This past weekend, we did FloydFest. It was an extended family vacation of sorts. We set up Wednesday in the Healing Arts Village, which is a little cul-de-sac on the main drag of FloydFest. We butt up to the Children's Universe and are just over the way from the Main Stage. The Healing Arts Village is sponsored by the Blue Ridge School of Massage and Yoga. It is a peaceful oasis in the midst of a rapidly growing world music and arts festival held annually near Floyd, Virginia.
We call ourselves HomeBase. We had to write a little bio/blurb for the FloydFest schedule brochure so we came up collectively with the following: "Homebase: a gathering place where people experience real relationship with each other. A non-denominational place of sanctuary, celebration, peace, love and healing."
Pretty lofty, huh? Somehow my name got associated with the whole thing and they called it Lynne Florin and Friends. They chose a picture of a statue of the mother Mary in head covering and prayer hands for my bio. Haha! I guess that's what happens if you neglect to send in a picture of yourself. The powers-that-be pick one for you, and then holy mother, you are supposed to live up to that gig. People that know me find that particularly funny. I sometimes have a sarcastic tongue and the mouth of a sailor-in-training.
Oh, but how I typically digress and stray away from my point here. From our vantage point in HomeBase and our wanderings out into the "real world" of FloydFest, there was much commonality in theme. We were celebrating life in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains of SW, VA. Time and time again I heard people comment how beautiful our little section of the world is: from the stage, in passing, from vendors, from the myriads of great people we met. As night fell, 12,000 people shared the unbelievable night sky that we sometimes take for granted around here. One couple I met couldn't believe that a short hike over the hill from the Main Stage and they could see clear into West VA, dozens of mountain ranges and hundreds of miles away.
So sometimes it's good being a tourist in your own neck of the woods. Sometimes it takes the eyes of another to recognize your own blessings. And it is good to be content on this beautiful Blue Ridge Mountain morning.
Header pic
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
FLOYD, VA: WORLD RENOWNED "HIPPIE TOWN"
I'm looking for a little blog fodder this morning, keeping in mind that I am unashamedly trying to allure you into packing up your tent and heading to our neck of the woods in SW VA. I may be folksy or sometimes even a bit too familial but you should realize that my main objective is to entice you with my words and to sell you a little bit of heaven here in Floyd, Virginia. You can readily get that done at www.floydvirginialand.com. Our own little family business.
So, this morning as I am facing a bit of writer's block, I cheated and googled Floyd, VA. And then just for giggles, I added the word "hippie" to the mix. Do you know that there were 1,400,000 google results? HA! So for fun, I'll throw out a few of reasons that Floyd has been designated one of the friendliest places in the country to foster your inner hippie.
1) As of this writing there are six Floyd County listings on the Fellowship for Intentional Community listing page. That translates to at least six communes in a county with a population of 15,279.
2) Organic farms and farm stores abound in Floyd County and include Seven Springs, Waterbear Mountain Farm, Riverstone Farm, Sweet Providence, Full Circle Farm, Good Food Good People, Harvest Moon Market and a whole bunch of other yummy locavore and eco-friendly farm type places. Restaurants that serve organic and local fare include Mickey G's Bistro, Oddfellas Cantina, Natasha's Market Cafe, The Pine Tavern Restaurant, The Blue Ridge Cafe and Chateau Morrisette Winery. There is some good eating in that one stop-light town. And, it's next to impossible to get lost.
3) FloydFest. Our own little family friendly music Festival featuring roots and progressive music from around the world. With some killer performers on the 2012 lineup. www.floydfest.com. Need I say more?
Well, I'm getting a little hungry right about now. Funny how everything quickly turns around to the yumminess of the regional food. Wonder if Mickey G's is open for lunch on the 4th of July?
So, this morning as I am facing a bit of writer's block, I cheated and googled Floyd, VA. And then just for giggles, I added the word "hippie" to the mix. Do you know that there were 1,400,000 google results? HA! So for fun, I'll throw out a few of reasons that Floyd has been designated one of the friendliest places in the country to foster your inner hippie.
