A Spring Vineyard Garden is a Mother's Day Dream Come to Life

 

By Shellie Croft

As a child I dreamed a thousand dreams of my garden.  A place where I would sow in spring and dwell in summer, harvest in fall and ache for its return through the depths of winter.

Thanks in enormous part to my favorite childhood books, “The Secret Garden” and “Alice in Wonderland,” I imagined the colors and aromas that may brighten my senses and how my own small hands would one day cultivate my garden, my haven.

This dream grew greater and it’s ultimate purpose richer while I was living and working in California’s gorgeous Napa Valley where I experienced another “Secret Garden” of sorts; Thomas Keller’s wonderful French Laundry restaurant.

The French Laundry is perfection to my mind.  It is as complete a culinary experience as ever could be in terms of farm to fork, and back when this deliciously innovative masterwork opened in Yountville, was an immediate, mouthwatering, soul satisfying success.

Chef Keller’s food was amazing, of course, but it was the entire experience of the celebration of farm and garden fresh goodness that elevated my imagination in the ways of the tasty greatness of living.

When I strolled through the herb and vegetable kitchen gardens between courses, all I could think was “brilliant.”

Learning that building relationships with conscientious, local farmers was as important to Chef Keller as building clientele, made me want to be a better person altogether.

Delicious successes are the stuff of my dreams, and The French Laundry left an indelible impression, planting the seeds in my head for my future culinary garden adventures.

For so long, I envisioned natural, beautiful form meeting delectable, healthful function and lengthy, sunny days of planting, watering, weeding and tending in my vineyard garden.

The lovely notion of harvesting tender greens, edible flowers and heirloom tomatoes intrigued me so, that I began to collect every quality book and research just exactly how to have and make my green dreams a reality.

My spirit is not one that leans towards idle contemplation however, I’m more of a jump right in there kind of gal. So when we moved out to this 202 acre property in western Oregon, nearly seven years ago, one of my very first orders of business was to stick something in the ground and see if it grows.

Bryan, my winemaking husband-love, is also the viticultural project manager on this piece of land. He has overseen every phase of the transformation of this one-time grass farm and overgrown scrub oak, blackberry thicket into the spectacular vineyard of Pinot Noir, Pinot Gris, Chardonnay and Riesling it now is, here in the heart of Willamette Valley, Oregon.

Though my Bryan was, and is, completely supportive of my endeavors, he is still so very busy with the enormous task of the management, care and harvesting out here (not to mention the full time primary job of crafting the wines for the 50,000 case winery) so if I am to see this garden dream through, I’ll have to rely on gumption, grit and cooperation of my two children.

Can do!

I was determined to learn how to have my dream garden as I was planting it.

First year was really about cleaning up this abandoned, forsaken piece of land that had become overwhelming to the elderly couple that occupied this space as of seven years ago.

Then,  I planted, in very unforgiving, hard as a rock, early autumn soil; lavender, rosemary, some shrubs and bulbs.

There were already apple trees, a pear tree and two walnut trees here, so I reaped their harvest in fall and made some really yummy desserts and preserves from these treats.

Year two, we not only put in some more herbs, but I cleared out an old wood shed on the property, moved in a cast iron sink I dug up on the grounds and hooked it up to fresh water to create a hen house.

The fact that I had never had so much as a goldfish in my life did not hamper my enthusiasm to pursue my small farming dreams.

And just how could I possibly have a little farm without chickens?

More digging around the circa 1885 abandoned farm house yielded some wooden fruit boxes I thought would serve nicely as nesting spots and laying boxes that in the late spring became home to our first batch of chicks, later becoming my sweet hens.

I cried tears of joy and laughed my crazy face off when my little son discovered the very first brown egg our free ranging girls produced just ten weeks after we had brought them home.

The third year was all about building a compost heap, amending soil, hauling rocks and constructing raised beds for artichokes, broccoli, tomatoes, herbs and squash.

I hand (and heart) tended to the aphids, slugs, mildew, earwigs, mice, weeds, birds and more and learned tons about what works well and what doesn’t, "on the job", as it were–at least in that year.

Also working with my husband in the winery and vineyard out here in Willamette Valley, has taught me the true meaning of the word “vintage.“ As this term may apply to small farming beyond the grape, and based on weather, crops can be very different here and where once there was success, next year there may be devastating failure, particularly if you’re wanting to  grow and tend organically, as I am.

Thinking of all of the farming families that rely on crops coming in in tact for their livelihood and survival, gives me pause every time I lose a tomato plant to a surprising late spring frost or have a bumper crop of sweet corn to share with our neighbors and friends.

Farming, I believe on any scale, can break a heart and give it wings in an instant or with the changing of the season.

Between the pumpkin patch and rows of corn, my children and I were busy as the bees in our vineyard garden from sun up and breakfast on the back deck to sun down, grilling dinner in the middle of the garden and then a luxurious bath where else, but in the garden?

The claw foot tub I had found at a local antiques dealer was my request and gift received for mother’s day that year, and we hooked it up to our home’s  hot water heater out in the vineyard garden.  In addition to this  being an incredibly dreamy bathing experience, I make sure to use all natural soaps so that the next morning I water the vegetables and climbing roses with the tub water.

Sunflowers, nasturtium, lilies and gladiolus.  All the way through October, it was my idea of heaven and surely a harvest of joy.

It was an excellent growing season and grape harvest here as well.  Lots of work.  Good, good work.

Our backs were sore, our hands were dirty, our hearts were full.

Now, it’s mid spring and the dream is awake, alive and kicking again with the first tiny stalks of corn we planted when the oak leaves were as big as a mouse’s ear already popping up.

