NOTHING LIKE THOUGHTS OF FLOYDFEST TO HEAT UP THIS BLUSTERY DAY

Floyd recently got a big time write up in the National Endowment for the Arts magazine.  The other articles in the November 2011 issue were about the Telluride Film Festival and summer theater festivals in the Berkshires.  Heady but strange competition for "A Place Out of Time:Virginia's FloydFest is Where the Music Pops".

One of the things that makes FloydFest so super intriguing is the eclectic Blue Ridge Mountains location.    People caravan in expectant of great music; but the unbelievably beautiful mountaintop location is many times a welcome surprise.  Festival founder Kris Hodges attributes a lot of success of FloydFest to the fertile artistic soil inherent to Floyd County.  "The community supports people with fresh ideas and living.  Since it was first settled, it has had such a strong foundation of creativity that it really affords the opportunity to create your own life."

His wife, co-founder Erika Johnson elaborates "With the Appalachian musicians, organic farmers, potters, timber framers, yurt makers, midwives, and even a doctor who does house calls and runs a barter clinic, you really do have a place out of time, where the outside world doesn't dictate how people live, think, or create.  We pride ourselves on having a unique haven from the rest of the world.  And we were able to take FloydFest into this mix and represent that."

So, on this first real blustery cold day of winter, I am pining for the warmest days of the year which  usually surround the week of FloydFest.  But just like we Floydians don't do things quite like the rest of the world, we also do summer on Floydtime and with a Floyd thermostat set at about ten to fifteen degrees cooler than the rest of Southwest VA.

PS  have you checked out the 2012 festival line-up?  Ahhhh....a welcome summertime musing for another blustery winter day.  

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BENT MOUNTAIN TACKY TRACTOR CHRISTMAS PARADE

The research for this post is making me a little sad.  You see, even when searching through our pictures to find a shot for this article, I'm mourning the past.  The photo above was taken two years ago this weekend.  If you were able to look further down the windy road, you would see two great friends of ours who are no longer parading with us along Bottom Creek.  But I imagine this year Archie Horton and Philip Hillery have met up somewhere far north of here, and are parading down streets of gold.  I'm not one of those people who thinks that heaven will be a boring place where we will be itching to get off our clouds and hear something other than harp music; in fact, I think we will be enjoying each other's company and having a Christmas party EVERY day.  But it's hard to imagine anything more fun than the annual Bent Mountain Tacky Tractor Christmas Parade this side of glory.  

Warning, the whole shenanigans can be a bit irreverent.  My daughter wrote about the parade and her let's just say....eccentric neighbors.... in essay form and was admitted into a very competitive northern college. I think they just wanted to have a look at her to see if she was sporting all of her teeth.  Just kidding, she's a smart kid.  You all know that.  But the parade and said participants makes for very colorful essay fodder, if I do say so myself.

We started parading about 18 years ago.  Emma was not yet one and Cameron about two and a half.  It was a zillion degrees below zero.  Emma insisted on removing her snow boots because that's what one- year- olds do to freak out their mothers.  The parade originated when the Hortons and the Florins threw  ratty tinsel and yard sale reject Christmas decorations (mostly blue of course) up on some old tractors with rickety old wagons hitched behind and took off down the road.  The party soon grew to tractors and pickup trucks and Harleys and llamas.  Yep.  You heard me.  We were written up in the Roanoke Times back in the day.  They wanted to know the "parade route".  HA.  My eloquent husband replied "well, it all depends on whether you turn left or right after you leave the driveway."  We've even had parade onlookers.  That makes it more fun because we get to do the parade wave and jingle the bells.    Most years we have had room for whatever parade spectators ventured up from the big city to become parade participants as we just threw them up on one of the "floats".  We usually stop along the way and picnic and libate.   Apparently I just made up that word but hmmm.....it seems fitting.   Making merry and all.

This, it seems, is an open invitation.  Bundle up, throw some tinsel on your ride and head up Bent Mountain (or across the mountain if you are coming from Floyd) on December 10th at 1PM.  We will be meeting in our  field on Bottom Creek Lane.  You'll see us, believe me.

We parade this year in ridiculously fun memory of old friends.

BENT MOUNTAIN WOMAN GIVES UP URBAN COFFEE SCENE FOR CHICKEN $$%#

Those of you who know me well, know that I am somewhat of a poser.  I've spent the last 53 years of my life pretty much avoiding manual labor...especially the kind that involves yucky disgusting stuff.  I am way more at home in the coffee shop or the wine bar than the stable.

But I may be branching out.  Today my Bottom Creek walking partner blew me off.  I suppose that I could have gone it alone, but 8:00AM's 34 blustery degrees sent me back into my warm, cozy, wood-stovy house.  Absolutely content to put in a load of laundry, grab a cup of fresh ground Kona and fire up my Kindle.  Only problem was that I finished up The Paris Wife just last night.   That could be a story in itself.  This poser farm woman is a Hemingway freak and Francophile, throw in the mention of A Moveable Feast and I'm a goner.  So...sob...my book is done.  Hate those mornings.

Larry was waiting on Ed the Poor Mountain bartering guy to help him clean the chicken coop.  One of the reasons I was hesitant to take on chicken farming was, of course, the poop factor.  The other argument was that I grow way too attached to little creatures and didn't think I could handle 17 feathered pulls on my heartstrings.  I do, however, love farm eggs.  They are not only amazingly tastier than the store bought variety, they are also incredibly beautiful.  Just this morning I gathered up a light robins egg blue, a dark speckled brown and a couple of cafe au lait tinted beauties.  Of course, I have just the right basket that makes the whole thing much more romantic.

Well, Ed called and said he could be here at 2PM  to help with the coop clean-up.  Ed wanted the poop and shavings (our luck!) to winter fertilize his delicious and prolific vegetable garden.  But, if you know my husband, you will also realize that once he has something (especially manual labor) on his mind, he's doing it THAT MOMENT.  So guess whom he enlisted.  Hmmmm.......not even the excuse of The Paris Wife waiting was going to help me.   

I like to make him think I'm not really capable of effective farm management, a little too dainty to haul bails of shavings and muck out coops.  I do have all the right accessories and outfits for egg collection, and since I like to cook I'm always trying to find a new tarte in which to showcase Alice and Company's offerings.  Well, today none of my lame excuses were working, so I was quickly signed on as farm hand.

Got my exercise a different way this morning.  Not quite as fun as Zumba, but pretty rewarding nonetheless.  Only problem is that once he's seen me do something, all my "I don't know how" excuses seem to quickly stop working.

So for today, anyway,  I'm a genuine Floyd County farm girl.  And I'm pretty sure Ernest would approve.

FLYING HIGH OVER THE BLUE RIDGE

Larry had the vision for today's blog...literally!  Actually he gets to have many of the visions as we travail away up here on this mountain trying to market a lifestyle since his primary job descriptions would include walking beautiful land, enjoying vistas, capturing a sunset, sharing your dreams.  Hmmm.  I get to sit at the computer.  Wait, something may be a little unbalanced here.  

