Bakery at 1517 Quadra. Unfortunately, the owner of Wildfire must be even more of a Luddite than I am, as they don't have a website. But trust me, if you need a good, dense, chewy loaf and you don't want to drive to Cowichan Bay, Wildfire is the place to go.

Dear Loyal Fan Base,

Yes, all two of you.

In the last few months, you might have been wondering what has happened to the City Girl Who Went Farming.

Did I get lost in a snow drift?

Apparently not. The thaw came and went and still no sign of me.

Did I fall under the wheels of a tractor?

Nope, haven't had a tractor around here since the Fall.

Did I go on a road trip to buy rye bread and decide to take up residence at True Grains?

I believe their front room still contains tables and chairs for their patrons, but no bed or closets for personal effects, so that can't be it.

Nope, this City Girl Who Went Farming became the City Girl Who Left The Farm For a JOB. 

Unfortunately, we are not independently wealthy and, as the best and most experienced farmers will tell you, farming is not a get rich quick scheme. We were faced with cash flow issues. That is, the cash was flowing a little too quickly and all in one direction. And so, I find myself pulling my old office clothes out of the back of my closet, shaking off the dust and heading out everyday to sit in front of a computer and attend meetings.

Meanwhile, back at the farm, Mike is in charge of getting the farm project up and running while keeping two small boys from doing too much damage to themselves in their effort to "help out."

And how is he doing? We're making progress; perhaps more slowly than we'd like, but we are seeing changes. Check in again soon for a photo update. In the meantime, enjoy some of the shadow art that we've been working on!

Pass the bread, please...

Here's the conversation:

"Pass the bread, please."

Bread basket is passed, the butter follows. Bread and butter meet. Bread enters mouth.

"This is really good rye bread. Where did you get it."

"Terra Breads."

"Hmm... it's good. Have you tried the rye bread from Cobs?"

"Yes, but they don't always make it. The Cobs on Broadway stopped making it altogether and the one on Fourth Avenue makes it only every third Tuesday when there also happens to be a quarter moon."

"Venice Bakery used to make really good rye bread, but it's not as good anymore. The rye bread from Costco is pretty good though."

"Costco? You're kidding, right?"

"No. It's surprisingly good."

"I've heard about a bakery on Fraser street, somewhere near 57th, that's supposed to make good rye bread, but I haven't tried it."

"I heard a rumour that there's a good one in Coquitlam at Burquitlam Plaza, but they only bake rye bread once a month and you have to order ahead.

***

Okay, maybe this conversation isn't quite accurate, but there's a standing joke in our house (started by my non-Finn husband) that no gathering for a meal of my Finnish family is complete without a discussion of rye bread and where to find the best loaf. I guess you can take the Finn out of Finland, but you can't take the rye bread out of the Finn.

Despite my being a born and raised Canadian, I can't quite shed my Finnish roots. I love many things Finnish: a good, hot sauna complete with a leap into an icy lake so cold that breathing momentarily stops, a slice of cardamom scented sweet bread still warm from the oven and, best of all, good rye bread.

Before we settled on Metchosin for our experiment in converting ourselves into organic farmers, we had been searching the Cowichan Valley for property. While we didn't find the land we were looking for, we did come across a fantastic source of rye bread: True Grain Bread. In this small bakery in Cowichan Bay, some of the finest bread that I've ever tasted is baked. And while many a loaf are excellent, the Ring 'o Rye is the best. But, they don't bake many of these beauties and they aren't open Mondays or Tuesdays, so if you want to sample it, get there early Wednesday to Sunday. And, while you're there, you might as well stay for lunch. Stop next door at Hilary's Cheese. You'll find some outstanding locally made cheese layered onto bread from True Grain, as well as the best soup I've tasted that hasn't come out of my own soup pot.

Recently I was in need of rye bread and we all needed a bit of an excursion after being snowed in for many a day, so we made the hour drive to Cow Bay. We weren't disappointed. A few bowls of soup and many loaves of bread later and all was well in the world again.