Rotating the crop was a lesson learned from last year’s research.

We’ve got our third round of tender spring artichokes ready to be steamed or grilled for tonight’s garden supper, and very soon I’ll bake some pound cakes using our farm fresh eggs, whip up some fresh heavy cream with vanilla beans and pile on our second year strawberries (if they make it into the kitchen, that is).

The plans for this year’s garden expansion are as big as our imagination and as diverse as our palates with learning and growing always part of the experience.

I hope that whatever your dream garden may be, you’ll find great joy in the tending.

Happy Mother's Day and blessings until next we meet:)
Shellie

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Related Posts:

• How Spring has Sprung for Vineyard Dreams in Willamette…
• American Dream Living Means Making the Most of Seasonal…
• How April on a Vineyard Farm is Dream Spring Living
• An American Dream Fairytale Kind of Love
• The Making of an Independent American Dream

Starting Back to School is an Education of a Very Different Sort

Here we are, two weeks and two days into this experience of returning to a "brick and mortar" school.

I am going to spill the great, a whole mess of bad, and some of the ugly business of what has occurred for my twelve year old daughter, who is showing maturity, strength and courage beyond both her years, and what I have known to be her emotional abilities, during the past four years that we were home schooling.

My "Sweet Petite", as I call her, wanted this experience of traditional school back in her life.  She thinks of it as an adventure.

Like any enticing adventure there are several exciting elements that keep us riveted and interested.

I went to public school through high school graduation.  I went to Sunday school in my elementary years, as well.  Later, I went on to college in a town infamous for being a party school, in Chico, California. 

Certainly, I was not raised in a sheltered environment and I am no prude.

I have been "around the block" as it's said.  Heck, I was engaged to be married, diamond ring and all, when I was a senior in high school. God had a different plan for me, thankfully, and I didn't marry this person, or anyone when I was a teenager.

Also, I was an early bloomer and by the time I was twelve, I was nearly the bra size I am right now. 

My middle school years were spent playing defense against the male, star athlete of the school whose locker was just above mine and would constantly pull at the collar of my top to see my breasts, sometimes holding it out for his buddies to get a look.

Until I could drive myself to school, I played this same painful game with the older jackass boy who occasionally rode my school bus home, only he would actually grab my breasts, not just try to see them.

In the eighth grade, a female bully in an upper grade, who I knew of but did not know, challenged me to a fist fight after an assembly in the gym.  I declined, but she followed me out, struck the first blow to the back of my head and we fought like tigers with a crowd gathered until I knocked her hard to the ground and my best friend broke through the circle of people with a teacher.

This very troubled child never returned to our school, as she was expelled. 

I, however, was interviewed briefly by the assistant principal, as were some of the witnesses and was revered by many students for the remainder of the week, became measurably more popular, and the boy with the totally smooth-n-straight hair who always called me "Light Socket" because of my crazy curly hair, began calling me by my actual name.

Whatever.

Truth be told, here and now, I prefer the company of most animals, trees and all small children more than the general population of humans. 

School these days is wrought with all of the same garbage, including the bullies, as it was when I went to school.  There are the cliques, there is vulgarity and the "students" way out number the "teachers" and it is a chaotic scene most of the time.

An excellent academic education was not the focus in my time and it is not the focus in our children's time.  How could/can it be?

My daughter told me that she wanted to spend more time with other kids her age.  She wanted to share with other girls and have talks about girl stuff with someone other than me and her cousin.  She wanted to be, in her own words, "normal".

Of course I stated, as I have many times, how overrated the term "normal" is. 

Later, I asked her to define the word for me.  She did this well, I knew it was idealized and her notions of spending quality time with girls her age were more fairytale-like, coming from books, her favorite films, and the delightful experience she recently had with her female cousin and auntie, shopping in San Francisco.

My husband and I had a very good idea about the rude awakening this sojourn into the "normal" world of school would be, but what we weren't prepared for was what actually went down and how we and the school authorities and our family are coping with it.

The fact that this particular school is known to our family because we attended here for the full 2006-2007 year, or that it is a tiny, adorable, charter school located in the most bucolic western Oregon farmland country setting one could possibly hope for, and that the director of the school was thrilled to have us return, did not keep our little lady from experiencing an education of the sordid kind.

Nor did the  several multi-colored pieces of paper that I must read, sign and return outlining codes of conduct, general expectations with an enormous emphasis on : "Excellence in everything we do, Respect for all, Honesty in all our relationships, Service to each other, Teamwork always", oh under the category of School Rules of  "5 Student Essentials",  we find first:

(1) Safe  (2) Respectful (3) Responsible then listed under #4, (1) Choices (2) Consequences, these are also know as the "C's", okay, you're right, this counts as learning the third letter of the alphabet.

But what my daughter really learned these two weeks was...

"You got hit with so many balls today, I'm surprised you're not pregnant!"  the mind boggling remark that started off the third day of school's end of day, just after our supper's,  " Are you okay, honey?" question from me to my daughter,  who unloaded this fresh bag of horse manure, with a side of toilet mouth courtesy of our new friend "normal".  Next came, ..."then she asked me if I was a lesbian because I thought this quiet , sweet girl I had just met was nice."  Followed by her frightened inquiry of , "does that mean they're having sex, mom?  They're my age! They're just kids!"

While the first part of this little gem was not directed at my daughter, it was spoken inside the classroom to another student seated near to my girl. 

As fate would have it, my Sweet Petite is seated between this same thirteen year old girl, and another similarly minded "child" who laughed heartily, and does so every time "Miss 13" cracks a vulgar joke.