He finds really cool things on his grand explores.  Of course, he notices things that I would just probably trip over. Old fences are interesting.  The first thing that's notable about them is they are very often smack dab in the middle of the woods.  Healso finds many piles of stacked rocks out in the forest.  A lot of the land back here was once pasture.  When the farming population started to fall off the trees grew up.  Much of the fence remained.  Some farmers built meticulous fence, fence that has endured now probably two generations.  Larry would be that kind of fence builder.  Built to last, well thought out, painstakingly constructed.  Some fences were built what appears to be more randomly.  I call it artistic and creative.  Wrapping around trees and up and down hills.  The ADD and impulsive way to enclose your land.  Maybe the ground was too rocky to put post holes in, so you nailed your fencing to a poplar tree.  Maybe you didn't have the budget the meticulous guy had.  These fence builders probably had more fun in construction but they sure didn't have the staying power of the meticulous fence.  And they probably weren't too effective in corralling your cattle.  Guess which fence builder I would be?  Ahhh....it makes for an interesting relationship.

He also found a cool old rusty Chevrolet truck with a tree growing up through the middle of it.  It comes with the property.  No extra charge.  The truck probably isn't going anywhere soon.  That tree has a 16" diameter and probably stands 50' high.  I'm not sure it would run anyway. :)  A photo is on our website www.floydvirginialand.com on Tract 3N Remainder,  in case you're interested.

But, this story is about balloons.  On more than a few occasions he finds balloons.  Once he found a National Weather Service balloon high up in a tree.  With just the right stick he struck it down and found a prize.  It had been launched from the Blacksburg VA office and had electronic gear and a self-addressed stamped envelope for the return of said tracking gear and data collector.  Pretty cool, as I was saying.

Then just the other day he noticed a huge pile of really colorful balloons over in the Overlook.  The cluster held about 20 business cards thanking the balloon recipients for attending Piney Grove Baptist Church's Fish Fry and commissioning them to be fishers of men.  Well, we don't have a Piney Grove around these Blue Ridge Mountains.  A Sandy Level and a Rocky Bottom and a Flat Top but no Piney Grove.  So, of course, we googled it.  There was a phone number but no area code.  So I put the phone number in google search, along with the Piney Grove Baptist Part.  AHA!  A match!  Seems our balloons had traveled all the way from  Cottondale,  Florida, a tiny town on the border of Alabama and Georgia.  An 11 hour drive.  Almost 700 miles away.

I was able to reach Pastor Rich last Sunday morning before the men's prayer breakfast.   He said the fish fry was about 2 1/2 weeks ago, and they had an unbelievable turnout of 120 folks!  He remembered the balloons getting loose, not intentionally but they escaped from some kid's greasy fish hands.  So these colorful beauties must have gotten a fierce updraft (did we have some hurricane in there somewhere?) and cruised 700 miles or so in a little over two weeks.  I told Pastor Rich that his outreach was much greater than the deacons could ever have planned for.

So when you are out hiking through these gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountains, keep an eye out for history.  Sometimes old and rusty, sometimes new and colorful.
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LADIES WHO LUNCH OR A QUICK COMMUTE NORTH ON THE BLUE RIDGE PARKWAY

Emma's in town.  College sure seems to have more breaks than I remember, back in the day.  We went home at Thanksgiving if we had a ride; and I guess everyone made it home for Christmas.  In those days you could fly Piedmont direct from Roanoke to Newark for 99 bucks and in an hour and a half  you could start out meandering on the Blue Ridge Parkway and end up barreling down  Route 22 in the fast lane, which by the way was every lane.  Hmmm...

Anyway, we are both happy.   The three hour drive from Boone seems to make  us appreciate each other so much more.  Senior year of high school had her searching for independence and me trying to figure out what  that meant for a stay at home mom with her youngest flying the coop.  We're at a real good place, although that makes us miss the heck out of each other.

Ah but I digress.  I've really come to talk to you about lunch.  Funky little big town Roanoke has an abundance of fabulous eateries.   We've got stuff for locavores (haha, spellcheck doesn't know that word yet, I'm cooler than spellcheck!), bagel joints, Indian restaurants and Thai places.  When we first moved here I had to have friends fedex bagels from NJ.  Indian and Thai in 1982?  Not in this town.  But now, Roanoke has evolved into the great foodie city it was always destined to become.  We still don't have Trader Joes or Anthropologie.  But then what would vacation be for?

There is however, a problem of decision for ladies that lunch.  But not for Emma and me.  We are Wasabi sushi freaks.  I first ate sushi in 1982 in NYC.  There were two sushi places in all of New York then.  My dad and I would meet for lunch at the one at about 57th and 3rd?  Since then I've obsessively eaten sushi all over the world...I guess most impressively in Singapore and Hong Kong.  Never made it to Tokyo but at least that's somewhere in the whole Asian neighborhood.

What I'm getting at is this.  I have NEVER EVER NEVER had better sushi than the Wasabi special across from the City Market in downtown Roanoke.  Seriously.  WASABI ROCKS!  I recently brought my Floridian northern transplant mother down to Wasabi.  I had been doing the old "yeah, this sushi is good, but Wasabi is better!" deal on her for years.  She being a stuck-up Yankee food snob, had been like "yeah, whatever."  She was to her surprise converted that fateful day back in the middle of June.

Well, gotta go.  Guess you know where Emma and I are going to be,  say around 12:30?

TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A MOUNTAIN MAMA

www.floydvirginialand.com

Have I mentioned lately that we sell land?  I do confess that's really why I'm here.  I've realized lately that I'm just not that interesting.  I do, however, lead a colorful life, enhanced by a hefty portion of familial nuttiness, Attention Deficit Disorder (which I do consider a gifting, btw) and some kick-butt beautiful surroundings here on top of this mountain.

We started living simply because we really had no other choice.  Both Larry and I are transplants from the northeast:  me by way of Des Moines, IA, Bad Homburg, Germany and Paris, France, but Larry is a Union County, NJ lifer.  We along with the rest the children in our town of Westfield, NJ watched our dads jump on the train to NYC every morning at 5:30 and 7:00AM respectively.  We piled into the car with our Vista Cruiser driving mothers to pick up the hardworking cocktails-on-the-train-slamming dads at the station at 6:30-7:00PM. We did suburbia quite well.  

But we wanted something different for our family.  Not necessarily better, just different.  I went to Roanoke College in Salem, VA back in the fall of 76.  Larry, who had either fallen in love with me or with the Blue Ridge Mountains, visited often until I graduated in 1980.  For a couple of years I moved back home and commuted with my dear old dad into midtown Manhattan.  Larry was working in New Providence, NJ as a prototype machinist and making some good jack for the early 80's.  He, along with his buddy Craig,  actually invented the machine that rolled and packaged the poster of Farrah in the red bathing suit.  Well, somebody had to do it.