1) As of this writing there are six Floyd County listings on the Fellowship for Intentional Community listing page. That translates to at least six communes in a county with a population of 15,279.
2) Organic farms and farm stores abound in Floyd County and include Seven Springs, Waterbear Mountain Farm, Riverstone Farm, Sweet Providence, Full Circle Farm, Good Food Good People, Harvest Moon Market and a whole bunch of other yummy locavore and eco-friendly farm type places. Restaurants that serve organic and local fare include Mickey G's Bistro, Oddfellas Cantina, Natasha's Market Cafe, The Pine Tavern Restaurant, The Blue Ridge Cafe and Chateau Morrisette Winery. There is some good eating in that one stop-light town. And, it's next to impossible to get lost.
3) FloydFest. Our own little family friendly music Festival featuring roots and progressive music from around the world. With some killer performers on the 2012 lineup. www.floydfest.com. Need I say more?
Well, I'm getting a little hungry right about now. Funny how everything quickly turns around to the yumminess of the regional food. Wonder if Mickey G's is open for lunch on the 4th of July?
Thursday, June 21, 2012
BENT MOUNTAIN SIMPLE SUMMER
We turned on the AC last night on the mountain. If you follow me or know me, you realize I'm somewhat of a windows thrown open, sheer draperies stuck to the screen, anti-air conditioning purist. Since I'm not very political, I tend to protest dumb stuff, like air-conditioned air. I don't quite trust it. I just don't like being cooped up. I like to breathe real air, feel breezes, listen to birdsong. That's a large part of why I live where I do, where we somewhat pridefully recount that "we are 10 degrees cooler up here on the Mountain."
So, I'm trying to look at air-conditioning as a luxury, not a necessity. And not get too claustrophobic here. After all, I can go outside. And even here from my writing table, I can SEE the breezes blowing the big tulip poplar leaves outside the side yard window.
Back in the day, many big city folks had small cabins up here on the Creek. A few of the darling houses still line our road, picturesquely tucked among the abundantly blooming wild rhododendron. A couple of the houses have burned, leaving only stone steps leading up to old chimneys. Wild looking. Some of our neighbors still commute up on the weekend, escaping big city work weeks for mountain cabin life.
I love the stories that circulate around my creek. At one point some entrepreneur cemented in the creek and built a good sized swimming pool. I'm thinking that didn't last long. All water originates up here on the Bent Mountain/Floyd County line, and that sweet little boulder strewn trout stream can pretty readily morph to raging river strength after a heavy rain or two. Rumor has it that back in the 40's Big Band Orchestras would come up and play alongside the creek and some great parties would ensue. I kind of long for those days, pre-heat pump, when driving up Bent Mountain with anticipation of the Bottom Creek swimming hole was all the climate control you needed on a hot summer Saturday.
So, I'm trying to look at air-conditioning as a luxury, not a necessity. And not get too claustrophobic here. After all, I can go outside. And even here from my writing table, I can SEE the breezes blowing the big tulip poplar leaves outside the side yard window.
Back in the day, many big city folks had small cabins up here on the Creek. A few of the darling houses still line our road, picturesquely tucked among the abundantly blooming wild rhododendron. A couple of the houses have burned, leaving only stone steps leading up to old chimneys. Wild looking. Some of our neighbors still commute up on the weekend, escaping big city work weeks for mountain cabin life.
I love the stories that circulate around my creek. At one point some entrepreneur cemented in the creek and built a good sized swimming pool. I'm thinking that didn't last long. All water originates up here on the Bent Mountain/Floyd County line, and that sweet little boulder strewn trout stream can pretty readily morph to raging river strength after a heavy rain or two. Rumor has it that back in the 40's Big Band Orchestras would come up and play alongside the creek and some great parties would ensue. I kind of long for those days, pre-heat pump, when driving up Bent Mountain with anticipation of the Bottom Creek swimming hole was all the climate control you needed on a hot summer Saturday.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
SMALL HOUSE MOVEMENT:FLOYD COUNTY STYLE
If you, gentle Reader, permit me a sweeping generalization, honour me thusly. (Oh, my. Don't ever let me read 17th century English poetry early in the morning and then try to blog. I don't want to be the one to give you just cause to upchuck your oatmeal.)