Mysteriously on this day, my daughter's math text book went missing, she was unable to do her homework, and on the following day when her teacher asked if "anyone didn't do theirs" the enabling "partner in the crimes" raised her hand and shouted "(my daughter) didn't do hers!"

Later that morning, this child returned the math book that she told my daughter she "must have taken by mistake."

Hmmmmm.

"Miss 13", is my girl's reading partner, so my daughter told me, and when she holds up a piece of paper to her own face to read, "Miss 13"  shouts "wham", smacks the back side of the paper with her open hand and gets it just close enough to intimidate but not touch my daughter's person.

And right out of olden days, "Miss 13" yanks on my gal's long golden locks when the teacher isn't looking.

God knows I was many, many things during the unfolding of the school day's events this evening.  Mostly, I was tender, especially while I held my little-big girl's pony tail back while she was vomiting as a result of being so upset by all of this. 

Also, I was baffled, stunned, dazed, irate, heartsick, surprised because it happened at this particular place, but not surprised that it happened.

Hours later, after lovingly sharing more in-depth information regarding human reproduction, homosexuality, some bullying insights and answering all of the questions her exhausted little head had banging around in there, I then asked her if she wanted to continue going to school.

Without hesitation, my girl showed me the color of bravery and the size of courage I pray for her to be possessed of.

"Yes, mom, I want to continue to go to school." Stated with quiet confidence, came out of the mouth of my babe.

I, on the other hand, didn't sleep very well, afterwards. 

Searching my own heart, knowing that my faith in God was where I needed to dwell for a good long while, it came to me that if she could be as strong as I had prayed for, that I must stay in faith and trust in Him.

I teetered and tottered between a couple of thoughts--

In this age, the biggest difference is the frightening access the children who have difficult home lives for whatever reason, including mental illness, have access to weapons.

Three weeks ago, I was so grateful to be home schooling my little son and daughter, knowing they were safe out here with me in our little house in the great big vineyard.  Away from ugliness, pain and violence and now I feel as though I am offering up my most treasured blessing as a sacrificial lamb.

Then, a warmer more beautiful thing occurred to me.  It was like a washing over of knowing emotion, that our influence in this school might be just the kind of great blessing that someone there was praying for.

Maybe another parent or parents.  Perhaps even the director of the school, himself.  I wondered if it was a child who wanted ugliness to be over for her or him?

I don't presume to know God's plan.  I only know that I am a creation of God as are my children, and that's really all I need to know.

With this renewed sense of faith, I popped in to meet the teacher in the full classroom on that Friday. As is my style, I showed up with freshly picked paperwhite flowers in a mason jar wrapped with a ribbon.  I wore a really cute, conservative outfit and made sure to wear my very best accessory--my smile.

Making arrangements for my young son, whom I still home school until this fall, to be with his daddy for about an hour, I arrived to school at lunchtime without advance notice and was warmly welcomed by the lovely office staff person who fondly remembered me and my daughter from our first go round at this school more than fours years ago. 

My expectations were only to meet my daughter's teacher face-to-face and to give her a gift of gratitude to let her know that I appreciate her taking good care of the most important girl in my world.

I did tell my daughter before she left with daddy that morning that I was coming and that perhaps she could introduce me to some of her classmates.  She did, and my reward for the day was that the kids thought I was her older sister, not her mom. 

Hah!  That's a good time, right there.

Week two began and ended much the same and perhaps even a bit more challenging in other ways.

I sent a long, carefully worded email communication to the teacher, beginning with how nice it was to meet with her.  I then thoughtfully and appropriately cautiously, crafted my feelings about what had transpired for our family during this episode with the language, the joke's content and bullying.

This was sent on Tuesday, including the closing "Thank you again, and in advance for reading this and replying back at your earliest convenience."

After sending the email and my child back to school Friday, I was amazed by her strength, again.

Not only did my girl pick up a nasty cold, she sprained her ankle very badly during a game of "dodge ball", for which she hobbled to the bathroom before she felt she could cry without being teased, but we also had a doctor's appointment for a lice scare, which fortunately turned out to be just a dry scalp.

Yay for normal!

I also shared with my daughter the recent story about the two Washington state 10 year-old-boys who plotted to kill a little girl in their class, because she was "annoying them", and today's devastating story about yet another child who decided it was a better option to hang herself, taking her own life, than continue living in the northern California town with the kids, friends to her, who sexually assaulted her while she lie unconscious, taking photos and posting them to the internet, my daughter still says she wants to go to school.

She truly does see this as a wild adventure.  My mind flies to a yellow "Post-It" note she hid in my lab coat pocket when she was just six that said:  "Adventure in itself is worthwhile, and so are you."  The first part of this is from Amelia Earhart, and the "so are you" part was from her to me because she thinks that working in the winery's lab is "coolest job in the world". 

What my magical, sparkly, blessing of a daughter doesn't know, is that I think my greatest adventure and coolest job is being her mom.

Is my faith being tested?  Yes.

Am I right to think that my child should be a blessing to others?  Yes, I believe so.

But truly this is not just about my child, it's about every child. I'm not only a mom, I am a person and I'm an American person.

So whether you like kids or not, remember that you were one once and that babies grow into children, grow into teens, grow into 20, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, hundred somethings, sometimes. And now we are talking about the world you live in.

Be selfish. Take a stand with your heart and your head for excellence. We must talk, we must take time even when we're so, so, tired. We must listen and we must learn about how to get to a place where we can begin to educate. Our education system may be broken, but I believe we have the power to fix it.

I'll keep talking, I'll keep listening, I'll keep asking her what she wants to do and what my daughter wants me to do.  I'll keep writing, too, because this is how I may be of help to others.

Mostly, though, I'll keep praying.