But as we started thinking marriage and settling down and all of that grown up kind of stuff, we longed for the mountains.  Larry looked into buying a hardware store in Lexington, VA.  How different our lives would have been if that had panned out.  Instead, he found a small retail business in Salem that needed a new owner.  RISE, Roanoke Independent Sources of Energy.  Pretty cool.  Two transplanted Yankees selling woodstoves and solar panels in 1982.  Did I mention that he had a great big fro and I wore a lot of gauzy dresses?  We were a little late for Woodstock but we rode the fringes.

Fast forward almost 30 years.  We never left.  When we discovered Bent Mountain and the 20 minute no- traffic commute to Roanoke, we were hooked.  People think we live way out of town.  That amuses me.  I grew up 20 miles outside of New York City that took about 2 hours to commute.  I am in town in 20 minutes, about 15 miles away.  You do the math.

So anyway, we have a bit of that dream that we had over 30 years ago to sell to you.  Yes, we sell land.  Beautiful SW Virginia mountain land that has been lovingly protected and thoughtfully divided into large acreage tracts that overlook other big tracts, all the way to heaven.

BENT MOUNTAIN BARTERING

You've heard me speak of my neighbor, Ed.  Ed and his wife Francois (the French Chick) live on Laurel Creek, backing up against Poor Mountain.  Ed's the guy that everyone calls when there's some sort of action on the Mountain.

When Larry shot his first buck last year dressed to the nines on the way out to dinner for his birthday,  a call went out to Ed.  "Ed", he pleaded, "we have about 5 minutes before we meet the kids and grandmother in town for dinner at Luigi's.  And I just shot a ten-pointer. And I'm wearing a coat and tie. "  Ed knew just what to do; and we delivered the "goods" on the way down the road.

Ed has taken an interest in my chickens.  And Francois being the ever fabulous french chef, in my eggs.  So Ed brings over table scraps and we feed them to Alice and company.  He brings over fresh beets and corn and delicious tomatoes that we barter for eggs.  Our 17 feathered friends are currently laying about 13 eggs daily, and we only consume a half dozen or so.  Less as Cameron takes back off for Hawaii in a couple of weeks.  So I have a commodity.  Ha!  This week I traded about 4 dozen fresh farm eggs for some beautiful beets and a bag full of maters.

I found a recipe that we  hope to use and abuse.  Goat cheese and leeks and roasted beet tart.  Wow.  Yum.

You can try it too.  You just need to find something to trade with Ed.

Beet, Leek and Goat Cheese Tart

1 pie dough/tart shell- (par baked, see below for recipe)
1 ea roasted beet (about 8 oz-see below)
2 oz crumbled goat cheese
2 Tbsp pine nuts, toasted
1 large leek, sliced and cleaned (cooked about 1 cup)
1 Tbsp olive oil
6 eggs
1.5 oz 1/2 & 1/2 (or milk)
salt and pepper
2 Tbsp fresh herbs, chopped (I used parsley, basil and thyme)

To cook the beets:
Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. Wrap the fresh, cleaned beets in a foil package tightly and
roast in the oven for about an hour. The beets are done when they can be easily pierced
with a fork. Do not cut the beets first or all the juice will run out when they cook. When
done, and cool enough to handle, the beet skin should easily slip off. Hint; wear latex
gloves unless you want your hands to be “beet red.” Cut the beets into 1/2 lengthwise and
then slice into half rounds.

Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. Make the pie dough and par-bake the shell (see instructions
below). Remove from the oven and allow to cool. Leave the oven at 375 if you are going
to finish making the tart now.

Clean the leeks. Leeks can have a lot of mud and dirt on them (see photo above). Cut off
most of green part of leek and slice in half. Slice thinly, crosswise. Put in a colander and
rinse well with cold water. Make sure to get all the dirt off.
Heat a large saute pan and add the olive oil. Add the leeks and saute until soft.

Heat a small saute pan to medium and add the pine nuts. Keep them moving until they are
toasted (about 2 minutes). Remove from hot pan so they stop cooking.
Spread the cooked leeks over the bottom of the par-cooked tart. Lay out the sliced cooked
beets on top of the leeks. Top with crumbled goat cheese and toasted pine nuts.

Scramble the eggs with the 1/2 & 1/2 and salt and pepper. Pour the egg mixture over the
vegetables and cheese in the tart pan. Sprinkle the chopped herbs on top.
Bake at 375 for 25 min or until eggs are set.
Pie Dough (makes one 10" tart pan)
1 3/4 cups flour (about 8 oz wt.)
1.5 sticks unsalted butter (6 oz wt.) cut into small pieces
pinch salt
5 Tbsp ice water
Tart Pan with removable bottomRecipes from FFF CCChef.com
Copyright formerchef.com 2009
Directions for making in food processor (this is how I did it).
Fit bowl with metal blade. Add flour, butter and salt to bowl. Put on the lid and process in
short bursts, about 10 times to break up the butter into the flour. With the processor on,
quickly pulsing, add the water through the tube in the lid into the bowl until the mixture
looks like oatmeal. Remove and form into a small cake.
If you don’t have a food processor and want to make it by hand, that works too. Just
follow the same steps you would for pie dough; cut the butter into the flour, working it
through by hand until it becomes like coarse meal or breadcrumbs. Mix in the water with
a fork until it’s incorporated and the dough comes together in a soft ball.
Refrigerate the dough for half an hour and then roll it out on a lightly floured surface.
Once it is rolled out, put it in the pan and pressed the dough into the edges, pulling off
any excess.
The shell needs to be partially baked before adding the filling. To keep the center of the
crust from puffing up and cracking during baking, you’ll want to weigh it down. Cut a
piece of parchment paper or foil to fit the bottom of the tart pan. Tip; fold a square in 1/2
and then 1/2 again to make a smaller square. Cut from edge to edge in a semi-circle equal
to 1/2 the diameter of your pan. Unfold and voila! You have a perfect circle to fit. See my
post on Sweet Tart Dough for photos on how to do this.
Pierce the bottom of the dough with a fork and put the paper on top.
Weigh down with pie weights or beans.
Bake for about 12 minutes or until the curst begins to set. Don't let it get too brown
because it's going to keep cooking later. Remove from oven, and carefully remove the
paper and beans. Add the filling (see above) and finish baking.
Notes;
To save some time you can use a pre-made pie dough. Pillsbury makes a decent one.
Trader Joe's sells cooked fresh beets, vacuum sealed in the produce section.
Quite a bit of this dish can be done a day in advance. The pie dough can be made in
advance. The beets and leeks can be cooked the day before. The pine nuts can be toasted
and once cooled, placed in a dry, sealed container or plastic bag.

  

MUSINGS FROM A RELUCTANT EMPTY NESTER

"Soooo......what are you going to do NOW?"

I've been hearing this for three entire years, ever since our son Cameron started taking classes at the local community college instead of following the path of many of his peers towards graduation from a public high school, cavorting off to University and the subsequent amazing life that supposedly follows thereafter.  He is our firstborn;  i.e. WE DO EXPERIMENTAL PARENTING ON HIM.  I have wanted to reply  "What, he's going to start making his own nutritious meals and doing his own laundry and making his own Dr. appointments and getting to bed at a decent hour without my constant reminding?  Have you forgotten he's got a sister who's 17 months younger, practically still a BABY?"