But the word is this. American vacations have evolved. Coming from an ex-travel agent, these are fighting words. The days of the $13,000 "Grande Tour" are pretty much done for. Trends are currently post "simple living", and a couple of decades past extravagant living. It is not a popular choice to spend too much money, even if you have it. Whereas I used to adhere to the concept of "selling up", (after all you get what you pay for) now I would go directly to selling "smart".
Don't get me wrong. People still want to retreat. We all work hard and hopefully are wise enough to store up a bit to reward us for our labours. (oh I warned you) But we do that differently in 2012. And there you have it. Finally, the reason for this post. The Small House Movement: Floyd County style.
In case I haven't mentioned it lately, we sell land. Not just any land, but drop dead, slap-your-mama, crazy beautiful Floyd County land. We believe that an investment in unique and spectacular land is probably more important than in whatever abode you decide to place on top of all that beauty.
A few years ago we (well Larry, and I added my two-cents usually just late enough to make the job difficult) built a cabin in the woods. Electricity runs off a generator and we "take our toilet" in an old fashioned outdoor privy. We warm our french pressed coffee kettle on the woodstove. We were pretty much off the grid, before that was mainstream cool.
And, did I mention it's also beautiful? Lots of found lumber and some gorgeous wormy chestnut trim board that we were lucky enough to discover in an old tobacco barn that sits on some property that we have for sale. We used the beautifully hewn and seasoned tobacco slats for railings in the loft. Well, in this case words don't do the place justice. So I've added some pictures right here.
We've also discovered a lot of like-minded folks who are looking for land in Floyd County to build their dream cabin. Not a dream mansion, mind you, like some of that stuff that goes on in the gated communities in western North Carolina. We've found that most of the time we spend at the cabin is outside anyway. We wanted something comfortable, smart and affordable. Did I also mention that it's beautiful? Oh yeah, just last paragraph.
Please indulge me once again.
"Ah, yet, ere I descent to the grave,
May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!"
Abraham Cowley
Go enjoy your Saturday! What the heck are you doing inside anyway?
But the word is this. American vacations have evolved. Coming from an ex-travel agent, these are fighting words. The days of the $13,000 "Grande Tour" are pretty much done for. Trends are currently post "simple living", and a couple of decades past extravagant living. It is not a popular choice to spend too much money, even if you have it. Whereas I used to adhere to the concept of "selling up", (after all you get what you pay for) now I would go directly to selling "smart".
Don't get me wrong. People still want to retreat. We all work hard and hopefully are wise enough to store up a bit to reward us for our labours. (oh I warned you) But we do that differently in 2012. And there you have it. Finally, the reason for this post. The Small House Movement: Floyd County style.
In case I haven't mentioned it lately, we sell land. Not just any land, but drop dead, slap-your-mama, crazy beautiful Floyd County land. We believe that an investment in unique and spectacular land is probably more important than in whatever abode you decide to place on top of all that beauty.
A few years ago we (well Larry, and I added my two-cents usually just late enough to make the job difficult) built a cabin in the woods. Electricity runs off a generator and we "take our toilet" in an old fashioned outdoor privy. We warm our french pressed coffee kettle on the woodstove. We were pretty much off the grid, before that was mainstream cool.
And, did I mention it's also beautiful? Lots of found lumber and some gorgeous wormy chestnut trim board that we were lucky enough to discover in an old tobacco barn that sits on some property that we have for sale. We used the beautifully hewn and seasoned tobacco slats for railings in the loft. Well, in this case words don't do the place justice. So I've added some pictures right here.
