Sorry for the gap in posts, folks. My dear 98 year-old grandmother gave us a scare with a small heart attack just over a week ago. I flew home early from a work trip and I’ve been back and forth between Gothic Cottage, my parents’ and the hospital to support family and be with my grandma. She’s on the mend, still has her cracking sense of humour, and was discharged yesterday to return home to her snuggly cat Bernie (named after favourite playwright George Bernard Shaw).

I’ll be back here very soon with locavore garden updates and a report from the coast. So much is growing!

I’m almost embarrassed to admit that we have a skunk problem. Why? Because our house stinks!

Not all the time, but the frequency and intensity has escalated since the mercury dropped. These little buggers (well, not the ones pictured above - I can’t take credit for this lovely shot of seemingly innocent creatures) live underneath the front addition to our house. The add-on doesn’t have a proper foundation, so the burying devils have found an ideal nesting spot. The space is also uninsulated, and even though it’s closed off for the winter, the smell still leaches into our main living space and stinks us out. It was so nauseating yesterday that both the cats yacked.

So I had a fine day of gasping for fresh air and cleaning cat vomit three times. I tried to avert one accident on our Persian carpet but I was too late, and no sooner had I scooped the cat up than she projectile spewed all over the carpet and untreated floorboards. Lovely.

Help us! Our neighbour loaned us one small and one large live trap, which we’ve rigged with wet cat food and set outside the skunk farmily’s point of entry. If that fails we’ll purchase pricey dehydrated fox urine my mom recommended from an internet dealer. Apparently the scent of their predator leaves them house hunting. Our neighbours have guns, but we never see the beasties - we just smell them. And I’m telling you, they must have a hell of a party down there spraying just for kicks.

This is war! I will not stand idle as we get blasted out of our cozy home. Pass on your skunk arsenal, comrades! We need it.

All is not sunbeams and rainbows on the farm. There are some days Roddy and I are thrown with so many curve balls we’re lucky to still be standing by dinner. The most gut-wrenching shock yet woke us from our slumber at 6:30 am Friday morning.

Our wee, almost 3, kit Yoshi has already lost at least one of his lives. When he was just a few months old he disappeared for a couple of weeks. I put posters up all over town, cycled around searching for the little guy, and even brought home another black cat hoping it was ours. I was giving up hope when I received a call from a woman who lived 15 kilometres outside town. She was pretty sure she had our Siamese mutt cat, and sure enough, it was our little lady’s man. He had a penchant for lounging on car hoods, and also wasn’t too shy to jump right inside neighbour’s cars.

So the theory developed that Yoshi must have caught a free lift out to the country, and his overprotective mama made sure he was properly identified. Yoshi was pimped out for awhile in a massive red tag with the engraving: I HOP IN CARS, 43 Melbourne St. W, 705.456.7891.

Shortly after his return we journeyed across the country with our wee feline family on a three day train adventure. Yoshi was never quite the same out west. I would receive calls from women worried about how far from he’d wandered, and got a note from a neighbor once explaining that Yoshi had narrowly missed late-night-death-by-automobile so many times that we should consider outfitting him in a reflective space suit. Yoshi also hated Roddy and I as we moved him from Nanaimo to Vancouver, Main Street to Kitsilano, Kits to Fernwood, Victoria. Gone were the wonderful snuggle sessions, until we moved to the farm. Since the big move, our affectionate boy showers us with love again, rides like a prince on Roddy’s right forearm during long walks down our road, and climbs up on my shoulder purring like he did like in his early days. It’s been so heart-warming to have “the old Yoshi” back.

But Mama’s Little Man has lost another life, and he’s left with a permanent scar this time.

I’ll save you the gory details, but the poor kit doesn’t have his characteristic, long “question mark” tale anymore. Two and a half inches had to be amputated. We’re not sure what happened - the vet says it could’ve been a coyote, a dog, a car tire, a slamming door (wish we could outfit him with a video camera and a tracking device). We’re just relieved he’s alive.

