F is for Family.
F is for Farm.
F is for Fun.
F is for Food.
F is for France.
F is for Fevette. Who taught me early on what cows were capable of.
F is for Fuck. As in “what the fuck have we done?”
F is for Firetruck. Thank you Michael for providing an alt word for “fuck.”
F is for FuckYeah. This steak … “FuckYeah!” tastes fantastic. (need alt word for FuckYeah)
F is for Fantastic.
F is for Friends.
F is for Four. Three was great. Four kids is better than great.
F is for Feu. Pot au Feu. Yummy, soul satisfaction. Feu. Bon Feu. They lit our vineyards on feu. Feu. The villa was on feu.
F is for Fat. Pig fat tastes good. Pork chops taste good.
F is for Finances.
F is for Freebies.
F is for Fencing.
F is for Fencing.
F is for Fannie Farmer!
F is for Fancy. We dress up all fancy on Saturday night because it’s date night.
F is for Fit. I wouldn’t go so far as to call Brent fat, but this farming stuff makes you fit. Brent is fit.
F is for Fix.
F is for Fowl.
F is for Fart. Maximet le Cacahuète Qui Pet
F is for Fleather.
F is for Fluff.
F is for Fuzz.
F is for Fremont. F for Freezing! implied.
F is for Finish this post already.
Have a FABULOUS night and a FAST and FURIOUS new year.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m very proud when I don’t have to leave the farm. I was a girl who had to go out at least once a day to feel like the day was a day. Now I’m up to my nose in projects that I love getting stuck into, I can’t be bothered leaving. We have all we need right here (I know, so very Dorothy-Scarecrow of me). While I secure my dairy connection, I have to leave at least once a week to get fresh milk. The kids are ALL AT HOME (weeeee!) and Brent is a bit ill. Minty is full of beans. I felt I should take her with me (and Z) to the shops so she wouldn’t wake Brent up every five minutes. I’ve had this happen. It’s torture. It takes one, maybe two minutes to fall to sleep. Another minute to slip into deep sleep and BAMN – “Mommy, mommy. Isn’t Lamby cute?” Off we went.
As we approached our closest big village (population 3,628. Big city compared to our 301.) Minty asked me, “Mommy. Mommy, what are those white tsings?” She, of course, meant “things.” I wouldn’t go so far as to say the girl has a lisp, I mean she’s learning two languages. What’s the brotha gonna do. She’s four. “What things?” I asked. “Zose lines in the road,” she clarifies. Then I realized she meant the dashed white lines dividing the road. Yes, Minty is developing her country roots. I explained that those lines divide the road in two. I drive on one side and those people coming the other way drive on the other. Can you imagine only knowing back country roads without dashed, white paint? Don’t even get me started on ten lane carriageways. Not this city girl. She’s a very special Mint, our Minty.
** notice though, that she does the “hollywood hand-on-hip” to lessen any tricep spillage. Totally organic. I taught her nothing. She’s a natural.
Brent and the boys moved material.
Lucy played “Musketeer Fairy.”
Minty Played with Lucy.
G moved a ladder under the Gascon Sun.
Two chinese-made purses hung in an evergreen tree. One later broke.
Kids frolicked. Majority avec tutu.
Tosca not photographed as she was guarding the fire and providing the finest quality assurance for any dropped crumbs created by resident one-year-old. She’s good like that. It’s a tough job, but some dog’s gotta do it.
Well, we eat meat. More specifically, we eat well-raised local meat. Even more specifically, we eat our own meat. The cows are still working their magic and just about ready. The chickens are snugging in a bit not laying like they used to as they tough it out through winter. In the meantime, we have some cock-a-doody cockerels running about giving anything hen-like a bit of a fluff. They’re not at all aggressive towards the kids or me, but that’s mainly because we’re not their cup-o-soup. Kevin has actively chased them out of the coop for the first time today, which let me know that their time has come. And so, I’ve mounted the blood-cone of death. There are those who can’t imagine eating animals with a name. I am not one of those people. I would much rather know EXACTLY where my meat comes from. In fact, every cow in France has a name, though you will not know of it if you buy your meat in abstracting white cassettes covered in plastic wrap. It’s the law. All those cows have names. 2011 was the year of ‘G.’ 2012 is ‘H.’ Chickens are different. The first two to try out the cone will be C1 and C2. They’re plump. They’re ready. They’ve got green-chook-curry written all over their future. Though I think I will try them as a roast to see how free-range chicken on this farm tastes. See, when I use the words “free-range chicken” your taste buds fired. The cockerels have had a happy healthy life here and it’s time for them to meet the cone.