The truth is, I should have been letting go a lot earlier.  For my sake.  So now, Baby Sister has gone off to University and Cameron is headed back out to do missions work in HAWAII.  And guess what?  That leaves old Larry and me back here on the farm.  I've always had an issue with people calling their house a farm when it's not; it's a home in the country.  Seemed sort of pretentious and the littlest of  white lies.  Conjured up thoughts of overalls and manual labor done outside with a pitchfork.  I'm all sorts of literal that way.  But I've decided to start calling it a farm now because very few of our family ARE home. And we have chickens.  I'm pretty sure that qualifies the whole farm thing.  

So what do I DO NOW?  Well, I got a Kindle for my birthday.  I've kept it well fed, since I have very few other mouths to feed.  That's been kind of fun.  Yes, it seems a bit extravagant to me because all you do is push a button and presto!  you have a new read.  Sure it hits up your Amazon account but that's not real money, right?  You never have to watch it slip quickly through your fingers.

Larry has waxed up my Grandmommy Helen's 64 Impala and we are hitting the back roads of Floyd County.  We couldn't drive it for the past 20 years because there are no seatbelts in the back.  Not a problem these days, not with the nest empty.  And if we are feeling especially frisky?  Sometimes we even drive it down the mountain and all the way to church.

REPURPOSE, RECLAIM, SUSTAIN

I acquired my first antique when I was in the third grade, an old tea chest bought somewhere along the coast of Maine.  I still have it and Cameron uses it in his room as a bed-side table.  The kids in my family grew up poking around in antique stores up and down the east coast and later all over Europe when my family re-located to Germany and France.  I thought that all families antiqued together.

The first gift that Larry gave me (when he was 16 and I was 17) was a hundred year old Limoge locket bought on our first date at an antique store in Clinton, NJ.  Old stuff and the joy of the hunt is in our family's DNA.

When we started buying land sometimes the major selling point was an old barn, a historic fixer-upper house or a really cool old tobacco barn full of ancient walnut slabs, wormy chestnut planks, and tobacco drying slats.  Much of our home is decorated not in period antiques, but in repurposed stuff.  The bar in our family room is made of one of those walnut slabs and propped up by a super thick grape vine, repurposed as a walking stick and then repurposed again as a bar holder upper.

Sometimes things have to be torn down to begin a new life.  (I know, all sorts of spiritual connotations here.)
Realizing that a barn structure is dangerous and can't be saved doesn't by any means ready it for the burn pile.
Floyd Virginia Land recently bought a 100 acre piece of property known as Sugar Run Farm.   The property has a great picnic shelter and captured spring as well as pasture, woods, and horse trails.   We tried to save the wonderful old barn but realized that the structure was unsafe and the foundation was no good.  So we called in our good friend Mike Whiteside from Black Dog Salvage in Roanoke to carefully tear down the barn and reclaim the wood for bookcases or cabinets or flooring or some other cool architectural feature/creation.

Reclaiming may be a hip concept right about now.  We have all suffered through a generation of  waste and disposability.  I believe we are craving history and a connection to things that have a connection to another simpler time.  "Stuff" just isn't cutting it anymore.  We want objets d'art, not mountains of plastic.  So soapbox time. Reclaim something.  Find a way to share your unwanted items with others.  Create something out of something else, even if it doesn't make sense to your neighbors.   Get your art groove on; think outside the box.  Not because the concept is cool but because you are.    

THE LITTLE WHITE LIE ABOUT AC ON BENT MOUNTAIN

Full disclosure:  Yes, we have it.  Sometimes we use it.  Yes, we could live without it.  And the summer of 2011 has had it cranked on Bottom Creek Lane.

This particular mid July morning I'm feeling blessed to be cool.  I did go outside earlier to play with my chickens (that's what farmers do, right?  Play with the chickens?) and the morning heat took my breath.  Usually Bent Mountain summertime is famous for cool evenings and even cooler mornings, flanked by a bit of glorious warm sunshine mid-day.  Many summers we don't turn on the AC at all; in fact we become a little prideful and obsessive and leave it off even on days where we might be a bit less cranky if we were to succumb to the evils of canned air.    The deal is, we kind of think of it like that.

 I want all the windows wide open, ceiling fans whirring and what we have of sheer draperies blowing in and out of the room and getting stuck to the screen.  Much less claustrophobic and those breezes remind me of summers long ago on the River in Minnesota.  Problem is, summer in  southwestern Virginia is not exactly summer in upper Minnesota.  We Southern women take mid-day naps under the fan in our slips for a reason.

Actually I don't even think I own a slip, but a friend who was a marvelous storyteller used to spin wild ones about the women in her Georgian family who took to the bed mid-day (probably after sipping bloody marys much of the morning) and luxuriated the afternoon away on the sleeping porch under the fan in their slips.  Just sounds so civilized. And twisted.  I like that.

So, I've told you the lie.  Now I'll tell you the truth.  Summer on the county line between hot and sticky Roanoke and cool and fictional Floyd County is wonderful.  We do appreciate the 10 degree dip in temperature up here at 2,700 feet.  But when you are talking 107 degree heat indexes in Roanoke you will probably be looking at 97 up here on the mountain.  And you may need to crank up the air conditioning for a week or two.  Then you can go right back to wearing your slip under the ceiling fan.  And get Faulkner or someone to write a story about you but make sure he changes your name to Blanche.  Or Mary Something or Another.  We've got to keep that sultry Southern girl image perpetuated.

HISTORY OF THE BOTTOM CREEK GORGE COMMUNITY

I'm going to steal today (well, steal with permission) from a lovely book written about the community that used to live on the top of the mountainside on what is now owned and protected forever by the Nature Conservancy, for which most residents (old and new) of Bent Mountain are grateful.  The land owned by Floyd Virginia Land called the Knolls adjoins this protected 1,657 acres that boasts the second highest waterfall in Virginia forming the headwaters of the Roanoke River.

The book was written by Genevieve Craighead Henderson who grew up "on the creek" and is a tribute to her parents, relatives and friends who sacrificed and worked the then remote land, perhaps in a better time.

"Residents of this area have also stood at the top of the mountainside and looked across Bottom Creek Gorge at the beautiful waterfall -- Noah Hall did on summer days as he, with his horse or his hoe, worked out a small corn patch or a few rows of green beans on the hillside opposite the falls and probably wished for a cool dip in the rushing water far below."

