What is it about goats? I know it’s not just me - just take a look at how popular they are at petting zoos! People lap them up, and I’m right there with the little four and five year old’s, chasing them around and picking them up when staff aren’t looking.

Today Roddy, Ewan and I found ourselves in the neighborhood of River’s Edge Goat Dairy, just outside of Arthur in Wellington County. We missed our turn initially, but I made sure we got there. I wanted to see goats, pet goats, and come home with goat cheese.

Their herd is incredibly cute, and their chevre is divine. The Wilman’s secret is selling only the freshest milk and cheese, and the result is a rich, smooth and tangy treat that drives my taste buds wild!

Ever since watching The Girl from Paris during my French film binge last year, I’ve held onto a fantasy of someday keeping goats of my own. It would not be in Canada, though. It would be somewhere bucolic with rougher pastures where I’d heard my goats through the hills and soak up the scents while the wind whipped through my hair. I’d craft the creamiest, most heavenly goat cheese concoctions, and play my guitar under a canopy of apple trees dripping with fruit (or blossoms, depending on the season).

Today, however, I saw goats as they are without the romance. I noticed their eerie, alien-like pupils. I saw how much they poo, and how it stuck to my favourite Onitsuka Tiger sneakers (why did I change out of my wellies when the sun came out?). And I thought of how much time they would take from everything else I love to do in my free time.

In short, today I learned to love the fact that a family in my county has decided to raise goats and sell delicious milk and cheeses, so I don’t have to. At least not yet.

Julia Child, why am I so late in discovering you?! When your name first came into my lexicon while I was interning for Food Network’s Opening Soon, I let the reference go un-researched. You sounded old fasioned and fluffy. I was drawn instead to the raw, behind the scenes expose of the restaurant biz, as told through the wry humour of Anthony Bourdain. I’ve matured in five years, however, and I’m now ready to dive into your tantalizing French recipes and learn more about your culinary journey.

Julia & Julia was an excellent primer to the life of the woman who brought French cuisine into the homes of Americans from the 1960s, and one of her loyal followers who blogs her way through a personal challenge to cook every recipe in Child’s famous cookbook in one year. Meryl Streep, phenom that she is, has set me on a mission to scour local bookshops for a used copy of Child’s seminal cookbook Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1 and get tucked right in. Rich sauces, homemade mayonnaise, heavenly pastries, and sinful tarts and cakes await.

My challenge: to locavore-ize some of Child’s buttery delights. I’m sure French cuisine will be a mission in itself, but I want to concoct recipes that highlight fresh, local ingredients, and also taste mouth wateringly delicious.

What about you? Are you inspired by the towering, bubbly, culinary genius? Tried any of her recipes? Want to join me in the kitchen with Julia? Leave a comment below before midnight on August 31st, and I’ll send the winner a free copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1. Yum! 

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 didn’t invite her, but Miss Ladybug is most welcome in our garden.

In fact she can stay as long as she pleases and invite all her friends. They can have huge ladybug love-ins, flirt all over our veggies, and make sweet ladybug love. Their wee ones can stay too.

Ladybugs (or Ladybirds, as Roddy refers to them) are incredibly beneficial garden insects.  They can munch up to 60 aphids per day and also feast on other insects and larvae including leaf hoppers, mites, mealy bugs, scales, and other soft-bodied insects. They get busy in the garden!

The endearing ladybug has been revered since medieval times as farmer’s little winged helpers. In the Middle Ages, huge swarms of insects decimated crops. Prayers were made to the Virgin Mary for help, and their prayers were answered by the arrival of ladybugs. Hence considered a divine intervention to crop failure, the insect was dedicated to Mary and named “The Bug of Our Lady.”

In 19th Century Europe ladybugs were also valued. In northern Germany a ladybug’s black spots were counted - if there were less than seven a big harvest was on the horizon. In Austria, ladybugs were summoned for good weather. In Central Europe it was believed that if a female caught a ladybug and it crawled across her hand, she would be married within a year. In Switzerland, children were told that babies were brought by ladybugs (just one little ladybug?).

All this folklore packed into one little insect! The ladybug has always held a storybook presence in my mind, and obviously it’s captured the attention of cultures throughout history.

Rightly so - look at the bounty that’s been protected in our garden! Crispy cucumbers, and delicious beet greens, lettuce and bush beans. I hope Miss Ladybug and her friends don’t have baby deliveries in Switzerland anytime soon.

I’ve always thought that fields dotted with big hay bales were serene and inviting. I wanted to jump fences, run, and hurl myself onto them. I guess I wanted to disturb the peace. Now I can, and have been for the past few days.

