this is going to be the year

That's my go-to phrase regarding our garden pretty much every year: This is going to be the year! 

Let's just say: Hope springs eternal when it comes to our garden. 

Year 1 wasn't so bad. I maybesortakinda let the weeds get a little out of control. Ok, so we had to use the weed whacker at one point. But isn't that its job?! To whack weeds?

Year 2 was just a mess. Don't let the little surprise pictured above fool you. (Somebody found that in a bunch of trees and thought it would be funny to scare the living daylights out of me...and it worked.) It rained for roughly SEVEN THOUSAND WEEKS IN A ROW so nothing grew, and the sad little tomato plants that did survive only produced about a half a tomato a piece. I gave up part way through the summer. 

But every year, I tell myself it's going to be different this time around. And this year, I'm happy to report, it has been. 

For a solid two weeks now.

And by that I mean: the garden still has discernible rows, which is a small victory for me. 

I also planted -- and have managed not to kill -- two lilac bushes, because lilacs are my favorite flower in the entire world. My parents have a 1/10 mile stretch of them, and my favorite time of year is when they're all blooming and the air smells sweet. 

My sisters and I would pick them for our mom, and even though they only last about 12 seconds before the petals started falling off, we loved them. Our dad would go with us out into the pine trees and lilac bushes and help us pick some. He'd lift us up so we could see into the branches of the pine tree where robins built nests, and we'd count the little blue eggs. Good memories go hand-in-hand with lilacs.

And these beauties, even though they're annuals, survived the winter and bloomed again this spring, which is basically like Christmas in May.

Back home in Iowa, humans are lucky to survive the winter, let alone plants. Living farther south has its perks!

Also, little known fact: When you have dogs, also get fences for your garden. Lots and lots of fences. Unless you're into having them dig up your carrots before your carrots even know they're carrots.

See that face? That is the face of a pup who knows not to dig up a carrot.

It's not, consequently, the face of a  dog who knows to leave chickens alone or not to pull out their tail feathers, but heck, we can't have it all.

This may be the year. It may not. But for now, the farmer and I are spending 10 or 15 minutes here or there pulling weeds and grass, attempting to not let the garden tend toward chaos, even though it wants to.

Let's reconvene in August, and I'll let you know how those carrots, spinach, lettuce, sweet potatoes, corn, tomatoes, peppers, peas and watermelon worked out.

Or maybe not. History has a way of repeating itself, you know.

puppy brothers

Remember the Geico puppy brothers commercial?

Well, these are Wally's puppies. And they're brothers. Clearly.

This is the dog the neighbor kept. 

And this is ours.

Puppies.

Who are brothers.

Clearly.   

winner, winner, chicken . . . ?

We had a little . . . incident . . . over the weekend. It involved a chicken . . . and a dog . . . and lots and lots of feathers. 

Our chickens apparently find their coop completely and utterly LAME because they like to fly out and free range it on a routine basis. Their new favorite is to roost on top of the grain bin. Turns out those birds can get some serious flight. And height.

What one couldn't get, though, was a break. She wandered across the lawn, over the lane, up the yard and near the deck, pecking the ground along the way. 

And then it happened. Or so I assume. I just heard clucking. Lots of clucking. 

I looked out the window and saw one dog come around the corner and trot right toward the chicken, who took it upon herself to fly down the stairs, which would have been a perfectly good escape route if  . . . another dog hadn't been waiting at the bottom of the stairs. 

This dog. This sweet little half Great Pyrenees, half Lab right here. This one. Winchester. 

The chicken might have had a chance had the two dogs not been so strategically positioned. But as it stands, she didn't. Have a chance, that is. It's like they planned it.

Well, I'm sure you can imagine how this turned out. 

And if you can't, let's just say: Dogs are dogs. And farm dogs are most definitely farm dogs. 

I proceeded to chase Winchester through the yard -- as much as a pregnant lady can chase a dog -- yelling, "Drop!" as though he would (a) know what that command meant since I've never used it before because he's never nabbed a chicken before and (b) actually listen. 

To no avail. 

And then there were four. 

Well, almost three. One of the Black Stars decided to take her chances and walked right into the pile of three dogs lounging in the yard. 

Not the brightest. 

She lived to see another day, but only after barricading herself behind a feed bag and then probably passing out due to fright. 

That whole free-range thing? Not so much for us. Or the chickens. 