For all of you mothers, fathers, friends, grandparents, aunties, uncles and good people who follow me here, I ask for your prayers as well.

With huge love and a grateful heart I thank you for stopping in and checking up on my family today. 

Have a beauty of a week until we meet again,

Shellie







  

How Spring has Sprung for Vineyard Dreams in Willamette Valley

By Shellie Croft

Bud break in the vineyard is nature’s kiss on the cheek and promise that a new day, and a new vintage, are surely on the way.

This marvelous event represents hope, quite like the almost-too-tiny-to-believe finch eggs, in the nest just off the front porch of our little home in the vineyard.

Other harbingers of spring grace our dream place in wildly gorgeous Willamette Valley, with a whole heaping helping of visual and aromatic delights, as well.

The apple blossoms and vigorous return of the brilliant chive and rosemary flowers in my garden stun me as I witness the almost moment to moment leafing out of the paper birch and fig trees we planted three years ago.

Mmmmm, I close my eyes and the taste memory of last autumn’s spicy fig jam, makes my mouth water.

While my husband and I have experienced and enjoyed the very full-length version of spring here in Oregon since relocating from northern California’s own beautiful wine country in 1996, I am amazed every single year.  By the grand, splendorous scale of the season.  The multiple hues of green.  The many weeks of narcissus and tulip displays that precede the wild iris, followed by still more colorful wildflowers that demand we pay very close attention to, and heed, this message of hope.

Mornings where I wake to the smell of pear blossoms beating out the smell of the Peet’s light roast brewing in the kitchen, have me smiling before I even open my eyes.

I can scarcely contain my children’s primal need to be out-of-doors.  But I have to insist they change out of their jammies first, before going out to collect the flowers to bring in for breakfast, taking a minute or seven to swing under the grape arbor and pet and water our Mr. Twiggsie kitty.

Inspired by, well, everything, I collect the still warm eggs from my sweet hens, snip some herbs on the way into our sun drenched home and decide to let the babes play outside while I craft a quiche for breakfast.

While the savory pastry chills in the fridge for at least forty five minutes, I grab my latte and the camera and join the children outside.  How can I possibly resist? And why would I?

When beauty calls, I really must oblige.

My little son and daughter remark on the cover crop of sweet peas between the rows of Pinot Gris and how even through the little snow and freezing of this past winter, they have pushed up and are thriving.

We love to pick bunches and bunches of these purple flowers, stems and all, to bring indoors for displays in mason jars.  This season, too, we will transplant some to the garden raised beds before they are tilled up between the rows of vines.  That'll be such a sweet and yummy treat.

Positively famished, but not wanting to spend anymore time inside than we absolutely had to, it was unanimous.  We would have our first breakfast, by now more like brunch time, of this season, out on the back deck.
After all, spring is finally, truly here and it's time to dig in!

I hope you are finding time to create your own American dream moments . . . for spring has sprung in all its glory.

Celebrating Life and Good, Good Living With our Local Firefighters

Saint Patrick’s Day Giving is a Delicious Part of Living Our American Dream

By Shellie Croft

Creating traditions in our family has become a tradition.

My favorite traditions are those that combine spreading joy, expressing gratitude for this blessed life, and incorporates my passion for my children and for baking.

This is year three of the kiddies and me delivering home made shamrock cookies to our local firehouse, accompanied with a hand-written, “Thank You” note which we will all sign and tuck inside a beautiful box that my little daughter decorates.

The greatest thing about baking is the time it requires.

I simply adore getting all caught up in thoughts of the people I am crafting the goodies for when I scoop and sweep the flour and set it to one side, cream the softened butter with the freshly split and scraped plump vanilla beans and turn on my favorite kitchen appliance, my stand mixer.

Scraping down the sides and taking in the gorgeous aromas of Tahitian vanilla and almond extract make me positively drunk with happiness.

 “This is good, good living” I whisper out loud as I introduce the eggs, fresh from our hen house, to the butter mixture, one at time.

In the moments I slowly, yet, steadily blend the carefully pre-measured dry goods into the dough, marking that instant it all begins to cling to the paddle attachment and pull away from the sides of the bowl, I am gratified by how far I’ve come, cooking-wise.

My childhood home was not filled with delicious aromas or flavors.

Mother was skilled at things other than cooking and as a firefighter, my father was away for meals every other day. 

Baking wasn’t a part of childhood and never, ever happened to my recollection, unless I popped out our front door, hung a sharp left, eyes wide with admiration, and followed my nose to what our next door neighbor’s mom was often doing in her kitchen with chocolate chips or fresh preserves.

I so vividly recall, in smell memory form, the luscious plum jam bubbling up on the stove and walking in the front door of this home and instantly having my salivary glands and olfactory system begin to rule my world.

If you have never had the experience of perfect plum jam cooled on a big spoon, and then lovingly introduced to your taste buds by the person who grew the tree, picked the fruit at the perfect second of its ripeness and created its delectable extraordinary-ness, then I am truly sorry for you, because it is in one word... heaven.

Certainly, having Mrs. Bird as our next-door-neighbor was a blessing.  Beyond the obvious, however, is that I am sure I developed my love of great food by being exposed to such incredible gastronomic triumphs, and hoping one day that they might be my own experience.

I believe I equated good cooking and baking for a family with good mothering.

Working in the world of fine dining through college and beyond is not where I learned how to cook or bake.  In fact, at the age of thirty I couldn’t even make mashed potatoes — a favorite of mine.

No, it was during my first pregnancy that I studied cooking and baking with an insatiable hunger.  I had piles and piles of books from James Beard to James McNair which were rife with emphasis on the how to’s and plate presentation. 

