Fennel and Leek Soup With a Fairytale Twist

Fennel bulbs were on sale at the local grocery. I can't resist buying up weird veggies when our rural shop gets them in. I knew this would be destined for a soup so I grabbed a bunch of leeks too. Mmmmm. Leeks. I love leeks. They are perfect for soups.

I had turkey stock on hand, celery, and leftover mashed potatoes. It all simmered for hours and then I pureed it into perfection.

A perfection that my children decided to name.....

Ogre Snot Soup.


Because it looked like,  you guessed it, ogre snot. Thank kids.

It was so good though. Lily had, not one, not two, not three....but four bowls and had it for breakfast the next day. I am quite sure that part of it was the disgust that Holly had at the mere sight of the soup in the bowl and Lily's slurping took her disgust to the next level- the run and hide and play ponies upstairs level.

Here is the recipe, if you dare:

Fennel and Leek Soup With a Fairytale Twist

One entire bulb and frond of fennel.

Two stalks of celery with greens on the end.
Four whole leeks, green and bulb.
       Chop that whole lot into smaller bits.
2 quarts of broth. I used turkey.
Simmer until it is all soft and then add 2 cups of mashed potatoes (or diced potatoes, about 4, and add at the beginning with some butter).
Once package of sour cream.
Salt, thyme, tarragon, cayenne, and white pepper. I used our Prairie Fire seasoning salt.
Simmer some more.
Then take off and cool down a bit, puree in blender in small batches, and return to the pot.
Bring back up to simmer for about 10 minutes.
Serve into soup bowls and garnish with white cheddar and croutons.

Tell your kids that it is made from ogre snot and they will have to eat it all up or their hair will fall out. Just kidding. I didn't do that. I did read the original Sleeping Beauty to them, all the way to the end, where the Prince's mother, who is half ogre, tries to eat Sleeping Beauty and her two beautiful children while the Prince, now King, is off making war. Spoiler, the evil Queen throws herself into the giant vat of broth and makes herself into soup.

Mmmmmm. Soup.

Winter Mists and Reflections

Fall on the farm was busy, then there is my job, recitals, deliveries, escaping livestock, paperwork.....fall is non stop. I actually get excited for blizzards and standstills and even technology outages because it means just a little time to catch my breath.

I don't get time to write. I don't get time to make art. I don't even get time enough to enjoy a cup of coffee in silence because I am grading papers, entering cut sheets, answering questions, booking meetings, and parenting my three kids at the same time. Even if I leave the house without them- brain is on that.

This time is critical for me as an artist and it is not lost. Instead, this is the life I write about. Without this, I am simply experiencing fingers on keyboard and not the amazing and breathtaking life of a homeschooling, permaculture farmer. It is one thing to know how to write and another to have something to write about. Ink without muse is just smudges on surfaces.

It is still hard to remember this when my hand reaches for my pen and I fall asleep before the thoughts escape. It is hard to remember this when my boots are full of muck and it is a freezing rain and an animal is conversing quietly with death as I can do nothing but hold her head through the transition. It is hard to remember when the laundry piles up and the children are fighting each other like angry wild things over toy or turn rights. It is damn hard to remember what my husband's kiss feels like when my mind and body are torn from chores and business work that takes all of my time and energy and not even coffee can restore my senses long enough to return affection.

Yet, this season will pass, transition to the next, and we press on.

Farming is hard. Living is hard. Being human....hard. You get the idea, yeah? I live this life intensely so I can feel it that way, then I write about it.

One day a fellow writer asked me what I love about this landscape, because what I write in my poems is desolate and heartbreaking. Why do I continue down this path, why not move to a city apartment and be happy buying veggies at the grocery store?

Good question.

Because I love it. I love how close to life we are here but that means we are always a breath away from the work of death too. I can see the stars at night, see the heavens light up with twinkling wishes. In the city the sky was always an orange haze at night or just darkness that seemed like it would swallow me whole. Here it is quiet, but in a musical way, with chirpings and hoots and the wind in the trees. In the city it was always loud, people fighting, having sex loudly, blaring music, cars driving, cars breaking, sirens, noise, noise, and noise of people living. Garbage trucks, snow ploughs, delivery trucks. Just noise. Clunky, screaming, horrible noise. Here? I have found peaceful refuge. Here my children can play without fear of sex offenders that live next door. Here my children can climb trees all day if they want because there are trees to climb. Here in this wide open space of prairie and timber, we are free.

That freedom comes with a cost. To offset that cost, we grow extra food and sell it to friends and family. The benefits are pretty amazing though.

So though I may dread lambing season and predation in ice storms and the cold wet mud of winter thaws and so many other things.....I'll take that over the sickly, polluted, and unsafe life we lived in the city. I'll take making food that heals people and changes the world one acre at a time over being a prisoner in my own home because of neighbourhood violence.  Self reliance over being at the mercy of a storm when the power is out for a week.

There it is. Back to work now. Winter is here.

Words are powerful.....sharpen your pencils.