But I'll tell you one thing: The dogs loved it! 

babies and mustaches

"Hard work, honesty, integrity, faith, family, love, forgiveness." 

That's what we're about . . . and something tells me, that's true of a lot of other farmers too.

PS Oh yeah, and Baby and my farmer's mustache make appearances too. 

farm blog round-up: the best of the best!

It seems fitting to use the term "round-up" when it comes to farming blogs because old Western songs about round-ups and Roy Rogers' theme songs basically pop right into your head. 

Ok, or just mine. 

Winchester 

Also, you should be forewarned that this post has nothing to do with our farm dogs, although they do enjoy rounding things up.

Trash, for instance. Bottles. Corn stalks. Cardboard. A random glove. Pretty much anything they can find within a three-mile radius ends up in our yard. 

Now if I only could teach them to find discarded vintage Pyrex, we'd be set!

For those of you who may live in the city but are interested in farm life -- and I know you exist because you say so on Instagram -- get your mouse ready to do some clicking and bookmarking. Winter's coming, you know, and there's no better way to spend time waiting for the next blizzard to pass than pretending you're out on the prairie with Pa Ingalls trying to find your way from the house to the barn just by holding on to a rope strung between the two. 

Ok, maybe that isn't as fun as it sounds. 

Still. 

Colt 

Common Ground: The site and blog are written by farmers simply starting discussions about how they produce the food that ends up on your table. And they're super good at helping you break through all sorts of myths and misinformation. 

Country Linked: This is a sweet blog that's just right for all the people who grew up in the country and love hearing stories -- and seeing pictures -- of day-to-day life on the farm that brings all those memories right back. 

Cow Spots and Tales: Just go ahead and zip on over to Lisa's blog riiiiight now. She's a runner interested in nutrition, but she's also a dairy farmer, so all those stories you hear about whether or not it's good to eat meat and if there's antibiotics in your milk? She sets the record straight on pretty much all of them. 

Dairy Good Life: Sadie's blog's tagline says it all: "Cows. Kids. Chaos. It's all good." And it is! Plus, we once stayed at the same hotel in DC while attending two different conferences. We never got to meet, but our IG posts told us we were at least in the same vicinity and that counts for something! 

Petunia 

Dairy Carrie: You've probably seen or heard of Carrie on Twitter . .. or in Chipotle's nightmares . . . or on Facebook. She's a wife and a mom and a dairy farmer and a blogger all rolled into one -- with a sense of humor and a quest to make sure the truth is told to boot. 

Prairie Californian: Beautiful pictures, delicious meals, the truth about gluten and things you never even knew about raising sunflowers -- you'll get all that and more by following Jenny's blog! Just be prepared to leave hungry pretty much every time you visit. 

My Barnyard View: Janet's busy blogging about dairy . . . while learning how to drive a combine . . . all at the same time. I can hardly keep up! 

The Pinke Post: Katie is a wife, mom and agvocate who blogs from the prairie where she -- prepare yourself for this -- lives 97 miles from a Starbucks! That's worth reading about right there! 

You may not have grown up on a farm or ever lived on a farm or even been to visit a farm. But thanks to these ladies and social media, you can still meet the people who raise your food. You can learn how crops are grown. You can ask questions about what animal care looks like. You can hear their stories and tell them yours too. 

Like the time our dogs thought they wanted to take off after a coyote but then Petunia decided to just lay down and bark instead. 

Um, or maybe just go read a good blog about life in the country.

Yeah. 

Do that. 

And their tails all wagged happily every after. 

day 8 of farmacology: neighbors helping neighbors

One of the things you may not know about farm folks is that

we take care of our neighbors, and they take care of us. 

Here in Missouri, we're falling asleep to the sound of grain bins drying corn and combines running late into the night. 

And coyotes. 

But it's also one of the times when we get to see most clearly how neighbors take care of neighbors here in the country. 

You shouldn't be surprised if you see two pick-ups stopped on a gravel road so farmers can have a little chat. 

And you shouldn't be surprised if you see a Gator driven by your neighbor go whizzing by, only to have him wave and holler, "Hey!" as he kicks up dust. 

And you definitely shouldn't be surprised if your neighbor offers you three puppies, and even though you already have two dogs, you somehow end up taking two puppies anyway. 

Uffda. 

You shouldn't be surprised if your neighbor brings you a package because the mail man got your houses mixed up.