I devoured multiple baby and toddler food cookbooks, falling asleep with one or two perched on my big, beautiful belly at night.

The Food Network and PBS were the necessary, daily treats where I made new connections watching every episode of Julia and Friends,  Good Eats,  Paula Deen, Giada DeLaurentis, Rachael Ray and Iron Chef, religiously, and falling hard for the culinary world.

Some twelve years later and I now create many of my own recipes or add my own style or techniques to this wonderful pleasure that not only fills my family’s tummies, but fills my soul.

As I gather up the cookie dough and gingerly tuck it into a gallon size freezer bag to chill for thirty minutes or so, I start planning the artwork portion of our "thank you" treats, and consult the children.

The colors of the Irish flag for the icing and some fun piping tips it is.

We drink in a little creative inspiration by sipping on our Irish breakfast tea with a couple of “tastes” of the cookie icing we made.  Quality control is very important.

Singing a happy little ditty while we roll out the chilled dough to ½ “ thickness has us all giggling and adding the most important ingredient of joy to the mix.

“She is my dear my darlin’ one, my smilin’ and beguilin’ one, I love the ground she walks upon, my pretty Irish lass.”
“He is my dear my darlin’ one his eyes so sparklin’ full of fun, no other, no other, could match the likes of him.”

OH!, some delightful smells permeate our home and waft out of the pre-heated  375* oven after about ten minutes, and when all the batches are cooled we share in the adorning of our shamrocks and some wee flower cookies we cut out of the small bits of dough around the edges.

Once again, in the trusty mini van, we will load up our little beauties and skitter off to the firehouse to tuck year three of St. Patrick’s Day cookie delivery to our amazing and brave men and women of fire service under our belts.

I always remind the babes as we drive out down our long gravel drive, that we do this kind of thing because it feels so good, because it’s a really sweet way to say “Thank You,” and in this particular case, to honor their Papa Dave, my own father, a Chico, California firefighter of more than thirty years.

Just before I hopped back into my driver’s seat, last year, after having locked the vineyard gate, I notice the rainbow that straddles the home where we often return to the faint smell of vanilla still hanging in the air, and settling in the kitchen curtains –My Pot O’ Gold, Indeed!


Thanks for stoppin' by to celebrate the tastiness of  this holiday with us, and until next time,

“May the Best Day of your Past be the Worst Day of your Future” ~Irish Blessing

Shellie

What I Did When My Big Fat Friend Paid Me A Visit

Yes, it almost happened, I almost fell way, way off of the wagon this weekend.

The wagon I speak of is the chuck wagon, and more accurately, I very nearly tied one on...the feed bag, that is, and went madly into a very intentional pig out.

For those following my blog, here, and during the year I was writing for 8 Women Dream, many know that I gained an enormous amount of weight during my baby having years, beginning back in 2000, and have also lost one hundred pounds, going from a size 14 to a 4 in one year's time:

www.8womendream.com/.../a-food-and-wine-lovers-american-dream-weight -loss-story/

That's some great stuff, right there.

I have kept the weight off for going on two years at the point I tap on my keyboard and share this with you. 

While the number on the scale is something I am happy with, I still have a ways to go, that happens to be a personal quest and I was certain was within my grasp.

Certain, that is, until I ate and drank some things that caused a pretty severe allergic reaction.

I believe it was a combination of nitrates and sulphites that caused some very painful redness and swelling around my eyes, across the bridge of my nose and some whoppers of nasty blisters around my lips.

This problem, as you may imagine, rendered me fairly inactive from Sunday evening through Friday morning of this week.

I have been working out very hard these recent ten weeks, what with the pruning of pinot gris and some brush pulling and the very physical work in and around our little home in the big vineyard.  But not now. 

It was much for me to do just to prepare three healthful meals every day for my home schooled son and daughter, also home school them, treat my face and run a couple of loads of laundry which I affectionately refer to as "Mount Washmore", care for the hens, the kitty and all other such home making business.

I let go of the notion of working out, and my specific job of pruning is over for this season, so that was my first (easily brushed off) red flag warning.

Why do I know this as a red flag?

Well, for me, at forty five years old and 5' 3" tall, if I don't do something really physical at some point in a day, I have to alter my caloric intake or I begin to put on weight.

Okay, easy enough for some, but not only do I have to provide meals for my family, I actually love, love, love to bake and cook!

For every reason anyone loves to do what they love to do, this is why exploring and participating in the culinary world is my thing.

I have free ranging hens that give me the eggs that transform even the simplest of dishes into masterpieces and support my addiction to baking (which I do several times each week).

Part of my weight loss success has come with the shifting of my thinking on the subject of food.

I decided it was so much more fun to create and share my goodies with family and friends than consuming the cookies, breads, quiches, cakes, pies, fresh pastas, etc...

This was my story and I was sticking to it.  And I did stick to it, until I received a weird and disturbing piece of mail through the post, sending me into a downward emotional spiral that triggered all kinds of "old me bad habits".

My reaction to the card my husband dropped on the kitchen farm table was all at once confusion meets medicate meets "FIX IT!", and the way I have historically gone about remedying this situation (as I have been here before with the people who sent the mail) was to take control of the closest non-combative thing that would bring me instantly into another realm...food.

I don't even know if it's about the pleasure principle as much as the need to set myself back in a place of being a grown up person in charge of my own life.