For your viewing pleasure, I offer you a look at a Ring 'o Rye and how it should be served. Now, doesn't that make you want to be a Finn?

winter has arrived

This afternoon, in my Kitsilano rubber boots, the ones with pink and green swirls on a black background, I went outside to heft a shovel over my shoulder and check that the drains outside our house were draining and the ditches outside our property were, well, ditching. I do own much more utilitarian boots - plain black rubber, solid footbed, thick sole - suited to serious garden and outdoor work. But today's objective didn't include serious work, simply a quick check to make sure we wouldn't soon be driving up our property value with the addition of an indoor swimming pool. 

Besides, I don't often get a chance to wear my Kits rubber boots these days so I was happy to get out in them. They were fine for walks to the beach on rainy days, but if I'm going to be a serious farmer, I must wear serious farm boots. Swirly pink and green fairly scream city newbie and I'm already worried that we leave a wake of people shaking their heads behind us. And so, my Kits boots usually venture only as far as our property line, and only when I'm alone and not contemplating any serious work that might put a scratch in the paint, so to speak.

Boots on, I headed out to survey the winter scene. And Old Man Winter has indeed come to Metchosin. Local media are reporting an accumulation of 41 cm of snow, more than is currently measured at the North Pole. Given the amount of snow, my first concern (after the issue of the  indoor swimming pool) was the safety of the locals. So, first stop was a quick check on one of them. He seemed happy enough, despite being up to his armpits in snow.

The next local I visited also seemed to be faring well, perhaps too well. Such a hardy critter will surely be unfazed by any attempts on our part to protect our newly-sprouting veggies come spring time. This is one well-fed looking long-ears. All I can say is that his lucky rabbit's feet are working for him. If we weren't a couple of vegetarians, his days would be numbered.

I continued to crunch along, breaking through the frozen crust of the snow. Even before I got to the ditches I could hear the water flowing. No need for the shovel over my shoulder. Since temperatures have risen in the last few days, the melt has started but, fortunately, water seems to be flowing in the right direction. 

A quick visit to the seasonal pond was next. It has been appropriately seasonal and filled up. I would never have imagined in summertime that this grassy expanse could possible form a pond. But, there it is, complete with an island in the middle. The ice on its surface is now reduced to a few slushy flows drifting in the current, but last week in the middle of this snowy period, it was a postcard scene waiting for the camera to arrive.

Environment Canada is predicting a warm, wet stretch over the next while. Does this mean that spring is soon to make an arrival and that we won't see any more of this?

Or this?

There's lots to be said for seeing the snow go. It's difficult to get around, the boys can't get out so easily (and it takes forever to get them ready to go out) and the cat gets cabin fever and starts chewing on us. 

In some ways, though, I'll miss the snow. The quiet that falls with the flakes and blankets us in its embrace. The shock of pressing a warm nose to a cold window pane and watching the snow disappear in a fog of breath. The snuggle of two small boys in flannel pajamas when they crawl into our bed on a dark morning and knowing that it's another day of hot chocolate and popcorn and games.

If Old Man Winter wants to stay a bit longer, that's okay. Besides, it would give me a chance to wear my Kitsilano boots again.

Brussels sprouts, the new "it" vegetable

Which would you rather do: 1) get your annual flu shot, or 2) consume a helping of brussels sprouts? If you're like most people - or, at least, most people I know - you'll choose option number one.

The poor brussels sprout has somehow earned a reputation as a vegetable of the lower order, well behind the socially-acceptable broccoli, the ubiquitous carrot, even the sometimes-marginalized cauliflower. But I aim to change the standing of the lowly brussels sprout.

Recently, in our quest to educate ourselves about the farming community of Metchosin, we made a visit to Bilston Creek Organics, a farm run Nao and Trevor Peterson. While we were admiring their green houses and discussing what grows well and what sells well, I couldn't help but notice a long row of brussels sprouts marching down the length of one of their fields. And so, being an enthusiastic sprout eater and never one to pass up the opportunity for a local, organic veg, I offer to take a couple of stalks off of their hands.