And you shouldn't be surprised if his wife drops a batch of cookies by at Christmastime just because. 

And you shouldn't be surprised if you get sick and all your neighbors band together to bring your harvest in because you can't. 

Like this farmer in Illinois who was blessed to have 40 folks show up to bring in his harvest. 

Or this farmer with the pesky pancreas who saw 60 people turn out to harvest his wheat. 

When I was a young girl, a farmer passed away and the whole town showed up to harvest his widow's crop. Some people drove combines. Some drove tractors with grain carts. Some hauled semis to town. Some made sandwiches and side dishes. Some ferried coffee and hot chocolate back and forth from the house to the people driving the machinery. 

We may not live right next door to each other. We may not share a trash can or a backyard fence or even a block party. But we do keep tabs on -- and take care of -- each other, and in this day and age, that counts for something. 

Want to read more of my 31 day farmacology writing challenge? Click here. 

Day 2 of farmacology: calm

One of the things you may not know about farm folks is that

we love it when our guests find it 

calm and relaxing on the farm. 

We know life in town can be busy. Traffic is a beast. Target aisles are crowded. The drive-thru line at Starbucks is long. Sirens and car horns and squealing tires are like a soundtrack.

They're why we absolutely love it when you sit down on our decks or at our kitchen tables and say, "Oh, it's so quiet!" or "I so needed this!" or my personal favorite, "I've clearly been doing life wrong."

It makes us feel all warm and mushy inside, similar to my favorite homemade mac-n-cheese recipe that I never make because I'd eat the entire 9 x 13 pan all by myself. 

my parents' farmhouse 

We may not be able to take you to the hippest restaurant or the newest coffee shop. 

We may not have a historic downtown district or a famous landmark. 

But we can give you quiet.

We can give you beautiful sunrises and a crowing rooster. 

We can take you for rides through the country where the traffic is so thin you don't even have to use your turn signal. 

We can give you cows who chew so loudly you can hear them from the front steps and a pile of puppies who slobber you with love. 

(It's like covering you with love . . . but better.) 

We can give you a 4-wheeler or Gator ride deep into a pasture and a grove of trees where gooseberries grow wild and bridges that are no longer used are overgrown with vines and plants. 

We can give you the sound of frogs and grain bin fans and cicadas at night.  

We can even supply you with full moons and yipping coyotes, if you're into that sort of thing. 

We know farm life isn't for everybody. 

But just like we enjoy coming to the city for all the excitement it has to offer, we love it when you can find rest and relaxation in our part of the world too. 

Friends, thanks for letting us take care of you. We can't give you a clear path through eight lanes of traffic or silence the ambulance siren at 2:00 in the morning so you can sleep. But we can give you the calm of the country when you need it the most, and that makes us pretty happy too. 

Want to read more of my 31 day farmacology writing challenge? Click here. 

real things

When I lived in St. Louis, my morning consisted of a twenty-minute commute through eight lanes of traffic. After I learned that the key to city driving is to drive about 10 times more aggressively than you're comfortable with and to realize that you might, at any point in time, be squished to death on the highway like a sardine between two semis, it wasn't so bad. 

But it is nothing . . . NOTHING . . . compared to mornings in the country. 

Fog. Sleepy cows. Barking dogs. Chickens putting up a fuss. Pick-ups  with farmers at the wheel, taking their time checking out the fields while finishing their first cup of coffee. 

Sign me up. 

If the sound of horns and sirens, squealing tires and doors slamming have got you down, find yourself a spot in the country. Stay a day or two. But if you can, wake up early. 

Nothing compares to laying in bed, with the windows open and a cool breeze blowing in, and slowly waking up to the sound of birds or, sometimes, to the sound of nothing at all. 

"The real things haven’t changed. It is still best to be honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with simple pleasures; and have courage when things go wrong.” - Laura Ingalls Wilder 

outdoor chickens

I will never be one of those Instagram ladies who put diapers on their chickens and then lets them crawl on their shoulders and sleep on beautiful vintage quilts in their bedrooms. 

People do that. To chickens. 

the envy of all the canines

I'm not sure when I realized it first. 

Maybe it was when we loaded up our chickens--with their wings flapping in our faces--dropped them off to be processed and then went back a week later to pick up frozen drumsticks and breasts.