Food is something we need to survive, so this can be very tricky if you also have a deep love of it.  When I talk myself into my own "facts" about what was in my kitchen that needed to be in my face, it goes something like this:

"Well it's not a fast food drive-through, I'm not eating in the car, alone.  It's not a candy bar and a soda, or ten.  I didn't have a pizza delivered and then eat the whole thing!!!" "This food is super healthy, high quality, made with love.  There are whole grains, I used non-fat milk, there are loads of veg in the dish with the cheese, it's really good olive oil instead of butter, I only had one small piece, two bites, one glass, dark chocolate is good for you, I just cleaned up what the kids didn't eat, you know, waste not, want not, it's my time of the month. Also, I'm really, really hungry today."

This is where I began to feel the feelings of drowning.  I was going under, quickly. 

Confusion was still the leader of this pack of emotions and in my grappling for clarity I started snapping at my little daughter for eating her breakfast.  I then turned on my husband and son for not contributing  to the cleanliness of our home and shouted that we should have a huge clean-up day on this Saturday morning, and I will make a big breakfast and take on the kitchen even the total cleaning out of the refrigertator if they would maybe work out in the garage or on the bunk bed project or mow the lawn.

I was sequestering myself.  I wanted to be alone with my food.  And for an hour or so it worked.

With a little space, a look in the bathroom mirror to show my much less red and puffy face and a glance down at the bathroom scale, which I hadn't been on in four days, I had a little time to adjust.

Turns out that time was exactly what I needed.  Some refer to this experience as GRACE.

I stripped down naked, stood on the scale, had a good long look in the full length mirror--an Elizabeth Taylor trick for staying slim. "What in the hell are you doing?" I said right out loud.

Then, gently I whispered to my mirror's reflection, "Get it together."

With the hum of the lawn mower's motor out in the front, the contented knowlege that my family was enjoying their Saturday morning, I gathered my thoughts, put on some French jazz, tidied up a bit and got dressed.

Getting my clothing on was a key, physical element.

Years back, I had donated all of my clothing above a size four, small or XS and the only loose fitting items I own are my pajamas, so off they went, and I slipped into a super cute pink and green argyle cardigan over a tiny tee and slid on my size 4 Petite Eddie Bauer cordouroy's.

I twisted my hair up, added an antique clip, my gorgeous Lalique heart shaped pendant (gift from mom and dad-in-law) and earrings, applied some pink lip gloss, mascara, a wee bit of my favorite fragrance and danced my way into the kitchen to begin work on a proper brunch.

In my kitchen, my happy, happy place, I took a sip of my chai and a moment to think.

"Here you are, right now, alive and well.  Walk around your home and count your blessings.  Take it in.  Compare your days to the days of millions and millions of women, men, and children who have it truly, terribly bad.  Shift your thoughts to gratitude and put a smile on your face!" 

Suddenly, I felt beautiful. I was certainly loved by the people who knew me best and by my God.

In the days to follow this little personal crisis of faith in love, in myself, I was further thankful that it was a total of a week in duration.  Thankful because one can only gain so much weight in a week, not one hundred pounds.

So--in the spirit of honesty, full disclosure and embracing all that I am, and some of me is flawed... I gained five pounds.

Five pounds is not the end of the world and I am choosing to see it as a new challenge rather than a setback.

Today is a new day, I am happy to be alive and I will use this day as I hope I am using my living it, to share with you and others who may be facing their own big fat struggles.

Thanks for being a part of my days and until we meet again, be well, be blessed, be loved.  I'll get crackin' on building the new hen house and some raised beds for some more spring planting.

Shellie

Building a Grape Life and Living Our American Dream

 

Moving Our American Dream Forward Meant Going Back To Where It All Began

By Shellie

Our pillow talk/coffee chat this fine January morning focused on pigment development in our red wines and how we could achieve greater color by a longer cold soak of the pinot noir at harvest prior to introduction of yeast and primary fermentation.

Cold soaking helps lend a helping red and purple paint stroke of anthocyanin release that is water soluble. These little pigment compounds found in red skinned grapes, are affected by alcohol and will dissolve to a degree if not stabilized, which is where tannins, then, come into the pretty red picture.

Tannins come mainly from the skins of the grapes.

When the tannins bind to the anthocyanins they stabilize color during the fermentation process and ultimately give us a darker finished wine.

My winemaking husband and I were enjoying our hazelnut lattes in bed and speaking about longer cold soaks for the 2012 harvest because it’s one of the greatest areas of difference (and bones of contention) for those who enjoy red wines.

It’s thought that deeper color, like that found in cabernet sauvignon, merlot, syrah, etc. is indicative of higher quality and better taste. This is not so.

For several comparative tastings we have used black glassware to prove that color, while a factor in determining some things, does not mean that the wine is of poor quality or inferior.

Pinot Noir is a thinner skinned grape by nature.

Pinot is also a very difficult grape to grow successfully. It’s kind of fickle. It likes cooler climates but like all vines, grape vines are most interested in producing more vine with more leaves, than it is in  offering forward developed flavor found in its “berries” and clusters.

So; cooler and wetter can be a very good thing for growing excellent Pinot Noir, but also well drained soils and vines planted on southern slopes are important so they don’t get too much water, and it drains away from the roots.

Knowing as much as we can about viticulture and enology and producing delicious and excellent wines is a passion for my winemaking husband and for me.

We met twenty years ago while working at Silverado Vineyards in Napa Valley, and my husband, Bryan, made his very first cabernet sauvignon from second crop that he hand picked and saw through to hand bottling, which I am proud to say I participated in.

It was delicious. We opened a magnum last year, and it is still amazing.

In keeping with our pursuit of continuing to make and enjoy excellent wine, we attend the Unified Wine and Grape Growers Symposium held in Sacramento, California every January.

There is much to be done here on our little farm on the vineyard in the weeks prior to taking our show on the road from Willamette Valley, Oregon in the trusty mini van, in the middle of winter, to northern California.

