Please Pass the Salt

It ain't nothing new, same as it ever was. Salt makes things taste better. Tomatoes, potatoes, and yes, even caramels. I meant to make this recipe for my Valentine, but time was not on my side this year, and so it was the sell by date of the heavy whipping cream that mandated I take a break from printing Tuesday evening to make some good old-fashioned candy. I tried making salted caramels when I was still in college and considered myself a decent home baker, but I quickly learned that just cause you know your way around a cake pan does not mean you know your way around a candy thermometer. I ended up way over-salting, and slightly burning, my first caramels earning them a one-way ticket to Inedibility Town (located on the continent of Wasted Afternoons, right on the Trashcan Longitude, in case you've never been there). I used a new recipe this time and am pleased as punch with both the process and end result. The smell of caramel boiling alone is enough to make me want to repeat the recipe every now and again. You can follow the recipe, courtesy of Amanda Hesser at the New York Times, here.

Salted Butter Caramels cooling off in their Space Age Suit

For a Martha-esque finish, you can wrap them in small squares of wax paper.

My favorite Valentine's Day present. From my longest running Valentine.

In Farm News: Here she is: Our broodiest hen, Mama Cass. Believe me, she looks just as crazed when she's in focus as she does out of focus. In case you don't have your own backyard flock, let me tell you of the wonder that is a broody hen. It's dedication personified. The hen sits and sits and puffs her body up to cover and warm all of the "potentials" below her. She gets up maybe once a day to grab a quick drink do a little peck, peck here and there, uses the bathroom (which is worth a whole gross post in itself because she saves it all up for one go), and returns to the baby throne.

When staring into the face of a feathery biological clock, one can't help but marvel at the powers of instinct. Unfortunately for this hen, this is my first time going through all of this and so I wasn't able to spot her broody behavior on the exact day it began. That means i'll be sneaking out with my candling light tonight so I can try to examine the eggs and determine how far along the embryos are, discard any non-potentials, and have a better idea of when these little guys might be gracing us with their presence. March, you better get here fast, cause down on the farm Spring done sprung.

Happy Valentine's Day Chickens!

I hope yours has been filled with pink flannel shirts, red lipstick and more white daffodils than could fill a hungry whale's tummy. (plankton flavored daffodils)

Syrup of Figs.

Overcast day no. 27/34. Time to be thankful for the Lisa Frank sunset from Saturday and the camellia bush in bloom. The pigs rooted up the California Fig Syrup bottle in the woods behind the mule barn and it was in really nice condition. After a little investigating, it seems that these bottles are relatively common, but there's not much information on the company itself other than the fact that they were involved in a lawsuit regarding the use of the words "Syrup of Figs"... Apparently they had been using it a lot and they weren't too keen on sharing the phrase. "Syrup of Figs" does have a nice ring to it, does it not? I take it the judge didn't think so as he dismissed the California Fig Syrup Company's claim. I think I would have dismissed the claim based on the fact that trying to patent a laxative medicine from "California figs" is a waste of our judiciary system's time and just plain un- American.... or maybe, it's the most American thing you can do.

Enough nonsense. Looks like this week is going to be a busy one. Lots of press and farm doings. We finally got our goat situation under control by using electric netting to concentrate their grazing and keep the kids protected from coyotes. If you're thinking about getting in to the farming game, hobby or otherwise, Premier 1 fencing is going to be your best friend. Seriously, trade them your Fruit Roll-Up for their carrot sticks at lunch. They are that good.



Also, I've been working on some illustrations for the press' website. (see below) I think it's hard for people who don't know much about printmaking to understand exactly what letterpress is, or why it is different, and by different I mean better, than digital printing. I aim to change that through illustrations, you know, children's book style. (No, i'm not writing a children's book, though I fully intend to one day, it's just a turn of phrase I'm going to force into the lexicon. For example: If you're driving with your honey and they say "Darling, please slow down, make way for those ducklings crossing the street up ahead." You can then respond, "Oh, I am.... children's book style." I'm telling you it's going to be big, try it. And if you didn't understand what I just said click here.)

This looks like the press I print on!