As I was loading the brussels sprouts into the back of the car, I realized that most people do not even know what a brussels sprout looks like in its natural state. Their only experience of them is in the produce section of the grocery store where they lie like a heap of Lilliputian-sized green cabbages being passed over in preference of the above named "acceptable" veggies.  For those of you scratching your heads and saying to yourselves "what do they look like in their natural state?" fear not - I will keep you from losing sleep over this one. Here, for your edification, is a pic of brussels sprouts in all their green glory.

Leaves on,

leaves off.

Those darling sprouts simply need to be removed from the stalk with a sharp knife, given a good rinsing, have a few outer leaves peeled off and Bob's your uncle - a delectable veggie treat awaits you.

Stop cringing. It is possible to make brussels sprouts absolutely delish. 

First off, please remember that brussels sprouts are not meant to be eaten with a straw. That means don't over cook them! They should stand up and fight back when you stab them with your fork. You could settle for simply steaming them, but here's a way that will bring even the most reluctant sprout eater to the table asking for more.

Take 25 or so brussels sprouts and give them a rinse. Remove outer leaves to reveal a perfectly glowing green globe of tender leaves tucked around each other. Give them a quick blanching in rapidly boiling water. The sprouts should be a vibrant green, calling to mind fresh spring growth. Quickly drain and plunge into ice water to stop the cooking process ( remember: no straws required). Finely mince a thumb-sized piece of ginger. Sauté the ginger in a bit of butter for 30 seconds or so, add in a tablespoon or two of brown sugar and the drained brussels sprouts. Squeeze the juice of half an orange into the pan. Keep stirring until the sprouts are heated through. Serve immediately. Keep a cricket bat handy to beat back the crowds. Yes, you must share but you want to make sure that you're rewarded for your effort with a sampling of this tasty treat.

May you embrace the beauty of the brussels sprout the way that I have and join me in my quest to elevate the standing of this woefully misunderstood veggie.

A Field Trip to Sooke

Last weekend we decided to take a break from the farming life to explore our surroundings. Destination? Whiffen Spit at the far west side of Sooke. It was almost like a Sunday morning walk at Kits beach. Except that there were hardly any people. And the few that were there weren't drinking cups of Starbucks coffee. Nor were they draped head to toe in Lululemon. Or talking on cell phones. Or dodging packs of Sunday morning long runners. Okay, I guess it wasn't anything like a Sunday morning at Kits beach. But it was beautiful...

And then this, on the drive back home. We're definitely not in Kansas anymore. Buffy's must be the place to be.

Speaking of burning...

You recall that old green house and chicken coop and fencing that we had multi-talented Septic Steve have a go at with his excavator? And those five small pines and the unfortunately located birch tree that had to go? And all the overgrown shrubbery that we've slowly been hacking back? Have you wondered where it's all gone?

It's been accumulating in four large piles towards the back of our property. The "burn piles" we call them. In truth, they're a bit of an eye-sore, four large piles of broken two by fours, bits of plywood, dead limbs of trees, knots of roots. So, inspired by the recent public burning that we attended, we decided that it was time to get on with our own burning. 

But, before striking a match, it's time for a bylaw check: 

1. No burning on Sundays. Hmmm... will we burn somewhere else if we burn on Sunday? Better not risk it.

2. Maximum fire size is 6'x6'x6'. I can live with that. Quite frankly, I don't want to see a 6'x6'x6' fire anywhere near our house.

3. As a courtesy to the neighbours, check the ventilation index. It seems there is something new to learn every time we embark on a project here. Little did I know that there is such a thing as a ventilation index.

So, smallish fires, Monday to Saturday, but only on days with good ventilation. Yesterday and today were just such days. And so, the match was struck...

Where there is smoke, there will, hopefully, be fire.

