Mentiras (Lies)

When did honesty go out of fashion? Or when did lies become so fluid and easy to spew? Guilt free, even. I'm often unpopular for being brutally honest. Or so I think. No one has the stones to tell me the truth, so I'm speculating. But I haven't told a lie in 20 years, since I walked out of an ad agency job and told no one I was leaving NYC for Atlanta. I just wanted to see how long the big dumb corporate machine would take to notice I was gone. I was so important to their creative department. Someone probably noted the mold growing on my coffee cup after two weeks and I was found out. Clearly an integral member of that team. But I didn't LIE, per se. I just didn't say anything. This is a Lie Of Omission. A favorite of honest people in denial. If you had asked me at lunch if I had plans to sublet my Brooklyn apartment and head back to Atlanta whilst still on payroll back in 1996, I would have answered, "Yes." But no one asked. And when my friend asks me why I'm so late for our meeting and I say I got hung up in traffic, that is absolutely true. I just left off the part about how I spent 30 minutes shagging Pedro to kill some time at the exit. It's not really lying, it's just not finishing the sentence.

Other not bad lies are the kind that keep you polite...like, "I'd love to go to your party but I'm SO busy that week...(cleaning my closet and catching up on Dexter Season 5)" and the one where you don't utter a word to your 35 year old friend who is 10 years and 10 pounds out of Skinny Jeans. You just don't want the responsibility of truth telling. It's way easier to just get in the car and drive. You look great. No, really.

But lately there seem to be more in-your-face lies. Dangerous stuff. Printed materials from your bank, things approved by government agencies like I dunno, the FDA, presidential election bribes and trickery that is somehow allowed and food labeling FRAUD. Yesterday I heard about a book that sounds super intriguing so I ordered it immediately. Extra Virginity is about the underbelly mafia world of fake olive oil. Turns out that running guns and drugs is silly and obvious and the police are all over you. Sticking cheap soy oil in a bottle and dyeing it greenish and labeling it 100% Extra Virgin Olive Oil from Italy is a $700million a year business. I know! Right? Test yours right now on the counter. Pour some in a cup and stick in the fridge. If it coagulates, it's the real deal. Maybe. I usually use California Olive Ranch Oil and they passed the test but most of that imported crap at the grocery store? Bertolli? Nope. Turns out the $7 liter bottle at Trader Joe's is more than a loss leader. It's really expensive Canola. I don't even want to know what's in the Charles Shaw wine. But I guess if you can buy a blood pressure medicine that is actually compressed dry wall mud and road paint, you can fake olive oil. But how unscrupulous have all these corporations become? Is it because we're so used to living in the Age of Advertising that we can't even distinguish between a sales pitch and an actual mis-truth?

Newest scam on the horizon of course is "natural" and "grass fed"...the loop holes you could fit an RV in. Natural flavor could be anything that used to be found in nature. Like horse shit. Ever wonder why they don't list the "flavor" on the label? Because you don't wanna know. Grass fed could mean that you fed it grass ONCE and stuffed it full of fruit loops, cigarettes and Bubble Yum for it's entire life except for five minutes. All of a sudden, you've got a $20/lb hog on your hands. I talked to a so called Heritage Hog Farmer the other day and this dude gets left over pigs from wherever auction and whatever breed, brings them back to his property, hangs out with 'em, fattens them up, gives no shelter so they're "free range" and then loads them onto a trailer to be taken to "some processor" in another county to slaughter them "he's not sure how" and then his cute little hippy dippy Agrarian Renaissance face is the mascot of this "Heritage Breed" now available at the local bullshittery $12 burger joint. Like the "kobe" beef scandal a few months ago. It's like one guy tried it, got away with it and then all of a sudden you're scratching for a slider made of dog food at $30.

It's like a hobby for some people. The lying. Making up things they never intend to follow up on and dodging phone calls when you try to find them and hold their dirty feet to the fire. And then the grown up equivalents of the dog ate my homework ensue. It's embarrassing.