And these look like the reason I'm always looking for the pencil sharpener!

La Petite Souris Gourmande

In case you're not a French speaker and/ or not accustomed to discerning gray blobs within photographs I take of my grease jar let me give you a hint...




A mouse! A mouse that heard REM's Nightswimming on his iPod shuffle and got inspired to swim a few laps in our bacon fat pool. Unfortunately, this tiny mouse got a little more than he bargained for. Don't worry mouse, everyone goes swimming in pan drippings when no one's looking.

In all honesty, the situation was a little sad. I didn't see the mouse until I was grabbing a mug to make my afternoon tea so i'm not quite sure how long he had been in there, but his eyes told me it was a little too long. He was desperate to get out, but his little body was so greased up he just kept slipping down the sides of the jar. I think we all learned a lesson today: 1) Your doctor wants you to lower your cholesterol, but swimming in grease isn't the most effective way to do it. 2) If you have a collection jar for the nights when you have breakfast for dinner (translation: bacon as an entree) you should probably put a lid on your guilt jar. I didn't get a good photo of our rodent friend in the jar because I felt bad for not helping someone so clearly in distress, so I put the camera and the jar down, and the mouse scurried away in the rain.

And for those who are keeping a tally, yes, I managed to get the words pan drippings, bacon fat, and grease jar all within 250 words. Beat that State of the Union.

Beauty School

Smokehouse. The cat is about as friendly as it looks, but we'll break him in.

How about a haircut? How about two?

Enough winter neglect. Both the shrubs, that veil the front porch, and the bangs, that veil my forehead, had the scissors taken to them. Since my family is hosting the wedding at the farm (I haven't mentioned this formally on here but I got engaged last November!) we are devoting this year to prettying up the farm. This means a lot of weekends filled with house projects + no time for procrastinating. Lucky for us, the farm has got a lot to work with, high cheek bones and loads of natural beauty, but she's a little rough around the edges. Cold weather or not, it's time to roll up those sleeves and get to snipping.

Also, I neglected to tell you about the cat that adopted us during the ice storm. Brad named him/ her Smokehouse because the cat was born to smoke meats. Don't worry though, i'm going to make sure Smokehouse signs at least a six month lease + gives us the security deposit in cash.

Maybe winter and orange aren't exactly synonymous. Maybe they're more like half sisters. They have a comfortable alliance-- not so suffocating or stale, not so gray, not so binding.

When January comes, you savor the daylight. You can't wait for it to get out of bed and stretch it's little rays in your direction to sweep up the frost and make a warm pallet for the dogs in the yard. When it retires for the evening, makes it's whiskey drink and grabs the last section of the paper to read you understand. You thank it for putting in a good day's work and you say hello to the moon, the night shift. It seems particularly industrious this time of year.

When the moon is full, it brings in the cold. Right, mom?

Where are the Cigars?

Meet Mogwai, notice the mama goat in the background,
looking on like a concerned parent.

One baby goat. Two baby goat. Three baby goat?

We've had two baby goats born in three days, and Vanilli was having contractions this morning so it won't be too long before we have a third. If I didn't oooh and aahhh enough over the last set of kids that were born I feel like i'm making up for it now. Baby goats are beyond adorable, as in, doctors recommend you wait at least one hour after your last meal to hold a baby goat, for fear of fainting, cramps, or heart explosion. Imagine a little wobbly fluff ball that resembles a distant cousin of the gremlin.... they hit 15,000 cutons easily (pronounced cüt- on, one cuton is equivalent to one Hello Kitty sticker).

As for non-baby goat matters, I spent yesterday in Athens at the Atelier Bridal Show promoting BPP. I saw old friends and made some new friends and was happy that I stayed up way too late the night before, painting shelves with chalkboard paint, making paper hearts, paper wedding cakes and an oversized Air Mail envelope addressed to a bride and groom that cohabitate at 2 Lover's Lane. (ridiculous, I know) I'm becoming increasingly convinced that weddings help the world go round.

Tiny cake toppers for the paper wedding cake.
*note: my hands aren't aging disproportionately, they're just wrinkly from washing the dishes