Just a few more tree branches to really get this humming.

And we have fire! 

And watching over all of the madness, making sure that nothing (and  no one) got out of line, our very own fire marshall, at the ready with the hose. Thankfully, there were no wild flames needing attention, only the occasional hosing down of a parent.

I'm happy to report that at the end of two days of burning, during which I found many muscles that have lain dormant since my last step aerobics class in 1987, our inventory consists of one and half burn piles and one extremely large pile of ash.

Next project: find a use for ash but be sure to check bylaws for any restrictions on its use.

Progress Report

You may be wondering if we are spending all of our time here going to Hallowe'en events, meeting with Ladies Who Lunch and hanging out with Preschool families. Though those things are occupying some of our time, we are actually getting work done around here to turn this place into a farm (I prefer to call this place a micro-farm).

So, after having our big knock-down, drag-out event that cleared out the old (chicken coop, green house, fencing) we've made way for the new. 

Jim, the mechanic at the local volunteer fire hall, who plows fields in his spare time, brought around his tractor and had a go and our wee fields.

Once the plowing was done, the seeding of the winter cover crop could begin. We planted a combination of vetch, winter wheat and pea. The idea is to let this grow over the winter and then turn it into the soil in the spring before planting time. It will feed the soil and help build structure. That is if the family of quails leaves any seed behind. They come through everyday, darting out from the thicket of blackberry bushes at the side of the property, and have a peck at the ground. We'll have to watch for signs of sprouting. If nothing happens but the quails get fatter we'll know where the seed has gone.

And then, we planted garlic, about 100 cloves in all. Next year we'll either be eating a lot of garlic or learning about which animal has Mediterranean roots and likes to sneak through and chow down on our plantings. I don't think the quail are interested though. They seem to be sticking to the cover crop seed.

There's something to be said for a public burning. 

It draws people out of doors. They forget their political differences and gather together, mesmerized by the lick of flame, the brush of heat on the skin and the prospect of crisped up marshmallows.

We attended our first Metchosin Hallowe'en event on Friday evening. Trick or Treating is out of the question here - the houses are too far apart and it's so, so dark. There's no light pollution to speak of, just that "can't see your hand in front of your face" effect. And so, off to the Volunteer Fire Hall for the community event.

Though we're only an eight minute walk from the Fire Hall (which might be useful when it comes time for us to tackle our own burn piles out back - never hurts to have help close at hand) we decided to drive there. Fortunately, we planned to go for the start of the event. Had we left later, we might have been parking almost at our house, the cars were stacked up so far down the side of the road.

And what did we see? The biggest burn pile I've ever laid eyes on. It had to be 20 feet high before they tossed the match.

And I say "tossed the match" euphemistically. They used a "tiger torch" to light it up. What is a tiger torch you ask? Basically, a huge blow torch attached to a propane tank. You could do some good weed clearing with that thing! 

So, we stood in the glow of the flames, watching the volunteer fire fighters hose down the surrounding trees and the BMX bike park, and taking in the scent of smoke mixed with hotdogs. A reliable source (Jim, who by night rototills fields with his tractor - namely ours - and by day works as the mechanic at the firehall) reports that last year they went through 600 hotdogs. Rural legend or fact? You decide. But, as I say, the source is reliable.

We had to take our little dinosaurs home before the marshmallows came out for toasting and the fireworks started up. Bedtime took precedence. But I can see that this will be a good event for our little family in years to come.

This coming Friday we're going to a different sort of public burning: we're going to an all candidates meeting for the upcoming Metchosin elections. This is a hotbed of political opinions and conflicting ideas. Hopefully, the community will once again gather together amicably but this time, without the need of the fire fighters to put out the flames.

It's a rural, rural world out here.

One minute, you're happily picking apples from the tree on a sunny afternoon and the next you're sitting in darkness, wondering when the lights will come back on.