"As you stand by the edge of Bottom Creek and watch the clear mountain water rushing by, and try to see the "endangered species" of fish, remember you are not the first to do so.  Bottom Creek boys did this many years ago, some even catching rainbow trout to be cooked by their mothers for supper.  When fishing season opened,many of these same boys stood along the banks of the creek and watched the "city slickers" in the hip waders and fancy fishing equipment pull fish after fish from the dark green pools of water along this creek.  Sometimes the girls got to go fishing, too, but with a string on a pole and a safety pin!  Lucky was the young boy who found a real fishing line and hook that had gotten tangled in the brush along the edge of the creek and left behind by a fisherman with more money than patience. Even more lucky was he when he slipped back to the creek after dark, along paths around the boulders only familiar to the local residents, and threw this new line and hook (and juicy worm that was dug along the patch to the creek) into "the big kettle" or "the little kettle" where the big fish had been hiding all day."

Thanks, Genevieve.  I think I needed to go back to that day of simply fishing today.

PARTY WITH A LIGHT SHOW, HOPEFULLY

Good morning, bloggees.  You are most highly regarded.  Today my goal is to entice you to drive up Bent Mountain Saturday evening , June 25th to share some BBQ, a bonfire and a brilliant sunset with us.  The BBQ and bonfire will be supplied by the Florins.  The sunset, that most gorgeous of artwork, will be courtesy of the Creator.  I am notoriously self-obsessed but I do thank Him regularly for delighting ME and ME alone with the ever-hanging beauty of nature but I do expect He'll be more than happy to show up around 8:41 and dazzle you all as well.

We'll start hanging out around 6.  Bring a sweater, a lawn chair, adult beverages and a fiddle if you are so inclined.  We've got the rest.  There may or may not be a bathroom so take care of business before you head up if you are shy that way.     

Directions:  221 S to R on County Line to bear R on Patterson to L on King Bros. Open house on R.

PINING FOR SIMPLER TIMES: BENT MOUNTAIN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

The Florin family is at a crossroads.  Actually, it's probably just Mama Florin who is stuck in the middle of the street.  The rest of the family seems to be moving along just as they should be.  We all raise our children to become responsible members of society, to be healthy and independent of us.  And I believe that God has even fashioned something into the DNA of a child that prompts them towards that self-reliance.  If you have raised a child you have undoubtedly experienced what I'm talking about....at about age two....at about age 11....at about age 16.  Sometimes the progression is easy and organic, and sometimes it is downright nasty.  But most kids do learn how to breathe outside of the womb, and most learn at some point that they are not their parents.  Some even learn to respect the wisdom of their doddering aged elders. 

We did have a slight advantage over the rest of the world before thrusting our children into the deep, vast unknown.  Sweet Bent Mountain Elementary School.  The powers that be tried for the last 30 years to shut down the smallest of Roanoke County Schools...which was finally accomplished about a year ago.  

Bent Mountain Elementary wasn't exactly economically feasible in this age where not much is.  But oh, what a model.  When Cameron entered kindergarten in 1997 he joined about 66 other local kids... in the entire school.  The school was not only a microcosm of our Bent Mountain neighborhood such that it is, but actually a pretty good petri-dish for all of American society.  His class of 18 and most every class that followed or came before was completely diverse: racially, socio-economically, religiously.  And...guess what, America?  It completely worked. 

Emma followed into kindergarten the following year, she and six of her best friends.  Her class wasn't quite as diverse as it was much smaller and that skewed the demographic somewhat.  She was the only girl in the third through fifth grades;  because they were so small in number they combined with the class a year younger for some of their subjects..  But for part of the day her class was just six.  Emma was the only girl and she sat in a fancy wing chair while the boys all sat at her feet on the floor.  If you know my daughter you will understand how formative that was to her self-esteem.  She was and always has been "the Go-to girl" and "The Boss".  Of "THE WORLD". 

But good things can't last forever and my children eventually graduated from the fifth grade.  They went on to middle school at small private schools, mostly because both my husband and I moved from small schools to a LARGE public school at the tail end of high school.  Larry and I met and fell in love partly because we found each other in the sea of a huge high school where we both were overwhelmed and somewhat lost, not at all understanding the whole jock, freak, popular, geek thing.  We had come from small schools where we had solidarity BECAUSE of being different people, not lumped into a group of young people who we really had nothing in common with, because we were different.

Anyway, I am completely thankful for Bent Mountain Elementary: for the wonderful teachers who made do with second hand copies (something already on the back) and not so much money for field trips.  For the parents, who not only had to join the PTA, but to hold some major position during their tenure.  For their classmates, who still love one another and will forever, even as they move away from the mountain and pursue their dreams.  I am in a period of reminiscing...as I try to transition into this new phase of empty nest.  I reminisce, and I am very thankful. 

A HOME-TOWN TOURIST IN SOUTHWEST VIRGINIA

It's good to have visitors come to town.  My mom came in for Emma's high school graduation and stayed for nearly two weeks as she was waiting for Cameron's much heralded return from Hawaii, the Ukraine and Turkey.  (If you are my facebook friend you have heard me herald, and herald again. Perhaps heralding to the point of nausea for some of you.  So sorry.  Kind of.)

We had a lot of time to putz together while Emma was gone on a high school graduation trip to Bonnaroo and Cam had not yet returned to the nest.  We played tourist.  One day we meandered through the Taubman Museum of Art in Roanoke, ate lunch at Norah's Cafe and shopped in some of the great art galleries that  pepper almost every corner of our lovely downtown Roanoke.  We ate lunch two days in a row at the Blue Apron in Salem, which is an amazing addition to the great array of restaurants we have in our area.  I had seared fois gras, also two days in a row.  Actually, I am salivating and daydreaming of seared fois gras again as I am writing this.  You've got to try it.  Small portions but there are so many delightful flavors harmonizing in this dish that you can truly relish your meal and have room for dessert, which I rarely eat because I am a freak for savory.

Friday night we hit Oddfellas Cantina in Floyd (have you noticed a pattern yet?) and stayed to listen to some music spilling out into the streets near the Floyd Country Store.  A fantastic line-up of local and regional Appalachian music fills the Store every Friday night, even in the dead of winter.  But the street outside is just as entertaining and completely free of charge.  Last Friday there were no less than six groups of musicians hanging out and jamming together.   A lady with big hair and tight jeans was flatfooting with a farmer who had seemingly forgotten to put in his teeth.  A well dressed couple with a shopping bag from the new Troika gallery sat alongside keeping time with their feet.  A couple of dread-locked Floyd Folk were selling the most beautiful tie-dyes I have ever seen.  A band of young indie types from Nashville were singing for tips across the street before they went in to headline at the Dogtown Roadhouse.

I wish real life was as diverse yet unified as Floyd County.   Not Utopia, of course, we won't see that this side of heaven.  But people respect each other here, and this community is different than most.  Off the gridders live alongside old timers who are neighborly to retirees, even Yankee retirees.    My kind of town.  It was fun playing tourist and showing off a bit.  