Words are so powerful that people get murdered over them. And it's not even the words, it is the ideas. These ideas can be communicated in song, in art, in cartoons, in dance......and ideas can make people so angry that they kill.

Sometimes they just get so angry that they start their own facebook group and talk a lot of crap about the idea.

Sometimes they take a gun and go kill the artists.

Sometimes they get the government involved and pass laws that bring SWAT teams to organic farms.

Anyone who writes, who arts, who tills the earth knows this. We know the risks. We know the kind of intricate and subtle terror that takes many forms. It would be so much easier to just stop. It would be so much easier to be silent.

More than once have I written something I thought was harmless that enraged someone to talking about revenge and threatening me and my family. 

The editor Stéphane Charbonnier at Charlie Hebdo said in 2012, "I am not afraid of reprisals, I have no children, no wife, no car, no debt. It might sound a bit pompous, but I'd prefer to die on my feet rather than living on my knees."

That's what happened this week. He and eleven other artists and writers were murdered by extremists trying to silence them.

Like you, I am afraid sometimes. When I get nasty comments in my inbox, when people threaten to harm me in graphic ways just because I let my kid play the trumpet at age five or because I dared ask questions about paediatric use of Miralax (it's not on the label to use for children at all), or because I question the ethics of conventional farming when the processes that are common pollute and poison our watersheds and river and the physical cruelty done to animals in factory farming.....ect.... I worry about the anger that swells up in people.

I worry more when it comes from people I know in real life. I worry when it comes from strangers and I can't gauge if they are harmless crazy or stabby crazy or they will hunt me down for real crazy. Or maybe they will just make false complaints against my farm and drown us in legal work.

Even though I worry, I still stick my shovel in the earth. Well, not really, no-till gardening really is better. I am still out there educating, sharing knowledge, asking the hard questions, trying new things, and living my life in the public realm. I aim to make the world a better place and that will not happen if I cower under threats and go home. It will not happen if I shut up and "be a good girl" or "a good wife" or "trust the folks in charge to make the right decisions".......I question. I always have.

Well, not always. Once I caved.

It was 6th grade and our school was infested with cockroaches. I wrote a letter to the local paper, but a school official caught me and took my notebook. I wrote another when I got home. I organised a protest, a sit down with posters and a chant. I loudly pointed out that the "exterminators" that the school brought in during school hours had vacuum cleaners and were clearly fakes. I was LOUD.

When the protest time came? My English teacher locked her door and stared me down. Told the class none of her students would be leaving the room.

I stayed in my seat. Panic.

Everyone who protested was suspended. Not me. No, I was safe in English class.

I regret that day so much. Nothing changed. The school continued  to be plagued with cockroaches in the lockers and lunchroom. Nothing physical changed.

Something lit inside me. My words made the people in charge nervous. Adults were upset by a child's words. And other students risked their time and got suspended to follow through. Ok, maybe they were just excited to get attention or get our of class or be a part of something, I don't know.

I do know that it was a beginning. Right there.

I also know, that no matter how many comments or emails I get making fun of my writing, or threatening my family, or just plain mean...... I know that I have stirred something up and made people think about what they think. Yes, it scares me at times, but I too would rather die on my feet than cower because someone brutish, sad person is upset by what I have to say.

Everything I do makes people mad. I homeschool (unschool), this infuriates some people who are incredibly offended that I don't send my kids to the public school. I cook my own food, sometimes, and sometimes it is meat. This makes super organic vegans mad AND folks who eat processed foods mad. I drink raw milk. Oh my is that a controversy. I refuse to sell it to anyone until it is legal. I stand up for difference. I support marriage equality and workplace equality and support the idea that people get to be who they are in safety. I let me kids play real instruments at their own desire but I also pay for lessons when they are old enough to want that. I could go on and on. And on. And on some more. The saying goes, everything I want to do is illegal- that's not exactly true. Most of what I do is perfectly legal, I can't think of anything that isn't, but write about things that are so different? And how much happiness is cultivated on our farm right along side the grass fed lamb and pastured pigs? THAT really upsets some people.

Cognitive Dissonance is what it is called. Or maybe jealousy. Or maybe that's how they roll, thriving on conflict and anger. Whatever it is, I cannot control it. That's right! I can't control how people react or feel! Amazing. What I can do is keep on. Keep on living, keep on writing, keep on sharing, keep on loving. That honours all who have fallen before us and hopefully brings about a better world.

Write on friends. Write on. Today I am sharpening my pencils as a tribute to all who have fallen for what they have dared say. I will place that pencil on my desk and remember what a powerful tool for change that slip of wood and lead is, that mighty sword will fall at the whisper of change.

Write on.

What I know to be true for me.....

When Lily was born I was overwhelmed with everything. Bathing a baby? Oh my no, who ever thought bathing a baby was easy? You get a helpless yet squirmy thing wet and soapy and try and hold on, over water?! It was scary. Everything was like that, like I was holding her over water while she was squirmy and slippery and yowling.

I went back to work. I asked the day care lady to bathe her instead of me. I couldn't do it. I couldn't do any of it and I was overwhelmed and feeling like a failure. I enrolled in more classes, took on more hours, and yet everything was falling apart around me.