Recently, we attended the monthly parents' meeting at our son's pre-school. Each meeting starts off with a guest speaker, followed by pre-school business and class meetings. Sounds tedious? For us, though, it's almost as good as a night out. We line up a baby sitter and get to spend two hours in the company of other adults. When we're finished, we come home to two sleeping boys and a quiet house.

So imagine my displeasure when, at the last meeting, the speaker, who was the head of the local volunteer fire hall, actually had the nerve to speak of such weighty topics as safety in the home and emergency preparedness, topics that demanded my utmost serious attention.  This was not the light social night out I had anticipated. Where were the chocolate chip cookies? Where was the coffee?

What did I learn? That we need to check all of our smoke detectors to ensure that they work. That our windows are a safety hazard because they open only about 45 degrees, not enough to allow an escape route. That in this backwater location, we should be prepared to fend for ourselves for up to six or seven days in the event of a large scale emergency, not the three days as the province advises. That every room should be equipped with a fire safety kit that includes a hammer (to break said window that doesn't open wide enough for a person to climb out) a rope ladder (so that one doesn't end up with broken limbs after break the above noted window and making a timely escape) towels (to stuff under the bottom of the close door to prevent smoke from seeping into the room). There might have been other items, but at this point my brain was getting rather full as our new digs morphed from a home with potential into a death trap.

At this point in the discussion, the topic of household fire safety kits came up. Someone mentioned fire extinguishers and the need to have them checked regularly.  Someone else mentioned white flags to extend on poles out of windows to alert firefighters to the rooms in which we might be trapped. Someone else asked where in the house we should keep our fire safety kits (as if we all have them at home, sitting on the kitchen table just waiting for that perfect storage spot). Answer? How about next to the emergency preparedness kit.

I confess: at that point I broke down in slightly hysterical giggles. Emergency preparedness kit?What a good idea. The way the answer was tossed off and everyone around me nodded their heads sagely, it seems that we are the only ones in the community who will be fighting with the cat over the kibbles in the event of a disaster.

Really, though, I have no excuse for being so woefully unprepared. Years ago, in my former big city, pre-kids life, I worked for a large department of the provincial government. As part of my job, I participated in a mock province-wide emergency response. I got a clear view of what could happen if the big one (or even a not-so-big one) hits and it wasn't good. I know that I should have food, water and blankets in my backpack and in my car. I know that I should have a stash of batteries and flashlights in every room of the house. I know that I should sleep with my hiking boots under my bed. I know that I should always sleep in a full complement of clothing (otherwise I'd look pretty silly running around naked in my hiking boots trying to find the kibbles) I know these things. Truly. I have no excuse beyond laziness and optimistic disbelief.

So, we have some work ahead of us. Hammers in each room and a case of canned salmon by the basement door. And perhaps one in the back of the car. And maybe an extra bag of kibbles for Rudi.

For next month's meeting, in an effort to preserve my state of optimistic denial, I volunteered to be on snack duty. I think I can already smell the chocolate chip cookies baking.

Wanted: women's plaid flannel shirt, size six

Tonight I became a card-carrying member of the Metchosin Garden Club.

I paid my five dollars and sat in a church basement to listen to a well-seasoned gardener talk about all things bulbs, corms and tubers. Her talk was complete with a slide show, handouts and sly garden humour (did you know that Allium are downright promiscuous, spreading their seed everywhere?)

As I sat listening from my grey metal chair at the back of the room, peering around the bodies in front of me to get a clearer view of that lovely Dog-toothed Violet on the portable screen, I couldn't help but notice the size of the shoulders around which I was peering. Some were worthy of line backers. Egads! and these were on the women.

Don't misunderstand. At break time, everyone was more than welcoming, wanting to know how long we've been living in Metchosin, where exactly we live ("Oh, did you buy Ruth and David's old place?" "Yes." "You are so lucky. It's such a great place! Are you renting out the suite?" and so on), where we moved from and why we chose Metchosin. But I couldn't help noticing a similarity among these women (and of the 25 or so people gathered in that church basement, 22 or 23 were women): there was a lot of plaid flannel in the room.