BUSY, WITH A VIEW

We have had a very busy month.  My mom arrived, youngest daughter's high school graduation in Roanoke, VA followed immediately by youngest daughter's college orientation in Boone, NC.  Youngest daughter left the very next day for high school graduation trip to Bonnaroo, an infamous music festival in western Tennesee.  She's probably waking up in her balmy six man (girl) tent as we speak, ready for some Allison Krauss or Bruce Hornsby or Bela Fleck or Buffalo Springfield or Mumford and Sons or Eminem.  A very diverse festival.  But not exactly my cuppa tea with 70,000 good friends and neighbors.  Me, I'm a Floydfest girl.  30 miles from home on some gorgeous land adjacent to the Blue Ridge Parkway that seems like a different universe altogether.  With my own shower and my own bed.  Only about 10,000 close friends.  Guess we are getting old.

Later this week our oldest son returns from a whirlwind six months in Kona, Hawaii, Lutsk, Ukraine and various beautiful Turkish cities on the Mediterranean Sea. That I could handle.  I think they have showers in all of those places.

I think everyone will be happy to be back together as a family in a few days.  I surely will be delighted to have all of their sleepy heads tucked into their own beds.  Back into Mama Florin mode making breakfast, but probably not until 10 or so.  Fresh eggs laid by the newest addition to our Bent Mountain kind-of- farm.  17 chickens, about half of them named.  The rest haven't yet told me theirs'.   Precious summer days these last few years before our children start making their own memories with families of their own.  But then someday we might get grandbabies who can come visit us on the mountain and help me gather eggs and name the chickens.  

THE FLOYD CO WAVE AKA PEOPLE ARE FRIENDLY HERE

I was driving up to the metropolis of Floyd earlier today to distribute some fliers (yes, we have land for sale!) and to catch a quick bite for lunch.  I was also searching for inspiration for this blog; something not very hard to come by in these beautiful blooming days of late May.  As I crested one of my favorite hills on the short but lovely half hour drive - we are equidistant between downtown Floyd and downtown Roanoke here on the mountain - I saw Buffalo Mountain looming fearsomely over to the south. 

I love "The Buffalo" as it's known around here, appropriately shaped and especially exotic after you have read "The Man who Moved the Mountain", and consider that not that many years ago Buffalo Mountain was a rough part of Appalachia governed by moonshiner outlaws.  Bob Childress THE MAN as in Who moved the mountain?) was a Presbyterian minister who brought civility to the mountain folk.  The six little rock churches out in the middle of nowhere that he and his congregations built stand today and still preach the word on Sundays.  Read the book if you get a chance.  I think I'll put it on my list of summer rereads.

Well, what I was going to write about when I got detoured by The Buffalo was the Floyd County wave.  People here don't just give you the index-finger-off-the-steering-wheel wave; they full out salute you with the whole handed so-glad-to-see-you variation.  One more thing I love about Floyd County.  Strangers waving at you as you pass each other at 55mph, daydreaming about The Buffalo. 

THE LODGE AND COTTAGES AT PRIMLAND:WHERE THE HECK ARE WE?

We celebrated our 29th anniversary this past weekend.  Since after 29 years we don't really need much in the way of gifts, we tend to like to celebrate with a nice dinner somewhere...and I like to go places that I've not been to before.  The adventurer side of me.  I am always up to try something new, full out realizing that it may not compare to the "tried and true".  But the adventure outweighs the known in my book.  I'm wierd that way.

I had recently heard of a place down the road a bit in Meadows of Dan, about a 45 minute drive up by Chateau Morrisette and the Floydfest site.  Primland.  So I got on their website, was well impressed if not a bit blown away.  I called and was told that if we ate in the more casual Pub then we didn't need  a reservation for dinner on Friday night.  A reservation seemed a bit commital.  Don't like to plan the adventure too much. 

We took the long way up 221, turning left at the only stoplight in Floyd, curving through farmland and colorful little Blue Ridge Mountain towns.  Curving being the key word here.  We were glad that we had taken the old 1998 Diesel Mercedes and thankful that we didn't yet need airconditioning.... because the car doesn't have any.   Larry remarked at some point that he was also grateful that he hadn't taken his big pick up truck Suburban thing, because the rear end of the car wouldn't have made it around the curves in the same lane as the front end.  Curvy.  Curvy road. 

We wound up in Meadows of Dan and found the big stately Primland sign and entrance.  There was a helipad.  Pulling up to a restored log cabin and gated entrance, a well dressed woman with a clipboard popped out and asked of our intentions.  "Do you have a reservation?  Are you here to check in?"  She was perfectly polite as I recounted my conversation with the restaurant staff the day prior.  She put a sticker on our car and let us through the gate.  The drive up to the Lodge was six miles long.  Six miles of Primland.  Wow.  What had we gotten ourselves into?  Feeling a little out of our league, we pulled up to the front of Primland and the valet popped out of the front door.  He greeted us by name and whisked away our little suddenly shabby looking Mercedes. 

We walked in the front door and the very helpful manager again greeted us by name and offered us a cup of tea and a lovely place to partake of it out on the veranda.  We were assured that they had made a reservation for us in the pub, and we could enjoy the Inn and eat whenever we felt like it.  Was there anything else we needed?  Wow again.  Where the heck are we?  Why have we never known this place was a mere curvy ride across the mountain?  Who comes here?  People whisked in and out by helicopter? 

The place was so luxurious and the staff well trained and discreet enough not to lurk but instead to anticipate your every need in advance of your knowing that you need it.  We felt like we were in a very fancy private home with an incredibly pampering household staff.  I hear we could have tried the spa, taken a guided fly fishing tour.  The golf course is supposedly one of the best public courses in the United States.  Hunters and fishermen and golfers and spa-partakers.  Something marvelous for all of them.

We were very content to sip our tea on the veranda and take a bite in the pub.   Next time we will make the point to have a reservation and dine in the elegant Elements Restaurant.   But I think Larry will save some money and flyfish from our own Bottom Creek.  Hunt whitetail deer from the hot tub.  (That's another story.)

Check out http://www.primland.com/.  Prepare to be bedazzled. I guess what impressed us most about this whole anniversary adventure is that people pay BIG BUCKS for a taste of the SW Virginia lifestyle we have come to enjoy FOR FREE.    And I am that much more appreciative of my own Blue Ridge Mountain retreat. 

BENT MOUNTAIN HIKE: A CURE FOR WHAT AILS YA

Last Friday morning I was battling a bit of the duldrums, not uncommon I hear for an almost empty nester last semester of high school stay at home mom.  Not uncommon but not to be downplayed.  A little bit hard to be around.  Even for myself.  I was wholeheartedly indulging my INFP personality type. 

Dear friend Beth called early that morning and decided that she and her youngest son Wyatt were going to drag me from the house and up the side of the mountain.  Beth is about 15 years younger than I am and is a triathelete.  A serious runner.  Wyatt is 5 and an experienced Appalachian Trail hiker.  I am a 53 year old who likes to read and laugh at the dog. 