We were outraged for five whole minutes when we found out that Pink Slime was in the Ground Beef, sawdust in shredded cheese and donations to charities are misappropriated to allow for private jets and Cholera outbreaks---just so much to keep up with we can't even get mad. And so we just shrug, go to Yoga class, drink our wine and move on. It's not a surprise that we can't trust politicians, but when medical, food safety, legal and governmental professionals just make stuff UP on a regular, you feel a little uneasy. It's a veritable Where's Waldo the Honest Guy game. Who's accountable?

One farmer I know who actually does walk the walk said, "you'll never REALLY know what goes on with a farm. All you have is the farmer's good word." I like to think that still exists out there and especially with food. We spend so much time learning and reading labels and trying to buy the right stuff, so I guess I need to befriend an olive rancher. So ask questions, get intimate with your food, know its history. Pay attention to the man behind the curtain.
-----------------------
Real Liver Pate
This is an easy way to get some organ meat goodness, make sure you use only liver from REAL grassfed animals. Pork, chicken, beef.

-for a pound of liver...lightly saute livers in a pan over medium high heat in butter until just cooked. Not too over cooked, they get smelly and rubbery. Add salt and pepper. While still warm add liver and cooking liquid remaining to food processor and add 1/2 onion and 2 chopped garlic cloves. Crushed sage 1/4 teaspoon. Coconut oil, touch of heavy cream. Blend, put in tupperware and enjoy on crackers, a liverwurst sandwich...

The Catch Is The Release.

It is the eve of my 45th birthday and even my mom asked me, well, what are you going to DO tomorrow? Isn't anyone taking you anywhere?

Like who? I ask. I don't tell anyone it's my birthday. You wouldn't know unless you read this in the next few minutes or keep an eye on that thing on the right hand side of Facebook that makes you look like you know what day it is. But for me birthdays are really personal days of inventory, reflection, course charting. I'm not a big celebration person. Shocking I know, as much as I love Christmas, Easter and Valentine's Whatevers.

But this seems kind of milestone worthy. A big fan of symbolism I can find analogy in nearly everything. I think that life is all about little signs and seeing if we're paying attention, there are messages everywhere.  But 40 was a big year and I moved here to the Hacienda in the month of May. It wasn't a Hacienda then, it was a creepy sorta nursing home looking thing that had concrete block walls and lots of little rooms and mint green paint. I fell in love with the land. And I wanted OUT of Atlanta. I sold the restaurant, packed Billy the Border Collie and all her arthritic pain into the moving truck and showed up in rural Georgia. She died a week later. I had a nervous break down for a year. Then I started over.

I don't know about you but I reflect on things but sometimes can't see where I've been. Like sitting on a train and saying, oh so this is the Rhone River Valley, we're definitely not in Paris anymore, but you can't quite conjure up all the stuff in between. I do five year spurts. I only remember the train stations. When I turned 30 I moved from NYC and opened my restaurant in Decatur, GA. When I was 35, I opened my second. When I was 40 I got out of the biz and started a farmette. Tomorrow I will be 45 and I'm kind of blown away that I don't flip out when I see rat snakes biting the bloody heads off their namesake anymore. I know that we don't take chickens to the vet. They get better or they die. I know how to kill them for food. Nurture them for the most nutritious egg. And I know that one cackle means I'm making an egg and one means the hawk is overhead. I have 60 chickens instead of 10. I will likely get 60 more before the summer is out. Many of you have reserved them to serve on your dinner table. I get this. I love this even.