As we chatted over the ginger cookies and oat snaps that were on offer from the scheduled "coffee treat person", it became apparent that almost everyone in attendance has been living in Metchosin for at least 20 years. And 20 years has taught them one thing, if nothing else: deer will try to eat almost anything. And in 20 years, these women have tried every plant known to to the seed catalogues and obscure mail-order nurseries. Year after year, they have optimistically donned their flannel and wool and rubber boots and ventured out into the rain and wind and worked their soil, hoping that this time, they will beat the nibblers.

So, perhaps, in the process of developing their gardens they have developed large shoulders to be able to carry the quantity of optimism needed to keep trying. And if they choose flannel for their uniform, so what? Perhaps it's not being worn by the cool kids on the block, but clearly, for these practical and pragmatic women, it works. And, as I suspect they know something of Metchosin that I don't, I'm not going to be overly critical of their fashion choices. Who knows? Perhaps I'll find that there is room for plaid flannel in my own closet.

But I will keep an eye on the size of my shoulders.

Divining

First, make your divining rods.

To do this, take two metal coat hangers. You know the ones, the kind that you get from the dry cleaners, the ones that seem to multiply in the back of the closet and get relegated to supporting your old clothes, the clothes that are next in line for the Sally Ann. These hangers actually hide a divine purpose: sourcing out our life source.

To transform these utilitarian hangers into divining rods, cut off the curved hook and one of the shoulder supports. Bend the remaining shoulder support and bottom brace to form a right angle. You are now holding divining rods. 

Take your rods outside. Begin divining.

Start the process by preparing your divining rods. To do this, hold a rod in each hand, grasping close to the end of the arm of the rod. Extend your arms and spin the rods quickly. Stop spinning after 30 seconds or so. Now, hold the rods in front of you in an upside down "L" position with the horizontal portion of the "L" pointing straight ahead of you. Begin walking forward slowly. As you pass over a water source, the rods will slowly turn in your hands, following the line of the water coursing below your feet.

This works. Truly. As I walked slowly across our field, rods at the ready, I couldn't help but feel skeptical. But then I couldn't stop myself from laughing when the rods started to turn in my hands, aligning themselves perfectly to show where a lost irrigation pipe ran under the soil beneath my feet. And though the process in also called witching, the experience of having the rods turn in my hands, of feeling their energy work independently of the hands holding them, feels less of witchcraft and more of divine purpose, for there, below my feet, lay water, that substance upon which all life survives or fails. And though this exercise revealed only an irrigation pipe for which we were searching, divining will also reveal other previously unknown water sources. Divining for water is a true connection to the land. It gets no more basic than this: the earth revealing its most valuable resource to us. All through two basic divining rods formed from the waste of modern, industrial life.

Imagine.

There's no going back

Now we've done it.  And really done it.  There's no going back. 

There was a time when I'd get up in the morning, stumble around the kitchen making coffee and then, clutching my cup in two hands, artificially introduce myself to the day while staring out the kitchen window at this:

All in all, not a bad way to wake up.  But then, this arrived:

And look what it did to a perfectly good chicken coop!

There aren't going to be anymore chickens in this coop.

Okay, so it wasn't actually a perfectly good chicken coop.  Admittedly it was in need of repair, to the point that even some rats who had previously taken up residence in it had decided to move on. Perhaps it was an issue with the room service and lack of regular meals. Anyway, we decided that the chicken coop had to go.  And the co-dependent green house.  It was definitely time for the green house and the grapevines to establish some independence from each other. Learn to stand on their own two feet (or collapse, as the case may be). And then, of course, the cyanide-leeching pressure treated posts for the fencing around our future organic garden had to go. And then some unfortunately located trees.

End result? A large open expanse of soil, turned over and awaiting tilling.  As I said, there's no going back now.

Enter the visual world...

Finally, some visuals.  A bit out of date, but here they are...