We decided to walk up to a little cabin that we have on the backside of our property, up the mountain.  Larry and I go up there sometimes for little mini vacations, or even drive up there on the 4WD mule on a sunny afternoon for a nap amongst the rhododendron.  I have rarely walked it.  It is straight uphill.
Anyway, the unfazed Beth and Wyatt had never been up to the cabin; and it's fun to show off.  Larry and a friend built it about five years ago from a bunch of gorgeous wood that came out of an old tobacco barn that we own on a piece of land we've got for sale.  Lovely walnut and wormy chestnut and tobacco drying slats for bannister rails.  Rustic yet beautiful.  And did I mention?  Straight uphill.  So we meandered, enjoying the day and the woods full of active springs and wild ferns and lots of rhododendron.  Not quite blooming.  I had hoped to find some ferns still in fiddlehead form; so we could saute some up for lunch.  Not that I ever have, but I've always wanted to.  Kind of like the abundance of blackberries that I never get around to picking each summer.  The locavore heart is there; but sometimes I'm just too lazy. 

We made it up to the cabin.  I was glad for a destination where we could sit for a spell on the front porch.  So private.  Amazingly peaceful.  And just the right amount of exercise to pull me out of my funk.

We headed back down after a bit.  The walk down was a little harder.  Did I mention it was steep?  Going down we had to be surefooted and careful.  Wyatt ran.  We popped out down by the creek and wetlands that are the bottom half of our property.  Larry was down by the road doing something with a backhoe, which was like a magnet to Wyatt.  Of course.  Heavy machinery and little boys.  No wonder all the kids want to play with Larry.  Spott and Huney the lab chased each other around the fields and through the creek.  And Emma?   I guess I'll let her go to college.  I do hear they come back, for holidays and with laundry.   Life is good.   
   

GEE, I WAS HAVING SO MUCH FUN I FORGOT THAT I'M HERE TO SELL LAND

While my daughter and I were down visiting my mom in FL last week, magic was happening in Floyd County. Some of it was captured here, in this photo. We have this unbelievable land for sale that our friend Quigg captured in this piece of art photography. Larry said that actually the sunset was pretty mediocre considering many we've seen up on The Knoll; but the apple trees were blooming and the grass was swaying and the mountains were blue and the day was warm. Larry, Quigg and Annette hung out, playing with the mountain, playing with the camera, and this is what they came up with.  Quigg employed a technique called HDR, which is kind of like time lapsed overlaying of photos, as best as I understand it. 

So... pretty amazing. We bought this piece of property (well we owned part of it, so really we've just completed it) last fall. There is nowhere quite as beautiful that I've seen in all of Virginia, heck, maybe anywhere.

And you can buy it. This is my day job. Selling unique Blue Ridge Mountain properties. I've been having so much fun blogging that I've almost forgotten that I'm also supposed to be selling. Oh well, both are a priviledge and I'm having a ball. Tell your friends. Someone's going to be moving into paradise.

I FARM HOUND DOGS, ONE AT A TIME

I'm no farmer.  Many people upon hearing that we live on 40 acres on top of a mountain somewhere assume that I must be.  But no, I'm no farmer.  My best friend Ginger is though.   She lives on a farm in Catawba, which is the top of another mountain in the same area code but still about an hour's drive from Bent Mountain.  Her husband used to say when they moved here that if we still lived in NJ,  they would be in Pennsylvania.  I guess that may be a joke you would only get if you were from New Jersey, living in Catawba and your friends lived on Bent Mountain, on the Floyd County border. 

Back to non-farming.  We do have a coonhound.  He's gorgeous.  We took pictures of him to the Ferrum Folklife Festival and determined that he was a rare fellow indeed; a very fancy English coonhound.  He's got brown spotted legs and a black spotted body and big brown and black spots all over.  Spott.  We added the extra "t" because of the fancy factor.   Doesn't take much to entertain a Florin.

We used to have bassett hounds, which were a bit easier to train,  but our sweet Millie (short for Mildred after my dear old great aunt who had both blue blood and blue hair) died a couple of years ago.  Spott showed up one day looking in the backdoor as our son Cameron was looking out.  Larry told Emma and I not to feed him.  In fact, Larry wouldn't even look at him as he had fallen in love immediately and we weren't in the market for another dog. However, the kids and I won out and Spott sleeps on my side of the bed when I'm out of town.  And he is Daddy's boy.  They like to putter around outside the house and Spott likes to show his dad how he can chase rabbits and deer.  He coonhound blubbers all over the back 40.  Don't get mad.  The rabbits ALWAYS win out.  Then Spott lays panting for the next two hours in the downstairs bathroom  trying to get cool and his tongue sticks to the hardwood floor.   He has a good life.

Larry has begun to think I might enjoy farming.  He is fixing our sweet little shed "The Bird House" into a chicken coop.  Ginger is moving back to Texas and we are going to inherit a dozen of so of her chickens in a couple of weeks.  My man is also fencing in the bottom field along the creek so we can grass finish our first steer this summer.   I haven't the heart to tell him.   I'm a spoiled sleeping on the bed coonhound farmer...not a chicken or cow farmer.  But I'm sincerely hoping that he is. 

NO PLACE LIKE HOME IN SW VA

My 18 year old daughter Emma and I have been doing a lot of travelling lately.  While we have limited our trips to just about 3 - 5 hours, her brother Cameron has been cavorting around the globe solo.  His last trip earned him about 10,000 miles of frequent flyer points.  After three months on the Big Island of Hawaii, he now resides temporarily in Lutsk, Ukraine. He's heading from there to Istanbul, and then dropping by Hawaii again on the way back home to SW VA in June.  I know.  Get out your globe.

The trips with Emma haven't all been quite as fun, nor exotic.  She had ankle surgery in Charlotte, NC in November and we had to go back there every two weeks for about four months.  I officially now know how to drive in 5PM traffic around a large metropolitan city.  Just close your eyes and gun it. 

On the much more interesting side, there have also been quite a few college shopping  mini-vacation trips:  we've breezed through Spartanburg, SC, St. Mary's, MD, Asheville and Boone, NC.  All lovely vacation spots in themselves with the bonus of being hotbeds for academia, if you are so inclined. Em has decided on Appalachian State University in Boone, NC.  Funny, I thought after growing up a mountain girl, she would want to see the big city.  But when we pulled up to Boone for the first time she thoroughly shocked me by saying "Mom, this is the only place we've been where it is almost as beautiful as it is at home!"  Hmmmm.  Surprising.  But while Boone is a gorgeous place and a fun, fun, fun college town, I think we'll stay put.  We were visiting an art gallery in Blowing Rock, a great little town off the Blue Ridge Parkway right next to Boone.  When the owner learned where we came from, she gushed all over Floyd, VA.  She knew everything about the very vibrant art scene, the Crooked Road Music Trail and the Floyd County Store and the great locavore restaurants.  We are getting quite the name for ourselves, Floyd.  Shhhh.....Good thing we don't have a college downtown. 

WE GET TWO SPRINGS UP HERE IN FLOYD COUNTY

There is nothing like springtime in the mountains of Southwest Virginia. 

Growing up in a Revolutionary War era commuter town in suburban NJ,  the beautifully manicured postage stamp sized lawns were really impressive.   Ironically, we had one of two Southern Magnolia trees in the state in my backyard.  But now that I'm typing that I'm really doubting my information. Probably some useless inaccurate minutia that has somehow stuck in my head.  Actually, the tree always looked pretty sickly and I'm not sure that I ever saw it bloom.  But you surely couldn't cut it down if there were only two in the state, now could you?