Or maybe it was when my cousin visited the farm for the first time and asked in shock, "You mean bacon comes from hogs? I thought it just came from the grocery store!"

owning a great pyrenees

Women love little, bitty tiny things: babies, mini quiches, puppies.  Sure you could have a regular-size quiche, but who wants that when you can have an itsy bitsy quiche that's just your size?

Women, that's who.

the birds

One of the best things about living in the country is that it's (a) quiet, (b) relatively private, and (c) see (a).

There are no sirens, no car horns, no screeching wheels. Every now and then, a tractor or the feed truck drives past, but we consider that a virtual traffic jam out here. 

So with the exception of a dog bark or a cow moo, most days it's pretty quiet.

Which is why it didn't take long to figure out something was up earlier this week when the WORLD'S ENTIRE SNOW GOOSE POPULATION SHOWED UP AT OUR HOUSE.

wally and blackjack, cowdog wannabes

We had a lot of snow last year. Like, the kind where my car couldn't always make it over the drifts to get into town kind of snow. 

This year has been snowless and relatively warm. I--to put it mildly--find this fantastic. 

the spiced pumpkin donut that became a muffin

I'm not so great with the adjectives. But that, I figure, it part of my job. That's what editors do. We chop and dice and cut words that aren't necessary. 

But last week I learned a startling fact: Not all writers and editors think this way. 

This rattled me to my very core (that is to say, right to my press pass).

Food bloggers, for example, thrive on adjectives.

I learned this last week when, thanks to the generosity of our friends at Midwest Dairy, I sat in on Chopped Con, a meeting of the food-blogging, food-loving and {Well, aren't we all?} food-eating minds. 

Are you my mother?

Saturday mornings are my favorite. Monday through Friday mornings involve getting ready for work. Sunday morning involves getting ready for church. But Saturday morning means getting to putter around the house with the windows open, listening to heifers wolf down grass and waving at the occasional neighbor who drives past. 

it's a dog-lick-cow world

The Dorr family was never much for pets. We tried having dogs. We really did.

There was Bibs, who jumped up on people and bit them. 

There was Freezer, who jumped up on people . . . and bit them. 

There was, I don't know, about three more dogs, who jumped up on people and bit them. 

Then there was Gracie, a beautiful pointer, who . . . went crazy, chewed through a chain link fence and ran for the vet's office. 

Like all dogs do.

Chris has had a dog or two in his day too. But they didn't jump on people. Or bite them. They just ran away, never to be seen or heard from again. 

So when Chris' uncle called this spring with news that he'd found two puppies in a cardboard box on the side of the road, I fully expected to say, "Meh" when Chris suggested he go pick one up. 

After all, dogs jump. And bite. And shed on people. And poop. And pee on people's perfectly good rugs. 

But Blackjack was a cute little puppy, and telling myself he'd forever stay that size, I may have petted him. 

A little. And possibly even held him. 

Maybe. Don't believe everything you read. See. 

Whichever. 

But puppies don't stay puppies forever and by this summer, ole Blackjack was all grown up and big enough to be slurping steak juice off the plate all by himself. 

(Those are not, I might add, plates that humans eat off. Do you know where his tongue's been? Eesh.)

He also started answering to a plethora of names. 

Poochadoodle.

Blackbeard.

Blackberry.

Sir Dogsalot.

Hound.

Beast.

Pup.

He's an outdoor dog (we're farm people after all) who must have some lab in him. He loves rain, snow, sleeping on a pile of rocks instead of warm straw, running, fetching, roughhousing, and running some more. 

Growing in age and stature, but not maturity, his new favorite game is to run up and down rows of cows and lick their noses.

When steak juice is short supply, you simply learn to make do with what's close at hand: cow snot. 

#dogproblems

The cows don't mind him. He's been hustled out of the way a time or two by a cow who gave him the stink eye, and sometimes they just saunter away from him, all like, "Talk to the hoof, dude."

But every now and then, he finds a cow that will lick him back. And when he does?

Well, that's dog bliss right there.

One thing hasn't changed though.

He still loves being held. 

Even if he looks ridiculous while doing it. 

He also loves Chris. And small children. 

But mostly Chris. 

It's not uncommon to look out the kitchen window while doing dishes and see Blackjack and Chris rolling around in the front yard, playing tug-of-war or with the Frisbee.

Blackjack is very protective of Chris. 

And small children. 

But mostly Chris. 