It’s still jarring, however, and I can only imagine how mothers feel when something horrible happens to their children, which is completely out of their control. I’ve always known the risks associated with letting our cats run wild, but I want them to climb trees, explore, catch mice and voles, and enjoy the natural, nocturnal life a cat. I just wish Yoshi would play safe.

In his stoned and woozie state, Yoshi’s finding comfort on the same red armchair he gravitated to in his kitten days. He’ll have to wear the cone for 9 more days, but at least he’s in a happier place as he heals. My poor wee man.

I’m not a fan of the smell of manure, but when we decided to move to the country I knew I couldn’t walk around with a clothespeg on my nose. I’d have to grin and bear it.

I just didn’t expect to face it so soon.

Every garden benefits from a good ol’ broadcasting of manure, and our parched kitchen garden needed help. Before my delicate seedlings were to be transplanted, the soil needed a nutrient boost. So Roddy and I set out in search of cows.

A few miles away we hit the jackpot: gorgeous ruddy brown and black cattle munching grass in the sun, and their keeper working the field. Farmer John cheerfully obliged to parting with a (tractor) scoop or two of his composting manure. It all seemed too easy, and we’d made a new friend who raised grass-fed, hormone-free Angus cows.

But the stinking hot manure couldn’t stay in the truck bed. We had to shift it. We had to shovel it. I had to shovel shit.

It wasn’t so bad. I grit my teeth and got down to work, wishing we had three forks instead of one fork and two shovels. But then the unexpected happened. Roddy’s swift shoveling action ripped a dead animal in two.

Shoveling wet manure isn’t a day at the park. Holding the edges of a garbage bag while Roddy swings a well-preserved, severed groundhog just past my nose in the midday heat makes shoveling manure seem like a cake walk.

If you’re still reading, the shitshow gets better.

Our newly acquired pile of cow dung is still sitting next to our garden. It could not get scattered over our soil. On further investigation after all the heavy lifting, I discovered that this manure is too young. It won’t be fully composted until the fall.

So here lies our pile of poo. I can’t smell it anymore… maybe I’m just becoming a farmer?

We’re living the life on our new farm and diving right into home reno and DIY.  With so many projects in the queue, our minds are boggled but we’re making progress carving out a living space.

In lieu of photos (our temporary net connection is tedious), I’ll paint a picture with words of our inaugural farming experience -

Green: verdant field, asparagus patch, over 300 seedlings awaiting transplant, lawn that takes 2 hours to mow

Blue: skies everyday, Wellington County recycling bins brimming with reno refuse, stripes on dishes we went 3 days without

Purple: bruises, sunsets, psychedelic Pansies (first housewarming gift from old friend and new neighbor Elise)

Orange: hideous 1970s carpet now lying on our front lawn, cheese in basket from our new neighbors, fox

Yellow: buttercups, painting tools, pad of paper in make shift office space, firefly

Red: clothes strewn about only habitable “bedroom”, necks (ours, not the neighbors), Red Winged Black Birds

White: light from 2 lamps (our only light source for 4 rooms), moonbeams falling on excited pillow faces, strawberry flowers, budding farmer tan-lines

Brown: original pine plank floorboards revealed, blocked toilet for 30 hours, well-deserved cold Creemore Springs Lager

Gray: mosquitoes, outdoor clothes line, dead mouse between our sheets, leaky plumbing, septic tank (of which we’re now intimately familiar)

Black: ants in the kitchen cupboards, wellies, bats at dusk, hot roof with stunning view of neighboring fields and forest

Yes, a veritable rainbow of experiences all in our first few days.  At least we can laugh at the mishaps… toothy white smiles are also a common sighting.

I’ve just come off a weekend-long workshop which was inspiring and paradigm-shifting. It’s given me fantastic tools, resources, and vision. I gave the group and our facilitators my complete attention, shared my experience, and left on a high: full of hugs, new ideas, and a broadening sense of community.