So today when I was cleaning the coop and studying the worm density of my compost pile I was struck by something. It was exactly five years ago this week that I got the ashes of Billy the dog in the mail. I kept that blue tin in a box with her dog hair and collar on a shelf in a room I rarely go to. I dunno something just came over me and I had to march inside, get the can, go to my favorite tree (yes the one I talk to and make offerings to) and released those ashes. Back to the earth where she was most happy and I am too. Her hair released to make comfy nests for the birds who live here in droves. Her collar fastened around a limb and the blue tin now a handy vase for daisies in the crux. With my dog Brady, we bid freedom to old Billy and to the old me too. Why do we trap things? Why do we bury pain? Carry around such burden?

So remember where you've been, all the cool stuff you've accomplished (and if you haven't, um, get on with it) and let it all go. Don't leave anything on the shelf.

Raw

I know. Where have I been? No bloggy since November. Seems to be a pattern. Winter is not for writing-- for me. Or sharing my writing more specifically. I go inward and actually work on my 'novella' of sorts, the secret-ish sexual life of a mid 40s woman on a farm living on her own terms, novella. The doing and the writing it down. I can't decide if I write because the stories keep coming or if the stories keep coming because I need to write them down. Either way, it forces me to be Raw. Open. Attentive.

Winter is when I set out for the new houseboy/bed warmer for the season. This year brought a hearty crop of new applicants as I had a roof installed. Ten Latino guys on a construction job and some icy weather made for a complicated, but racy few months. Brothers scooping each other, back door flower deliveries, some of the longest Spanish love sonnet texts ever and a lot of competitive testosterone fueled enthusiasm and eventual fizzle out. A reintroduction of Calixto back from deportation and freshly crazy with the sort of post traumatic stress that I would imagine comes with an illegal border crossing. Paranoia and the fear that you'll get caught and sent back before you make the $5000 you "borrowed" to get here to these United States made him jumpy and more feral than ever. It would take 10 years to make back that money in Guatemala and the Coyote (name for smugglers) isn't afraid to threaten you and your family with beheading. So, the paranoia and fear? I get it. But couldn't live with it. I sent him back to Florida. He was too Raw.

The roofing job went on for 6 weeks and I think a day more would have broken me. The fever pitch of constant texting and jockeying for audience with me at The Hacienda was exhausting. Knowing that it was all a temporary flirtation with The Nuevo, I could keep it together, but I learned a few things. I needed to shore up my boundaries, stop answering texts after 9pm (aka Wine Time) and that I definitely get more out of the workers I don't sleep with. They're all dismissed now in high Spring and it's back to Mowgli, (aka Juanito and who I've written about for years) whose ebb and flow of predictable unpredictability is somewhat comforting after four years. It's about as monogamous as I'm comfortable with. And that may be Raw, but that's the truth.

Twenty three years old now, he's taking on more responsibility as The Man Around the House. Jealousy, threatening wanna be suitors with fist fights and locking all the doors at night. He cleans the house, does the laundry, takes care of the yard and gardens, cleans the coop, cuts trees down with a machete and basically doesn't bother me at all. He's quiet like a barn mouse and I'll admit that I kind of like a caretaker who slips into my bedroom at night. He doesn't snore and he goes away for the weekend to I don't know where. I suspect there is beer. Whereas I used to keep tabs on him, he is now keeping them on me. Of course being 23 means he can disappear for a couple days without explanation, but he thinks I should have a Lo-Jack installed for refusing to answer the phone for an evening. JUST LET ME KNOW WHERE YOU ARE, he begs. But being 44 means I don't make too much of it. If I'm watching HGTV (likely) or drinking wine with Pedro in the tub (less likely but probable) I'm not answering the phone. Take it or leave it, I say. I answer to no one... but me.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think it was sweet that he's puffing up about his Lady, and of course I adore him (most of the time) but I'm pretty honest with myself about the realities of a 21 year age spread, cultural divides, language separation and the fickle nature of, well, ME.  Knowing thyself is the greatest gift of maturation. Even though every day sort of feels like I'm starting all over again.