Waiting in the line up at the BC Ferries terminal in Tsawwassen, British Columbia for the ferry that will take us to Vancouver Island to begin this great adventure.

The happy campers arriving at their new house.  (Note the smiles. Clearly, issues with movers and faulty appliances have yet to come.)

Mike investigating the tangled wilds of the back of the property. 

On the road to self-sufficiency (or is it the equivalent of climbing K2 without oxygen?) Sorry about the orientation of the photo.  Any hints out there on how to flip this around?

Nothing like some good, honest manual labour. Start 'em young, I say.

That's it for now.  A little teaser on the place where we have landed.

Ladies Who Lunch

The women of East Sooke (which borders on Metchosin) give new meaning to the term "ladies who lunch."

I'm not sure where else in the world a group of 10 or 12 women would gather around a table laid with fern fronds and fresh flowers, a backdrop of the East Sooke basin rolling out beyond the floor to ceiling windows, and talk septic systems and drainage. 

Seriously. 

These are renaissance women. They are equally comfortable with dirt under their nails or polish on top of them. They can "talk muck" with the best of them, or politics with the worst of them. They are informed, informing, involved, opinionated, smart. And they are welcoming, so much so that I had the great honour of sharing a lunch with them and feeling right at home. 

I could learn much from this group. Conversation topics ranged from international emigration to septic systems to building permit acquisition to public forums on land usage to local history.  All in a two hour span. Should these women become fired up about an issue and decide to bring their collective force to bear, I would fear for their opponent. I'm sure that in the most eloquent of speech, they would make a lovely mince tart of the offending party, served up with a lightly spiced whipped cream. They break all stereotypes held by city folk of people who live "in the country." And if I'm lucky, I'll receive an invitation to the next gathering of "ladies who lunch."

What happened to August????

Did anyone see where August went? I seem to have misplaced it. Perhaps it got trapped out back in the thorny grasp of the blackberry bushes. I'll have to look for it when I'm next out there picking berries and rescue it with the loppers. But if I can't locate August, I'll move on. September is a beautiful month and I'm looking forward to getting outside and getting my hands dirty in the garden. And there are any number of outdoor projects with which to get my hands dirty, not the least of which is pruning back lots of plant material that has been left to its own devices for too long.

Some pruning has already gotten underway, thanks to the English rellies who have come to visit. It seems that change is as good as anything for a vacation. We've had willing volunteers to hack away at overgrown butterfly bushes and wieglea and underproductive fruit trees. And in fact, the pruning has revealed quite an array of tasty plant life already growing here. We've discovered:

• yellow plums
• blackberries
• purple plums
• transparent apples
• a few varieties of red apples
• hazelnuts
• blackberries
• walnuts
• Japanese plums (which look like big cherries)
• grapes
• fig
• rosemary
• blackberries
• oregano
• mint
• rhubarb
• blackberries

Not a bad selection to begin with.  Sure, most of it needs some attention, but we've been enjoying yellow plums and transparent apples and will soon to be harvesting a good crop of purple plums as well as lots of red apples. 

Those of you paying attention, though, will notice that blackberries appeared a few times on the list of harvestable plant life. That should give you an indication of the quantity of blackberries that we have on our property.  They're quite yummy and make a great jam (yes, I made blackberry jam!) but they are also capable of lifting the roof off of a shed. And they have totally surrounded our most productive apple tree. My plan? To pick the berries from around the apple tree and as I pick, to take loppers to canes and chop away. I figure that by the time the apples are ready for picking I'll have slain enough of the blackberries to have a safe passage to the apple tree.

And the blackberry canes that were attacking the storage sheds? They've already been acquainted with the loppers, though I understand they are tenacious beasts and, rather like aging rock stars, inclined to make a comeback just when you think they've finally gone away.