Owning your very own Toyota pickup can only be improved by owning your very own digger. Which can only be improved by owning your very own tractor.
Well, cinnamon rolls really. Our family loves the word “buns.” I make buns every so often. I could even see myself running a line of Jean’s Buns in the future. I’ll stick anything in a bun with sauce. My mom every so often would make cinnamon rolls for Christmas day. I thought I’d giver ‘er a go this year and makes me some buns. It was my first effort. Though they were edible, they were also a bit delayed. I was hoping to pop them in the oven when the kids giddied around the house on Christmas morning. Not only do you need to raise the dough once, after you roll your cute, little buns, you need to raise them again for a couple of hours. And according to Nutella WeatherCam ™, it was a bit frosty today. Which means inside this Gascon house, Nutella spreading requires heated crêpe to spread. This is all to say that my dough doth not riseth. I did nestle it in all cozy like next to Mr. Green, but I think the yeast had checked out. I did get a little rise out of it and decided to stick it in the oven to see what would happen. After twenty minutes, delicious buns emerged. I popped a quick sugar glaze on those babies and off they went.
Now with each passing day, I find myself more of a Fannie Farmer kinda girl. It’s the cookbook that instructs recipe after recipe to stick shit in a bowl, mix it, cook it. After twenty minutes, everything comes out just fine. I do, however, have a pile of Cooks Illustrated material. I often start there when I’m trying something new. Quickly I descend into a mumbling housewife, looking for her wine and wondering when this damn Cooks Illustrated recipe will get on with it already. They tend to go ON AND ON about how they determined this recipe to be “the best” recipe. And, I don’t care. I do enjoy many of their recipes, but I wish they were five double-clicks removed from what they publish. So many times have I started with Cooks Illustrated, got pissed and began to abandoned steps left and right. It’s rebelish. It’s liberating. Then I consult Fannie Farmer and low-and-behold, my missing steps match up with the Fannie version. Fannie is for people who want to cook good shit without all the pots, pans and nonsense. This cinnamon roll recipe was the makings of Cooks Illustrated with the execution of Fannie. Even with sheepish yeast, the buns tasted a’ite.
It’s a holiday unto itself. On the sixteenth of December, Otto collapsed into his desire to eat the entire advent calendar. Despite some counsel regarding taunting sisters, he ate his way up to and including the twenty-second of December. Did he eat Christmas Eve Eve? No. Because Christmas Eve Eve is a holiday. It’s a day of excruciating cheer.
Christmas Eve comes with its own minty ooze of false hopes and visions of presents tightly stacked and packed under the tree. Oh there will be presents, donchoo worry, but it’s never as high or as packed as a kid can imagine. We latched on to a tradition my mom used to curb the excitement. Though, technique would be more accurate. On Christmas Eve we let the kids pick one present from under the tree and open it. Any present they want. Any one of these four presents right here. Pick any one. Pick any one with your name on it. We all know what’s inside. When you open a brand new set of snuggy jammies the night before Christmas, it’s when Christmas really begins.
We’ve received a handful of Christmas cards this year. I love the cards! It is so much trouble to send a card to France. You can’t simply stick a stamp on it and be done. I really appreciate seeing the pictures of families and receiving that little dose of spirit from other parts of the world. Some include Christmas letters summing up the wonderful year that was had. They are always a hoot to read. I’ve launched a blank document of a popular wordsmith application a few years in a row to pen some such letter. After the first sentence (e.g. “Whoah what a year!” – “Gee has time whizzed by or what?!” – “Hi folks!”), I close without saving because writing a Christmas letter is not for me. I had thought about wrting an anti-Christmas letter describing how dismal it all went and maybe send it out sometime in July. I also toyed with the idea of sending out a non-Christmas letter similar in design to Paul Taylor’s “dance” where he stood still for the entirety of the piece. Or similar feeling to Bert and Ernie’s broken television set that flashes the letter of the day over and over until Ernie fixes it. Our Christmas letter would be a sparse piece of A4 with one word in the middle summing up the year. I’ve thought of a few words like cow, farm, holycrap (is holycrap one word?). This could only be improved by summing up the year in a letter. With that in mind, this year has been brought to us by the letter ‘F.’ Sure, I could tell you why, but that wouldn’t be very Taylor of me.
Happy Holidays to y’all and to y’all a good night night.