My day care lady quit with just about no notice and no reason. I had one semester left to finish my MA degree. My job was getting frustrated with my "mommy" hours. I struggled with breastfeeding, but was committed to it. My baby would scream if she wasn't in my arms, probably why the day care fired us.

Then one day, it got easier. I quit my job and found a part time one that paid just as much. I found a better child care option for us. I finished my degree. Bathing and feeding her was less scary. It felt like it all got better overnight. It was at the 9 month mark though, not overnight, and learning to babywear helped 100% in how I unfolded into motherhood.

So I threw myself into motherhood full on. I resigned my committee obligations, scaled back on volunteer work, stopped writing, stopped wood working, gave up all my personal hobbies and focused on motherhood. of course that meant....more children.

When Holly was born I felt like I really had this parenting thing down. She was the easiest baby ever, even when she was fussy. She still is my easiest kid, though she feels like I don't always hear what she has to say.

Then we moved to the farm and Isaac was born and he was not easy, he was complicated from the pregnancy on. His diagnosis of 22q was one of the most difficult things I have had to emotionally process as a mother and as a person. And somewhere in this fight, I threw myself into motherhood more.

Except I was no longer succeeding at this whole thing. My house was messy, I have never been a good housekeeper, and my relationships were either crumbling, on fire, or just slowing sneaking out the back door and then full on running away from the train wreck of me. (This is where I am so thankful for those who stood by and held me up anyway). I hired someone to come help with the house stuff, and like Nanny McPhee she put more than just the toys in order.

But that is not what I want to write about now. Not my point. That is all just background so you understand where I was at the moment things changed.

One day a friend posted how much she was struggling too, with motherhood. Me? I was still on the shore sopping, dripping wet from almost drowning in it, I knew and felt exactly what she meant. I wrote her a poem about it. I had not written poetry in 15 years, even though it was one of the great loves of my life, motherhood had pushed out the time for it. I had let it.

Penning those words imploded something inside me.

We shared tears and this deep emotion that was inside of us both. That's what art should do, connect us through shared experience and emotion. I was blogging again at that point and raising livestock that connected me to Georgia and in my email and news feed an advertisement for a writer's retreat kept appearing. It showed up for family members and friends too, and they kept sending it to me.

The deadline to apply approached. I had a HUGE list of reasons not to attend. My kids needed me. Chad would have to take vacation to care for them. Isaac's immune system might tank, he wasn't even weaned yet. I had never been away from my kids since Lily was born, save for a few overnights at grandma and grandpa's. Money. Travel complications and cost. Goodness, how could I even think I would be good enough to get in? And what would I send them? Old stuff from when I was a teenager or blog posts? Ugh.

Then like dominoes, excuses fell away. Isaac weaned. Chad suggested I go to work on the farm cookbook, bus ticket was $50 round trip, and a friend offered to take me from Atlanta to Savannah so no excuses for travel. None. Money happened for tuition. I sent the new poem and a few from 17 years ago with the application. I got in.

My only real obstacle at that point was me. I was anxious about going, about leaving the kids at home. 8 days is a long time. I was so intensely immersed in motherhood that I could not imagine myself outside of it, nor did I really want to. That's right. I didn't want to. I was scared spit-less of what I might find, who I might be outside of that framework. What if they suffered without me was not as scary as....what if they were fine, just fine without me? What if I am not really needed? What if there isn't a me outside this.

I got on that bus trembling with fear.  That bus ride was a story or horror in itself and someday I'll write about it. Maybe. But really it was a lot like childbirth, excitement, thinking yeah ok, labour is fine I can do this, then scary unexpected layover in an ice storm in the middle of the night, the folks in charge are fucking insane, and then after 36 hours I was disoriented and DONE. Just done. But I couldn't just get off the bus. I had to ride it out. SO MUCH LIKE LABOUR. At least that's how it was for me, well, but without stranger's sticking their hands in my business. Thank God for that. 
I got there. I did it. I did it alone without my husband, kids, or friends. Except that isn't really true, is it? I had my kids cheering me on, my husband (eventually) sending me off, and my friends and family at every doubt volleying back my excuses and then actually getting me on that bus, on the other end driving me to the island and back. There is no mistaking that this community of incredible, inspirational people (many of them named Jennifer) got me safely there.

And where is there? A year later I am preparing to return to the island. I have had work published, performed at an art festival, which was a big deal for me and my stage fright, and I actually feel like a writer again. I am excited to return to this magical place, but the truth is this: I inhabit it everyday. It isn't the island itself that holds the magic at all but the community of friends and support that hold me up everyday. Many of them are writers too, but not all.

Photo by Maggie Howe

I didn't give up the intensity of motherhood to find myself again. I always thought that it was a choice between the two, and no doubt that my kids needed me to be there in that intense way for the time I was, but having this creative side nurtured and traveling all over the world makes me that much better of a woman to be a mother to my children. I feel more alive and more in love with my own life. That is so important.

That is the back story behind the adventure.  The adventure continues.