Then I walked home alone through the fog and balmy 11 degrees. When I set off I was under the impression it was a quick 45 minutes home, but my trek through new territory resulted in painful blisters in my (fabulous) new Blundstone “farmer boots”, sweating in just a sweater and thin shirt, and walking in the door an hour and a half later. I was briefly uplifted when I found a box full of Mason jars at the end of someone’s drive, but now that I’m home, showered and fed I feel like it’s taking all the brainpower I have just to compress the keys on my keyboard.

I’m saturated. Spent. I’ll have to tell you about the wonderful insights of the Transition Town Training another time. Even the naughty, “tsk tsk” Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut isn’t sustaining me to write a meaty entry about my insightful weekend. So why, you might ask, is the locavore advocate tucking into a bar of sin – a non-fair trade, non-local chocolate bar which supports an unsustainable food system?!

Well, for a few reasons. First, it’s all I wanted after a very long weekend of work. Furthermore, I don’t pretend to be the poster girl for eating local. I love local food and I’m slowly becoming more aware of seasonal fare, but I don’t make it a religion. I fall from grace every so often and give into temptations out with my larder. Tonight, it was the sickly sweet Fruit and Nut, a throwback from my footloose Scotland days… from a time when my cupboards were stocked with tinned tuna and Heinz baked beans, and nothing was complete without Dijon mustard.

It wasn’t always Cadbury’s that found it’s way to my lips. When I was grasping for mental acuity while hammering out my master’s thesis I gravitated toward a substances which would take me to higher planes, and replaced cheap milk chocolate with ever darker varieties. But chocolate, nonetheless, is one vice that I cannot give up completely. While alternatives like honey and maple syrup will often suffice, when serious cravings hit I’ll reach for chocolate and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

The edible apples from our back garden are past their prime now – destined for fun projects like shrunken heads. But our crisper still isn’t clear of the fruit. A colleague of Roddy’s gifted us with at least 20 of these beautiful large babies, and, my sweet tooth beckoning for attention, I embarked on my first crumble.

This is actually not the first time I’ve ever made this dessert. I was an assistant to Roddy’s mum Shona in a berry variety a couple of summers ago up at my family cottage in northern Ontario. I seem to recall having difficulty with the crumble part. Shona and Alistair will likely have a more vivid memory of my “difficulty,” but I can say that my fingers were a bit too keen and strong and the crumble was, well, pulverized to a fine power.

Unfortunately, Roddy’s intervention in this crumble was also too late, and in an ugly twist of fortune I ended up with a new manhandled dessert mishap: Apple Powder a la MANdrea.

Next time, I shall try to remember to leave the muscles at the door and enter my kitchen with grace, poise and pearls around my neck. And if I forget, hopefully the vintage Sixties pyrex dish will trigger my memory.

There are days when I’m a whiz in the kitchen. Days when I can open the leaded glass cupboard doors with a sense of adventure, take a quick inventory of what’s on offer, and whip up a succulent dish which brings titillated nostrils into the kitchen in a trance.

And then there are days when, try as I might, my creations are destined to failure. This was almost one of those days. Somehow, the love and intention that went into my forays, although botched, redeemed my mistakes.

It all started with a deep desire to pour my heart into something scrumptious for my poor darling who’s suffering from dental surgery. Last Thursday Roddy had all four wisdom teeth removed – an excavation which has left him looking like Pob and feeling “weally weally wotton.” I, obviously, have been relishing the opportunity to pamper and spoil him. But he’s hardly given me the opportunity to play Nurse Andrea. The pain has been so severe he’s barely touched a morsel and has had precious few requests since the first afternoon of grogginess.

Today was my breaking point. My nurturing instinct was at risk of exploding if I couldn’t provide for my man. So, inspired by a recipe from Vegan Yum Yum, and driven by a deep, personal desire to finally make a sweet local treat I’ve been swooning over, I armed myself with a grocery list and struck off for the market. It was my Sunday afternoon mission, on this sunny autumn day, to warm our home with love: in the form of foods which Roddy did not request, but which he would adore.