The bales look even better with people. I caught this scene through our bathroom window and snuck up on Tan, Ben, Roddy, and Tori to capture the moment. Doesn’t it look like the ultimate social setting: chillin’ round the hay bale? I knew I had to have rectangular straw bales around tables for future harvest parties in our barn, but now I think we’ll need to reserve a space for a token wheel bale in the field.

They’re just such good fun!

… and getting squashed by being played upon. Farmer Michael will get $50 a bale - I hope his buyers don’t notice a little loose hay around the edges! I don’t think the livestock will notice the difference.

The younger farmer who came by in his flash air conditioned baler took one look at our little two acre field and said to Roddy: “this field is a joke!” We’re the ones laughing now.

And leaning against the bales in deep thought.

Yoshi and Chika think they’re fantastic to relax and play on too.

I’ll be sad to see them go but something tells me the sun isn’t setting on bales in our field. If you have the chance, I highly recommend getting one.

Summer has only just kicked into gear in Southern Ontario. June and July were cool and wet, which has pushed back farmers’ haying schedules. However, this week was hot and sticky, making Wednesday a BIG day for us on the farm. It was the day that our overgrown field was finally shorn.

When guests pop round to visit us, I happily step outside to greet them. When Michael from one line over arrived on his tractor, my heart started to flutter. I was so excited to meet the farmer we’d exchanged phone calls with. The farmer who knew his soils, knew what we needed, and wanted to help. The farmer who was going to reveal our land to us.

Michael is fantastic. A wirey, weathered man with a thick beard that curls over his lip, beady eyes cloaked in black rimmed glasses, toting a cracked hard hat over top a tilley hat complete with feather. His family has been living in the Township of Guelph Eramosa since 1832. His aunt went to school with the Tim Horton (who “wore Coke bottle glasses”), and one of his brothers has a PhD in Alfalfa. Micheal has been haying our field for the past 15 years, and he walked us through all the grasses, weeds and flowers growing within it: Timothy (the ultimate feed grass), Broom, Orchard Grass, Alfalfa, Solid Stan, Leafy Spurge, Heat, Velvet Leaf, Golden Rod, and Queen Anne’s Lace. I love these names - they sound like a motley crew of nerdy and showy teenagers at a 1930’s school dance.

He also gave us a wealth of information on the state of our land - and his report was promising! Michael believes that we have excellent soil with good moisture levels and drainage. We knew it received excellent sun exposure (that’s one of the reasons we were so excited about this SW sloping field before we bought it), but we weren’t sure of the soil’s condition. Michael thinks it’s well-balanced and after a plow brings the nutrients to the surface we should have no trouble establishing healthy topsoil for our crops. It is a bit damp at the bottom by the forest, but we can do other things there… apparently it’s an ideal spot for beekeeping. In short: we should have no trouble doing whatever we want to do here, from tiny farming to creating an orchard. Music to our ears!

As I hung over the big machine that would sheer our grass and took it all in - the blades, the tines, the stretching wheels, Michael’s black fingers and missing thumb tip - it struck me that this is where I’m meant to be. Chatting in the sun with Roddy and a wise and witty farmer with bags of character, creating a life centered around good food, the outdoors, and community.

And then, Michael was off and the entertainment began. Roddy and I sprung up to the roof with our cameras to capture this momentous occasion (look out for Roddy’s crisper, paparazzi shots soon).

We’re seeing our field with new eyes now that it’s cut and the hay lies drying in rows.  We can easily walk within it and to the forest, and the scope for imagining our crops has magically opened up now that we can see the land rather than it’s shaggy overcoat. When I’m at the back of the field and Roddy’s in the middle it feels expansive but manageable at the same time. There’s room for Roddy’s mouth watering Scottish tatties, my prize-winning heirloom tomatoes, plump squash and towering sunflowers, our greenhouse, grape vines, foraging hens, and a thriving row of nutty arugula.

Who knew that a close shave would bring dreams to life?

I’ve discovered the ultimate home renovation perk: work becomes play. Our interior tear down has become a big game of Choose Your Own Adventure, an archeological dig, and a scavenger hunt all wrapped up in one.

Some of the things we’ve uncovered have been unwelcome:

:: 2″ holes in the floorboards

:: dangerous old wiring

:: mummified mice in the walls

:: a temple of cobwebs in our rubble stone basement

But some things we’ve unearthed have been thrilling:

:: evidence of renovations from 1950 (Actor Vincent Price promotes “brighter clothes for men”)

:: patchwork original pine planks in the dining room that tell a story (trap door to the basement here, original wall there)

:: old horse hair plaster (look closely… see it?)