Now, I must sign off. I must save my strength for tomorrow's battle. I can hear the blackberry bushes rustling away outside. They must be strategizing their surprise attack, deciding which arching cane with particularly long thorns will wrap itself around my arm and which one will suddenly reach over my head and attach itself to the back of my sweater leaving me no chance of defense. But I'm on to them now. I've seen what happened to August. I'll lead the charge with my loppers and we'll see who comes out victorious.

Two week progress report

We have been in our new house for two weeks. We're still surrounded by stacks of boxes but now, instead of being of tsunami magnitude, the stacks are more on the scale of the wake of a BC Ferry - enough to cause trouble should you get caught out but not enough to bring about your demise.

So we are making progress.  We finally have all of our stuff from the moving company. No, they did not deliver. Instead we had to rent a van and Mike had to make a day trip to Vancouver to retrieve the final bits and pieces of our belongings. As well, we had to rope in the assistance of some friends who happened to be coming over for a visit and who also happen to own a minivan. But, no matter. We have our things. And, joy! We have our barbeque, for what is summer without a barbeque at least one a week.

Unfortunately, when we fired up the barbeque to get that warm, summertime feeling going, we had a hotter experience than expected. Halfway through cooking our halibut steaks, flames started spewing out from underneath the barbeque. So, fire down the barbeque and flip the the steaks into the fry pan on the stovetop. Somehow, it just wasn't quite the same thing. Another project for the list - if we ever get around to putting the list to paper, which we really don't want to do since we'd have to slay a small forest to produce enough paper to accommodate all the items on our project list.

Other items underway that we can check off that non-existent list?

Our team of manual labourers (Mike and Liam) have been out working on the septic system.  You'd be surprised how much dirt an almost-four-year-old can move when he think it's play. Our front yard cum septic field is now full of a bunch of 18 inch deep holes with which we are going to monitor septic field "activity." I think that when it comes time to do the actual monitoring which involves measuring liquid levels, I'll be busy indoors alphabetizing my spice rack. Don't laugh! When you're in the middle of cooking and the crucial moment to add spices is upon you, you don't want to be caught out unable to find your turmeric or cardamom.

Our new dishwasher has arrived and thanks to a generous offer from my brother-in-law to assist with the installation (okay, I admit it - do the installation) we now have the quietest dishwasher I've ever had the pleasure to not hear. When it's running you actually have to put your ear up to it before you can tell that it's on.

We've enlisted the services of a neighbour to come and cut our dandelion field for a small fee until we have a chance to do a comparative analysis of John Deere versus Husqvarna.

Garbage collection has been arranged. Yes, we must arrange private garbage collection. No city collection here. Up until now, our method of dealing with garbage has been to stash our bags in an old, defunct chest freezer outside by the sheds. Seems the perfect set-up. No hungry animals can get at it and any smell is contained. As I said, perfect. That is, until the chest fills up.

To do?  Get rid of the old dishwasher. Although, it kind of makes a nice set with the old chest freezer. And with our dandelion fields, all we're missing is an old, rusted car parked up on blocks in the yard to make us look like some kind of junkyard hillbillies. There's been a bit of a problem with home break-ins around here recently, so maybe cultivating the junkyard look isn't such a bad idea. Really, what are the chances that we'd have anything worth stealing?

Those are the highlights of the last two weeks. Stay tuned for a cultural experience report.

Perhaps we could get used to this place...

This morning I woke at 5:15, just as light was entering the sky. I got up to look out the bedroom windows and saw three brown rabbits sitting in the grass on their haunches, noses to the wind. Later on, in the full light of morning, Liam and I walked up the road to see the cows at a neighbouring farm. The sun was shining and the sky was that post-card perfect bottomless blue. Blackberry bushes stretched out their prickly arms towards us, showing off a profusion of hard, green berries, a promise of the harvest to come. Overhead some hawks rode a thermal updraft in lazy circles. An afternoon exploration of our property revealed several apple and plum trees in fruit. Tonight, we had dinner sitting on the back deck, from which all we can see are shades of green melting one into another as the sun sets behind the trees. I think we could get used to this place.