Indigenous spring in the Blue Ridge Mountains completely shames anything we could purchase at the local Garden State garden center.  On my walk this morning I noticed that the wild rhododendrun that line the creek are about to burst into color.  The color is more subdued than the cultivated variety, but the rhody grow so thick back here that they form a kind of natural fence between our house and the neighbor's house.  But we can't really see the neighbors anyway, cause we Bent Mountians like our space. 

There are a lot of gorgeous redbud coming up the mountain from Roanoke, but I think it may be a bit too cold up here for them to flourish in the wild.  That isn't the story with the mountain laurel, or the flame azalea, or the wild dogwood.  They seem to thoroughly enjoy our natural airconditioning. 

Trilium like the cooler temps and grow along the road in profusion.  Some white, some a light shade of pink.  Hundreds of them.  My favorite are the little trumpet shaped red colored beauties.  I had thought they were called Indian Paintbrush, but now I'm not so sure.  Anyway, they are my favorites.  Favorites are so special that you don't always have to know the name.  Usually, when I'm musing about wildflowers I'm by myself anyway, and I don't have to appear educated.  I know I'm not.

Anyway, because we are a little cooler in Floyd County, we get springtime down in Roanoke about two weeks before we get springtime up here on the Mountain.  I have always said that we get to enjoy two springs.  And I have always agreed with myself.

CALENDAR PLANNING 101: ATTEND FLOYDFEST

Back about four years ago, we added a Timberframe addition to our home on Bent Mountain.  Our generous timberframers, Streamline Timberframe in Floyd, Virginia, are major partners with the Floydfest organizers, actually having built a couple of permanent Timberframe structures that house parts of the festival.  Our friends at Streamline offered us a couple of three day passes as a VERY kind gesture. 

We cluelessly attended our first Floydfest.  Oh my goodness.  I didn't know that  much fun could be had on Planet Earth.   The people watching was fantastic; the music even better.  I was introduced to some amazing bands, many of them just on the verge of being too popular to play this intimate venue on the Blue Ridge Parkway.   

The 2011 festival dates have been set as July 28 - 31st.  The line-up for the 10 year anniversary of Floydfest includes favorites Grace Potter & the Nocturnals, Old Crow Medicine Show, Taj Mahal,  Xavier Rudd, Railroad Earth,  David Grisman, Hot Tuna, Sam Bush, Toubab Krewe, Donna the Buffalo, Carolina Chocolate Drops and my new favorites from last summer, J.P. Harris and the Tough Choices.  And many more, some of whom I'm sure will soon become my new,  new favorites.  There is something for everyone, including the kiddos in the Children's Universe.  Check our http://www.floydfest.com/ for the complete line-up and information on tickets, camping, and anything else you need to know to have more fun than you ever knew possible.   

So if you are on the fence about attending, here's a nudge.  DO IT!  For those of us in SW Virginia, we are incredibly lucky to have this worldclass festival in our own backyard.  And for those of you who aren't?  Well, we just happen to have that perfect piece of mountain land you've been looking for.....

VISIONS OF WATERCRESS DANCED IN THEIR HEADS

Seriously?  With all the things going on in our world now the thing that kept me awake last night was WATERCRESS???  Or lack thereof?  As in,  maybe I missed it? 

Every year our neighbor Ed harvests watercress from his "backyard" butting up against Poor Mountain.  Big Laurel Creek flows slowly through his property as it meanders down to meet up with our own Bottom Creek.  Big Laurel is just slow and trickley (is that a word?) enough to be a perfect cultivating ground for Nasturtium Aquaticum, more commonly known as watercress.  Since Ed and his lovely French wife (I'm trying to get her to cook me something here) Francois are empty nest retirees,  there is only so much watercress they can consume.  SO....every spring Ed brings over a huge trash bag of the tangy delicate lovelies to his very appreciative foodie neighbor, Moi. 

I'm not sure how this blog is going to play out, but I guess on day two I'm going to give you a killer recipe for Romaine with Watercress Dressing, a lovely refreshing concoction that I had to pry from my mother's dying fingers.  Just kidding.  She is still very much alive and gladly gave it over.  The other just made for a better story. I guess I may be a little bit twisted. 

This is most probably a 1970's Sunday New York Times recipe, since that is where most of the best ones originated.  It goes exactly like this.  Except now in 2011 we can buy lettuce that is already washed and dried.  To heck with salad spinners and paper towels. 

Romaine with Watercress Dressing
2 heads romaine (1 head if large)
1 bunch watercress (or small trash bag if you are Floyd County creek harvesting)
1 bunch small radishes (sounds good already!!)
9 T. good olive oil
Juice of 1 lemon
1 T. tarragon vinegar
1 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. dry mustard
1/8 tsp. sugar 

Wash romaine, watercress and radishes.  Shake greens well to remove moisture.  Roll in several thicknesses or paper towel and put in refrigerator to crisp.  Do this several hours before time.  (?)
Greens must be absolutely dry. Slice radishes paper thin and keep in ice water in refrig until needed.  Remove coarse stems from watercress, keeping only the delicate stems and leaves.  Chop as would parsley.
In small bowl mix oil, lemon juice, vinegar, 1/2 tsp. salt, mustard and sugar.  And chopped watercress and stir well. Chill. Break romaine into bite sized pieces.  Sprinkle with 1/2 tsp salt, add radishes.  Dress and toss.  

Thank me in the morning.  See you.  Gotta go call Ed.

THE BEGINNING

There is a well kept secret to life on Bent Mountain that separates the natives from the tourist wannabes:  the curvy mountainous 55 mile an hour road that brings you in from the Roanoke, Virginia side. The first voyage (or in the case of my 75 year old Floridian mother, every voyage) up the aptly named S-Curve results in a white knuckled, hanging on for dear life brake-stomping reaction.  Especially if said Floridian mother is the passenger.  But, shhhh….the secret is in this:  the road is perfectly banked, the views are spectacular, it’s actually a delight to drive, and there is almost no way minus a very serious flubber that you are going off the edge.

But here’s another truth.  We like it that way.  What if everyone realized that paradise were but a 20 minute drive from Cave Spring Kroger?  Well, paradise Bent Mountain would be no longer.  I think perhaps the name helps, also.  Bent MOUNTAIIIINNNN.  You’ve got to really climbbbbbb.  Certainly not anywhere someone could live and still commute to downtown Roanoke in half an hour on the world famous Blue Ridge Parkway, if you were so inclined.  Someplace way too far away to be in Blacksburg in 45 minutes. 

Well, thank you to whomever named paradise Bent Mountain.  There is mad speculation about what the Bent part means, but we’ll take it.   I think I may have preferred the address “Twelve O’clock Knob”,  but just because of the obscurity of the moniker.   I really want to live on Bent Mountain.