I love mustard. And not the cheap stuff.

When my taste buds were young I slapped bright yellow French’s on hot dogs and nothing else. It was a match made in heaven. During high school I gravitated to honey mustard (oh mon deiu!) and then onto even stickier German styles. But I’ve since graduated, with thanks to my refined late Aunt Kathy, to the creme de la creme of moutarde, the posh dijon.

Oh dijon, how I’ve OD’ed on thee. You were the main accompaniment of so many dishes during my university years. So much so that I had to leave you for awhile - probably because I ate such a shocking diet. Your wonderful texture and hot notes lured me back though, and you’ve been a permanent fixture on the top shelf of my fridge ever since. When you’re nearing empty I actually remember to add you to the shopping list. I could remedy the frequency of reaching your depths by just buying jumbo jars but they somehow seem less sophisticated. You are meant to be mini.

This large sac is full of mustard harvested from my field. It looked stunning in June but it had long since been overshadowed by barley and oats. Michael has some plan for it but it since he’s left I’ve been wondering how mustard is actually made and if this is indeed the beginnings of the wonderful prepared stuff. And where can I find homegrown mustard to replace my Maille?

The first option I stumbled upon, Organics & Gold Mustard, claims to be 100% organic made with Saskatchewan mustard, milled in Ontario. Apparently Canada grows over 95% of the worlds mustard! Wow. Maybe that explains the plant’s proliferation in my field?! Canada also has the biggest and oldest mustard mills in the world.Perhaps I should hunt one down. But in the meantime I’m on the hunt for an all-Ontario organic prepared dijon. Can anyone point me in the right direction? Maybe I should just be making my own…

I’ve been thrown a slew of curve balls recently. Living solo on a farm has certainly tested my resourcefulness. It’s been incredibly empowering to rise to challenges without getting frustrated or discouraged. But when challenges pile up into a toppling mass, well, sometimes I wonder how I can possibly manage a small farm on my own while working too.

Thankfully, I have some pretty spectacular people in my life. I had a great chat over lunch today with my cousin Tim, who emailed me later with these words that I thought I’d share:

Remember - nothing is “wrong” right now.
Be curious, explore the options life gives you.
Remember that setbacks are just a necessary learning point.
Remind me of these things when I forget them. 

Thanks Tim.

I think we could all do with a bit of wisdom from the humble Chika too, who demonstrates above that the best way to deal with shite is to calmly accept it for what it is and relax in it. (Yes, she is sleeping in the mid-day heat on a huge pile of manure)

How to waste 3.5 kg of apricots:

1. Use an inexpensive, thin-bottomed pot

2. Fill to the brim with far too much fruit

3. Maintain a rolling boil for, well, just loose track of time and maintain that rolling boil for a long, long time

4. Check the time and try to guess what time you started cooking so much fruit

5. Increase the temperature because, to your inexperienced eye, the consistency of the recipe you’re augmenting looks too watery

6. Follow up on brilliant multi-tasking idea and go weed your flower beds

7. Loose track of time and return to a kitchen that has lost that lovely apricot-y aroma and now smells like burning

:: the view from my desk - newly sanded and finished red pine plank floors in two bedrooms

:: the intense perfume of lilacs filling every room of Gothic Cottage from one tree discovered on the edge of my farm and renegade flower collection under darkness

:: the fruit of Ashley’s and my labour. A freshly painted bedroom - ‘Quiet Splendor’

:: most romantic, delicate new peachy leaves - I could live in this scene

:: a clean and fresh ‘Crisp Linnen’ sun room painted by my dad and ready for his easel (I waver between getting swept up in the romance of some paint shade names and busting a gut with friends over how seriously cheesy they are. Someone’s having fun creating them…)

:: collecting pea sticks for a thriving row of shelling peas

:: a kick in the ass - I need to stick to my guns and steer clear of non-sustainable meat, and tonight’s Ideas program on CBC radio delivered. I sat in my car after returning from yoga and kept listening in the dark with the engine off. No more prosciutto unless I know the pig was happy.

:: the field and forest slowly filling out in electric lime and emerald green (can you see the white clover growing?)

:: brand new music from Caribou, Dr. Dog, The Morning Benders, and Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros

:: little Mason jars waiting to be filled with tart rhubarb jam (does anyone have a delicious recipe?)

:: design ideas germinating from conversations and cool magazines that I would never find myself but discover in the homes of my style maven friends - leaves me buzzy!

We’ve become “those” neighbours. The neighbours who let their grass grow out of control, forget to water the flowers, and (gasp!) leave growing piles of rubbish on their front lawn.  It’s not that we’re lazy, we’re just too busy ripping the guts out of our house to fuss over exterior appearances.

Today another one of our neighbours dropped by to introduce himself. Usually I’m not fazed in the least about the state of our place, but this neighbour is unique. His lawn is immaculate. Roddy and I are certain he goes out every morning at dawn and vacuumes his turf grass. It was lovely to chat to this man who lives at the bottom of our road whom we’d exchanged many waves with. But when the conversation turned to his lawn, for a brief moment I felt a little ashamed as I looked at the shaggy grass at my feet. I got over it quickly enough to remember I had ginger tea burning on the stove.

The tea was for my tummy, which is in knots today. When my stomach is queezie I gravitate toward what my mom fixed for me when I was wee: Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, plain Premium Plus crackers, and ginger ale. But this won’t do anymore. I need to stock our larder and freezer when I’m spritely with healthy homemade comfort food that has a locavore flair. I’m too weak to brainstorm right now but if you’ve got ideas, please inspire me!

So I’m curling up in my “cozies” and loving the fact that I have a reasonable excuse not to mow the lawn. Roddy has shifted us into our fourth make-shift bedroom to clear space for new renovation projects. He vacuumed. He washed the sheets. He lit candles and incense. And now that I’ve had the chance to sit back because I’m nursing a sore tum, and really take in what we’re carving out for ourselves here, I feel more at home than ever. Long grass and all.

Yes, yesterday was my birthday. It was a very low-key affair: my folks treated me to a meal at my favourite local East Indian restaurant and filled a big bag with tissue-wrapped goodies (unwrapping such treasures before an audience makes me feel like I’m seven again).

The real party will be in Toronto tomorrow night, and then again when Roddy arrives… EARLY. He surprised me yesterday with the news that he’s coming on June 9th. So we only have 13 more sleeps until the big move to our farm!

In between celebrations, it’s back to work. But not without a wee break for teatime. I don’t feel guilty indulging in chocolate and tea. I know I should be choosy and buy Fair Trade, but this was a gift and it’s made in Victoria at least. The tea (King Cole) is also “proudly Canadian” (New Brunswick) – and very smooth. But it’s not organic or Fair Trade.

As I try to get on with work, sipping my hot tea and not conflicted about it’s origins, I’m reminded that I’m a granny at heart. I’ve subconsciously chosen to work at a table clothed in my Great Grandma’s embroidered lace (how can I do that?!), I’m drawn to teapots decorated with rosebuds and I have a soft cat at my side.

Yoshi is actually dominating my workspace – but he’s SO irresistibly cute and the tea and chocolate taste so divine, this lace adds such character to the setting, and OH isn’t it just wonderful to take a wee break in the mid afternoon, to love the skin you’re in and feel like a seven-year old granny?

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.