Making sure the chickens, rabbit and two cats have food and water for at least a week is priority one. 

Next comes the packing list including home school supplies and computers. Baking and freezing is a part of the preparations, as well as pre-slicing cheeses and meats and loading the ice chest.

The food I pack is not so much about a way to limit meal stops and make better time, as it is about the sheer giggly joy I get from having made healthful yummies and passing them out to my children and husband as we drive merrily along.

I adore a good road trip.

Clothing this time of year is fun because we can face snow, rain, hail, freezing rain and sun, so it’s warm boots, snow suits and swim wear.

This year’s trip was to be extraordinary.

For the first time since our relocation to Oregon in 1996, where Bryan and I married and started our family, we were going back to Silverado. Returning to visit the place where this girl met this boy was something I have dreamt of ever since my wonderful bon voyage party at Silverado in March of 1996.

Some people might think of this experience in the same vein as a “bucket list” kind of thing to do. I find this term a bit too negative and macabre for me, but the idea is basically the same.

When I say I have dreamt of going back, I am being very literal.

Every week since my last week at this Walt Disney Family owned winery, I have dreamed many vivid versions, starring many different players, in just about every space at the place where I became a grown up.

Learning on the job, at a winery filled with excellence in every barrel, being poured from every bottle, is where I discovered my passion for fine wine.

The very special events for which it was my charge to orchestrate every detail for from A to Z, was where I was introduced to and joyfully succumbed to the pleasures of the amazing world of culinary delights and worked side by side with some of this country’s most incredibly talented, celebrated chefs of the time.

I knew when I was experiencing my six years here at this magical place that I was being forever affected.  Two years into my time at Silverado Vineyards I made a dreamy connection with a brand new tasting room employee and fresh out of U. C. Davis graduate, Bryan Croft.

It was friendship at first sight.

The next three years were spent cultivating this deep and abiding friendship as well as honing our palates.  Bryan and I were the two crazy kids who wanted to step out of the tasting room and seize any opportunity to shovel out a tank or spend an afternoon on the bottling line to know more about how great wine comes into being.

This was IT!

I fell in love with great wine and I fell in love with the idea of sharing excellent wine and experiences with other people.
And during one very incredible Napa Valley Wine Auction event, I fell deeply in love with Bryan. 

The sunny, spectacular Saturday, January 28th return to Silverado was surreal.

Jonathan Emmerich is the winemaker now. He was the assistant winemaker when Bryan and I worked and played at this winery, and after a big “home coming” embrace for me and man shake to Bryan, he lead us on a very special tour of all that is new since 1996.

It’s marvelous to experience the beauty and “no expenses spared” on the expansion of this lovely winery, to be sure.

At the end of more than three hours of swirling, sniffing, laughing and story telling, Jonathan took us over to the “old side” of the enormous building, where Bryan and I once shared an office.

As wonderful as it was to see Jonathan and enjoy all the new spaces and wines with him, this was what I wanted to experience the most.

It was overwhelming in the very best way. Everything over on the other side was exactly the same, only now this was not a place where the public toured and tasted. It was well preserved and just for the office staff of the winery, but just like Bryan and I had left it.

I was glad about it's sameness. Bryan, with his arm around me gave me the silent “knowing” look which told me he was glad of it too.

Being here with him, with my love, in the place where all of our passions grew naturally from seeds was a gift we gave to ourselves in honor of our relationship.

It was a loving and perfect present to each other and a full-circle moment that made me reach down and twist the gold band that has been on Bryan’s finger since our wedding day in 1998.

Another adoring, knowing look, a few more photos with old and dear friends and we were riding off into the sunset toward Calistoga, “up valley” along the Silverado Trail, just like those many years ago…only this time, in the mini van, as partners in all that we do and with a renewed, stronger vision of creating our very own dream, inspired by the treasure of the gift of where we came from.

I wish you great love and thank you for stopping in here with me.  Cheers until we meet up again,


Shellie

Related Posts:

• Finding Gratitude is How I Achieved My Dreams
• An American Dream Fairytale Kind of Love
• Celebrating Dream Successes With a Little Voodoo Magic
• Bottling Pinot Noir Combined With the Best American Dream Recipes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

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How the King of Rock and Roll Helped Me Achieve My Weight Loss Dreams

 

By Shellie

A gigantic reason why I am able to live my American Dream is because I am not anymore. Gigantic, that is.

Just two and a half short years ago, as of the date I share this, I weighed one hundred pounds more that I do on this very special day.

It is a special day because of this fact.

I am very, very happy about my dream achievements: my new/old size, my health and my physical abilities.

But today, January 8th, while always, always, always among my favorites, is held in my heart also as one of those top life-changing dates, as is August 16^th.  

The first of these two dates is when Elvis Presley was born and the late summer date is when he died.  August is such an extraordinary day for me as it is the very first, incredibly overwhelmingly, saddest day of my life. And as the saying goes, you always remember your first.

August 16th, was the day, thirty five years ago, that my music died.

Elvis was my first greatest love and my complete adoration for him began at a very early age.

Whenever I'm asked, “When did you start liking Elvis?“ I answer, “I don’t remember not loving Elvis.” Oftentimes, in elementary school, I would bring in for “show and tell“ my latest poster or cassette tape of his awesomeness.

The teachers loved it, always gave me full credit for participation and the other kids thought I was weird for liking such an old, fat guy.

My response to those who thought me odd was always the same, “He is simply the greatest at what he does, nobody does it better, and he wasn‘t always fat, you know! Just for the last two years of his life!”

I hated it when the postage stamps came out and everyone was saying, “Do you like the fat Elvis or the skinny Elvis better?”