I'm settling into the cycles of life like never before-- living close to nature and respecting the seasons gives my life a rhythm. We don't eat eggs when the hens aren't laying. And that's that. Paying attention to Mother Nature, respecting unpredictable weather and learning from and tending to farm animals allows you to release a lot of expectation. There is a flow but I'm not driving the boat. I'm kind of floating on an inner tube in the river making sure I don't fall off or hit a rock. I find that the less I do to everything, the easier and better it seems to work out. We are all so used to grinding the gear shaft and we could really just put it in neutral and coast. Leaving things in their natural state...from my lawn, my memoir, my mayo--are better Raw.

MAYO
A whole raw egg, one egg yolk (from a farm raised chicken)
1 teaspoon dijon
juice of 1 lemon
pinch of sea salt
pulse in food processor
pour in 3/4 cup of oil in a drizzle while processor is on whip until creamy. You'll never touch store mayo again. Great as a topping for fish, as a hollandaise...

*I use Olive Oil but I like a strong olive taste. you can use macadamia nut oil if you like a lighter taste. Do NOT use soybean oil, corn, safflower, canola or any of these other junk oils, and get rid of all of these right now. Read more about it here... from my favorite food myth debunker Mark Sisson.

Booty Parlour

Hey, did you know Frederick's of Hollywood is still open? Yea, me neither. I thought the hierarchy went Target, Victoria's Secret, La Perla. I read about a French woman once who had a collection of bras lined with marabou feathers. And that is something I've never forgotten. I don't know if I can swing with the Frenchwomen, but I could learn a thing or two. I had a French acquaintance one time and she used to laugh and say, "Oh, you are so MOderne, hahaha..." and by that I think she meant, John Wayne-ish.

Two Months In---

Since a few of you have asked me how the no grain diet is going I thought I'd start to post my findings with my eating experiments. It's officially been two months. I hesitate to call it a "diet" because for me that seems vain and superficial like I'm trying to fit into a wedding dress or something by the 14th of next month. Don't even joke.

I care not about temporary fixes for anything. And I think anything worth doing is worth doing for the right reasons and doing the right way. Diet smacks of band-aid. Photoshop in real life. Not to say I'm against a short cut---but I am against fooling thyself. I'm not a tattler, but I am a whistle blower. I'm very keen on paying attention to the man behind the curtain. He's up to no good.

Son of a Preacher Man

I have said "You're Preaching to the Converted" or have had it said to me at least twenty times this week. Conservatively. Whole lotta defensiveness. Posturing, even. What's going on?

One theory I have is that it's the fault of social media based communication. If you don't actually see me, hear me, talk to me, or come to my house you might not know details about me and you might say something silly, like, have you ever had a tamale? Not knowing that I've owned a Mexican restaurant and that I've been in Mexico more times than, well, most Mexicans I know. But that's just oversight. And maybe a little awkward.

In addition, if you're not clear with your written skills or your reading for comprehension skill you might use someone else's platform/wall/facebook page as the place to speak your peace which makes that person think you're telling them what's UP. And they know what's UP. You're organic? I'm so organic that my chickens are wearing hemp feathers! Don't tell me about organic! That's misguided and inappropriate but easily overlooked.

The Trade Show

Modern Manners and the professional barter. Why do I roll my eyes at the idea of trade? Was I brought up on the Art of the Deal and too much Trump in the 80s, where things were dollar for dollar and dog eat dog? It's exciting, a job well done and check in hand. I don't really want to give you my cow for that handful of beans. Where's the fun in that? And I usually end up missing my cow and hating the beans. You know?

Trade is having a slithery renaissance of sorts. I feel like it has always been around in my chosen careers (food/bar, events and writing are targets for tab runners) but it's nearly preferred as a means to commerce these days what with all the blather about the rotten economy. But until we're ALL doing the Trade Dance? It's awkward. Or you're not doing it right. Or you don't have anything I want. No offense, but I don't want for anything really. And if I do want something, I'll just go and buy it. With the money you owe me.