And if you promise not to admit it to anybody, I'll let you in a little secret: 

I might just like Blackjack a little myself namely because, well, he doesn't jump up on people and bite them. 

And he stays outside. And doesn't shed hair on me. Or poop and pee on people's rugs. 

And when Chris isn't looking, I totally slip him bacon scraps or a leftover meatball. 

Because while I may not be a dog person, ole Blackjack is sure as close as I'll get. 

oops

"Grab a flashlight," he said.
"You just have to stand by the gate and make sure none of the cows get out on the road," he said.
"It'll be fun," he said.
Actually, he never said that last part.
Still.
One of the sweetest parts of my day is when the feed truck drives down the gravel road past our house. The heifers run after it, literally kicking up their heels as they follow it.
Not that I blame them. If a truckload of pizza showed up at my door every day, I'd perk up too.
Tonight, Chris was the feed truck driver and it was already dark outside. Whoever's behind the wheel of the truck has to drive up, undo the fence, and drive through the gate fairly rapidly so that none of the cows kick their heels up and right out of the pasture.
My job tonight was to drive to the gate, flashlight in tow, and make sure that none of the heifers made a break for it as he drove through it.
Theoretically.
{This causes me heart palpitations, the reasons for which stem from my childhood, when I was in charge of watching gates for my dad as he was cleaning out hog pens. I'm not saying I've been scarred for life, but did you know that 250 pound hogs look like KING KONG TO A CHILD? I mean, that's just, you know, what I've heard.}
Ahem.
The plan was all well and good . . . except the part where I totally missed where the opening in the fence was. I drove up to the next driveway, turned around, and headed back even more slowly this time, intent on finding where the gate was before my husband arrived and the cows were anxious to get their dinner on.
It was then, as I creeped along in the car in the dark, that I noticed Chris merrily bouncing along in the feed truck . . . in the pasture. He had already found the gate in the dark, opened it, and driven through, all while making sure the cows followed him and not me.
{This may also serve as the opportune time to mention that I wrecked a loaf of bread and clogged the garbage disposal this week as well. #winning}
Being the kind and ever-forgiving man he is, he said something like, "Thanks for being the decoy so I could sneak in the gate, honey. See you soon!" as he drove off to the dairy, his dog rolling his eyes in disgust at me from the front seat.
All this is to say that you can take a girl out of the city . . . but be patient, world. It may take a small lifetime and a six-pack of flashlights to find her farm girl back again.

the proper care and feeding of dairymen

Being a pork kind of girl, there's very little that I know about dairies. Yet. 

But after two days back in the country, I know this: Dairymen like to eat. And on days when it's warm outside, and they're overheated and tired, I suggest the following. 

(Spoiler: They love it.)

Cape Cod Salad (courtesy my sister Kellee)

1 red apple, quartered, cored and cut crosswise into 1/4 inch thick slices  (or a Fuji apple if your husband has an aversion to apples of only one color)

3 tablespoons lime juice 

1/4 cup cranberry chutney or apricot preserves 

2 teaspoons dijon mustard 

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

salt and pepper

2 heads romaine lettuce

1/2 pound unsliced maple glazed turkey breast, diced 

1/2 cup diced or sharp cheddar cheese

1/4 cup chopped walnuts, toasted

1/4 cup dried cranberries

Toss apples with 1 tablespoon lime juice in a small bowl.  Whisk remaining 2 tablespoons lime juice, chutney and mustard together in a large bowl.  Gradually whisk in oil until incorporated.  Season with salt and pepper to taste and reserve 1/4 cup dressing in measuring cup. 

Toss lettuce and watercress with remaining dressing in a large bowl  and arrange on a large platter.  Arrange apples, turkey, cheddar, walnuts and cranberries on top of lettuce.  Drizzle salad with remaining dressing.  Serve or refrigerate for up to 1 hour.

Dogs like Blackjack come in handy in case you, I don't know, say, burn the first batch of walnuts. Not that I'm saying I did that or anything. You know. And stuff. 

Beer Bread

3 cups flour (sifted)

3 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 cup sugar

1 12-ounce bottle/can beer

1/2 cup melted butter

Preheat over to 375 degrees. Mix dry ingredients and beer. Pour into a greased loaf pan. Pour melted butter over mixture. Bake one hour. Remove from pan and cool for at least 15 minutes. 

Final step: Devour like a ravenous wolf.