Nevertheless, I loved him in every way that a child could love what, or whom they love–with my whole, entire heart.

I remember, like some say about President John F. Kennedy, and perhaps now, Michael Jackson, exactly where I was, what I was doing, and what I was wearing on the day when the radio announcer broke in to say that Elvis Presley, The King of Rock and Roll had died.

Disbelief, check. Anguish, check, check. Holding my breath until I remembered that I had to breathe to live myself, huhhhhhuh, check.

Didn’t eat, cried myself to sleep, believed deeply that there was no possible way the world could continue turning.

The whole denial and grief-filled she-bang. I sincerely thought I might go insane. Sincerely.

Time though, as always, insisted on moving on, but I got stuck every now and then with the reports that raised my hopes of his not being dead. The sightings at a Burger King or at Lake Tahoe. I thought, if anyone could do this, it’d be Elvis. He was my superhero.

He was maybe just trying to lead a normal life for once.

I purchased every book, magazine mentioning the latest "sighting" and tape, hoping I could sleuth out for myself where he might be.

I’ll admit to having a little more hope than pain in those years, and then later realizing that it was the very facts about Elvis that I defended in grade school that made not only me, but so many millions of others want him to still be here with us.

He was an incredibly gifted human being who also loved to give of himself in many ways, way beyond the sharing of his own talent. Elvis Presley’s generosity of spirit, his charisma and charm were simply intoxicating and for me, all consuming.

He was in every respect the very definition of “the whole package,” to me.

With this brief, personal synopsis of my feelings of everlasting love for Elvis, it’s probably not surprising to know that I walked down the aisle to the harpist playing “Can’t Help Falling in Love” when I married my Bryan, or that he purchased as many bottles as his paycheck could afford of the “Graceland” label Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa, to give to me because he understands my love of all things, and persons great.

What may surprise, though, is that every year, still, on August 16^th,   and January 8th, I cry like a baby while watching TCM and my incredible Elvis do all that he does… Oh. So. Well. Nope. Not just well, the best.

On the August Elvis memorial day two years ago, my little daughter was watching me watching Elvis, tears streaming down my chubby cheeks and she said, “Hey mama, aren’t you the same age now that Elvis was when he died?”

Oh. My. God.

I was. Exactly the same age, in fact, as Elvis and I are both January babies.
Then, the “biggie”. . .

“What exactly did he die from, because that’s not very old?” “Was it cancer?”

No, it wasn’t cancer. Elvis Presley died from complications in the proper functioning of his heart, as a result of mixing all kinds of prescription drugs.

There were drugs to help him sleep and drugs to help him wake up. He consumed and developed dependencies on diet pills, barbiturates and amphetamines.

Elvis, in my loving, thoughtful opinion, didn’t have a clue as to how to age. He was a bigger than life megastar of elephantine proportions. Known for his breathtaking good looks, physical rhythmic dance karate moves on a tall, handsome frame and a full, jet black gorgeous shock of hair.

To this very day, when I see that devastating Elvis Aron Presley smile on film, I swoon and believe it’s a smile all for me, even when he’s looking at Ann-Margret, like right now, on “Viva Las Vegas.”

The grown up, enlightened me, has come to realize something really wonderful; We are all here for just a short while, and I believe Elvis worked for, lived out, and also died for his American dream.
When my daughter gently lambasted me with her innocent question, I knew right then that I wasn’t fully living my dream. I simply, physically, couldn’t.

At 5’3” tall, an additional one hundred pounds on my small frame had me breathing hard most of the time and winded doing most basic activities, so things like farm chores, pruning the vineyard, brush clearing, cutting, splitting and stacking firewood and breaking down wine barrels to build a tree house down at the seasonal creek or for the back deck railing, were flat out not happening.

So, I started hearing my little daughter’s words, that constantly resounded in my brain-head, differently and took them to be divine inspiration. 

I chose in one moment to change.  Waiting for some day to move my body, to eat properly and in smaller portions, less often, stopped and THE day had arrived! Time to seize it.

I was not going to go out of this life as "Fat Elvis" and be remembered as a once fit and athletic woman who was confident in her stride and always said "yes" to every opportunity to jump off of the cliff into Chico creek or swimming in Lake Tahoe in a pink bikini or dance in some fun club with my best girl friends way past last call.

In two of my previous posts on 8 Women Dream, I tell in parts first why and then how, I began to take my life and my dreams in hand.

If you would like to read about exactly how I went from a size 14 to a 4 in one year, please see either/both  Living my American Dream with my Whole Heart Only Lighter or A Food and Wine Lover’s American Dream Weight Loss Story.
The first of these two true stories includes my before and after photos, to that point.

Now, August 16^th, has a deeper and dare I say a more lovely meaning, for which I celebrate my highly active extremely happy, vineyard-farm, home child educating, busy, busy, busy dream living.

So does this day, January 8, 2013, Elvis' birthday.

And for which, after my time out pruning some pinot gris plants, some sets on the weight bench, hula-hoop and jumping rope in just a moment, I will cool down as I sit here in my beautiful little home in the big vineyard and sip a glass of delicious, 1993, Graceland, Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon, as I watch, in adoring homage, my first great love perform and sing in all his royal glory.

To the King of Rock and Roll and to dream achievement.

I'll keep on TCB, and I hope you will too, until we meet again.
Love,
Shellie

Related Posts:

• Making Wine Requires Stepping Out of Your Comfort Zone To Live This Dream Life
• The Making of an Independent American Dream
• How April on a Vineyard Farm is Dream Spring Living

Bottling Pinot Noir Combined With the Best American Dream Recipes

 

              

 

       

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