Upon returning to our clean kitchen, a phone call to my Grandma was in order. I was somewhat shocked that she doubted my ability to multi-task – “I’ve never been able to carry out a couple of things at once,” she warned. But, phone wedged between shoulder and jaw I carried on, hands dusted with flour and cocoa as I measured out ingredients for the divine Vegan Brownies from the Rebar cookbook. (I’m obsessed with these brownies, and have dropped lots of cash for them at my neighborhood coffee shop.)

My Grandma and I chatted about the recent federal election, what we’re reading, her observations of Scandinavia, and of a recent report she’d read: apparently Danes are the happiest people in the world. I was just putting the brownies in the oven as we said our goodbyes and I-love-you’s.

A few minutes later I realized that my Grandma’s warnings should have been heeded. I had added a ½ cup of sugar to the mix. It called for 1 ½ cups. When I got over the initial shock, I decided to let it be – surely the super sugary carob chips and rich topping made with the finest Canadian Callebaut artisanal chocolate would sweeten the brownies up?

A little deflated, I got on with the next project: a roasted squash soup adapted from this recipe and one of Rebar’s. As it turned out, I only had half the ingredients I needed because I was set on using seasonal veg, and a spaghetti squash instead of a delicata squash. I am not a fussy eater, in fact, there are very few things I will not eat. Spaghetti squash is one of them. But this soup was for Roddy, and I would not be phased by another hiccup in my mission. Plus, at this point my brownies had (almost) cooled, so I could soothe my spirit with a wee taste.

Although they didn’t fill the house with the typical sweet aromas, my brownies were not compromised by the lack of sugar. They were so tasty that I carefully assessed and reassessed what a typical portion at the shop resembled, just to clean up the edges, of course. My attention to detail was sloppy, however, and the still gooey topping ended up everywhere but my mouth.

Then, I cut my tongue while licking the knife clean. When I burned four fingers on the hot edge of the roasting pan as I was fighting with the spaghetti squash, I was near tears. My acts of love were turning into a war in the kitchen.

But then, in an unintended role reversal, my ill, swollen-cheeked man came through to console and coddle me, and tend to my wounds. Luckily, the stringy squash was a shadow of it’s former self after a quick blast in the blender. And the hybrid soup was a creamy, absolutely delicious surprise (recipe forthcoming).

Thus, love endures in our kitchen.

Update: brownies are not the ideal treat to make someone who’s recently undergone dental surgery - but you all knew that.  Now, if anyone can offer advice on how to resist the urge to keep nibbling these delights, I’m all ears! At the rate I’m going, there will scarcely be a crumb left for Roddy.

For the past four months I’ve been hiding a dirty secret. I concealed it cunningly in elastics, clips, hats, and scarves. My secret made rare appearances, and observers likely sniggered under their breath.

For four months I rocked the mullet. Yes, it’s true – I naively put my head in the hands of a hack hairstylist who interpreted my request for “a fun, light, funky hair cut” as a fem-mullet. Now, just to add a little history here, I’m ashamed to say this isn’t the first time I’ve had a mullet. From about age 5-11 my mom’s hairdresser (who specialized in perms and must have liked the taste of hairspray) cut my blonde locks into a shorty-long-back. In my whimsical youth I must have thought that this hair cut was fantastic – I could sport long pony tails with bobbles while never getting a sun-burned forehead…?

This time around, the mullet had lost its appeal. On a recommendation, I finally got to sit in my local hair savior’s chair yesterday. James was fabulous. He didn’t hold back his disgust for the beast, and being in the experienced care of his sharp scissors I felt like my four months of shame were finally being redeemed.

It didn’t take any fancy machinery to exorcize the demon, but I wish I could show you a before and after. My personal weed wacker, while no proponent of local organic food, is a local hero.