:: evidence of renovations from 1937!! (New Toronto Stock Exchange building opens; Men’s clothing: “$5 Down, 10 Weeks to Pay. That’s Roth Eaton’s Selling Way)

:: a wooden bead and a red glass bead from at least 1937

By digging away, we’re slowly piecing together the story of how this house came to be what it was when we moved in. I love imagining who lived here and how they lived. Whomever built the house in 1870 had no plumbing and no electricity. Did they keep a cow for their milk and butter? Chickens for their eggs? Did they grow their own wheat in the field? Did they stand by the windows watching wild thunderstorms for evening entertainment? Were they contented with less stuff and more physical labour?

In a sense, as Roddy and I return our home to something more akin to it’s former self we’re also easing into a lifestyle more akin to that which was lived by our home’s original occupants. We’ve got electricity, running water and a vehicle now. But we’re simplifying. We stroll, potter, concoct in the kitchen, preen in the garden, explore, play music, create grand plans, soak up quality time with friends and family, and create. And when things get too stressful and I’m ready to slam a door off it’s hinges - like last night - I’m very grateful to have a computer and a good film so we can escape drowning in overwhelming thoughts.

Relax, recharge, re-engage in the adventure. Mummified mice and all.

It’s so easy to slip into a routine.

We forget that there are many paths to our destination, and stick to the same route. On auto pilot, sometimes we forget to look up and take in our surroundings.

The scenery in Wellington County is new to both of us, and instead of keeping our eyes on the road we’re soaking up the bucolic land. The backroads reveal hidden treasures: striking undulating fields bordered with tall hardwoods, character-laden old barns and Escarpment stone homes, elk and osprey, and one expansive field of massive sunflowers.

Back at our own field, I’ve been reminding myself to look up from my (desk and garden) work to soak up our new terrain. But it’s really a fine dance between macro and micro lenses. When I hunch down like a frog and refocus, a tiny wonderland reveals itself: hidden juicy strawberries, tiny slugs munching our lettuce, Mr. Toad and Ms. Praying Mantis protecting our garden, and baby cucumbers and zucchini.

Eyes wide open, I’m so grateful for the scenery where we’ve landed.

Life without music is a life not worth living. Life without a record player is possible, but strained.

When Roddy and I moved out west we ruthlessly downsized and lived with only the necessesities. Among the “stuff” that didn’t make the shortlist was a record player. I continued to collect records, but only the bare necessities that my small collection would be incomplete without. For example, I couldn’t just walk on by Dionne Warwick when her greatest hits were going for a mere two dollars!

My little collection on the coast, however, was a source of pain without a means to relish in the sweet melodies. The stack tormented me and as the months wore on I acquired a severe case of vinyl withdrawl. This may sound melodramatic, but records have always been a massive part of my life. When I was wee, time spent indoors revolved around what music was spinning on the turntable, and my family had masses of records stored at floor level to give me easy access. While living in the UK, I gave up two nights a week for 3 months to work behind the bar of a club so I could soak up live house music and get paid for it. And I still get a kick out of listening to Roddy’s funky house mixes from his DJing days - a panacea for watching him spin in the flesh. 

This weekend my two year vinyl hiatus finally came to an end. I fled my farm duties for a break at my family’s cottage just south of Algonquin Provincial Park. Before even jumping in the lake, I placed the needle gently over Elton John’s ‘Your Song’ so I could relieve 730 days of built up harmonic tension.

I am now a whole person again.

With renewed enthusiasm and uplifted spirit, Gladys Knight and The Pips accompanied Jude, my mom and I in baking a pie with scrumptious local rasperries, strawberries, and blueberries. I’m sure it was the soul diva’s sweet voice that inspired me to reach for the maple syrup instead of the sugar. So I have an old record player to thank for this locavore original.

Maple Berry Pie
Servings: 8

2 10” pie crusts
4 ¼ cups mixed seasonal berries (cut to equal sizes if necessary)
1 cup maple syrup (more for sweet tooth)
4 tbsp flour

Preheat oven to 425 F (220 C). In a large bowl, mix together berries and coat with flour. Add maple syrup and mix thoroughly. Place in one pie shell, cover with the other and pierce top pastry to release steam. Bake for 35-40 minutes or until pastry is golden on top and base is cooked.

NB: I’m not a fan of sickly sweet desserts so this pie suits my pallet to a tee - it’s a bit tart. If you prefer sweeter pies, experiment with more maple syrup or augment with another sweetener.