We've also discovered a lot of like-minded folks who are looking for land in Floyd County to build their dream cabin. Not a dream mansion, mind you, like some of that stuff that goes on in the gated communities in western North Carolina. We've found that most of the time we spend at the cabin is outside anyway. We wanted something comfortable, smart and affordable. Did I also mention that it's beautiful? Oh yeah, just last paragraph.
Please indulge me once again.
"Ah, yet, ere I descent to the grave,
May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!"
Abraham Cowley
Go enjoy your Saturday! What the heck are you doing inside anyway?
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
BENT MOUNTAIN LOVING OR DOROTHY I DON'T THINK THIS IS KANSAS ANYMORE
I've traveled a bit in my life. I was born in the mid-west, which may surprise some of you that automatically tag me Yankee because I didn't grow up in the South. (Also, please notice how I've learned to capitalize South, but not any other region. That should make you happy and excuse me for the fact that I'm a Yankee. Or not.)
When I was about 9 years old my dad got a job in NYC and we moved to Westfield NJ until I was a freshman in high school. Another job opportunity and an inbred wanderlust uprooted our family once again and this time we ended up in Bad Hamburg, Germany, a suburb of Frankfurt. We stayed about a school year and then landed in La Celle St. Cloud, a suburb of Paris. (Actually I'm seeing a trend in this musing already, I was a kid of the burbs. Funny, cause I've spent most of my adult life on Bent Mountain, not a suburb at all.) Well the journey continued and we landed back in NJ for a year or so, and then off it was to college for me. I chose Roanoke College. Reason number one being that when I first started looking at schools I realized that the Southern boys I had met in Germany and France were much nicer and more polite than the boys I met up north. Now I realize that was something that their mamas had instilled deep in their souls, teaching them to yes ma'am as they were lying through their teeth. Reason number two was it was the prettiest place on God's green earth. So much for going to college for an education. That's kinda overrated anyway.
Well anyway, I spent four years in Salem and in the midst of all that fell for my northern next door neighbor who still shares my Southern abode. When we married Larry bought an alternative energy store in town and we moved back to Virginia. After marriage and before kids I took a job selling travel and got to see more of the world I so dearly loved to explore. I went to London for the weekend and spent 10 days with a bunch of crazy travel agents in Singapore and Hong Kong. Went to Bermuda a half dozen times. Cruised through the Caribbean, jetsetted to Switzerland.
So the gist of this musing is thus. I've spent a near lifetime flying in and out of the Roanoke airport. And each time, EACH TIME, I am blown away by that descent. Every season of every year. What glory! What beauty! I'm home!
When I was about 9 years old my dad got a job in NYC and we moved to Westfield NJ until I was a freshman in high school. Another job opportunity and an inbred wanderlust uprooted our family once again and this time we ended up in Bad Hamburg, Germany, a suburb of Frankfurt. We stayed about a school year and then landed in La Celle St. Cloud, a suburb of Paris. (Actually I'm seeing a trend in this musing already, I was a kid of the burbs. Funny, cause I've spent most of my adult life on Bent Mountain, not a suburb at all.) Well the journey continued and we landed back in NJ for a year or so, and then off it was to college for me. I chose Roanoke College. Reason number one being that when I first started looking at schools I realized that the Southern boys I had met in Germany and France were much nicer and more polite than the boys I met up north. Now I realize that was something that their mamas had instilled deep in their souls, teaching them to yes ma'am as they were lying through their teeth. Reason number two was it was the prettiest place on God's green earth. So much for going to college for an education. That's kinda overrated anyway.
Well anyway, I spent four years in Salem and in the midst of all that fell for my northern next door neighbor who still shares my Southern abode. When we married Larry bought an alternative energy store in town and we moved back to Virginia. After marriage and before kids I took a job selling travel and got to see more of the world I so dearly loved to explore. I went to London for the weekend and spent 10 days with a bunch of crazy travel agents in Singapore and Hong Kong. Went to Bermuda a half dozen times. Cruised through the Caribbean, jetsetted to Switzerland.
So the gist of this musing is thus. I've spent a near lifetime flying in and out of the Roanoke airport. And each time, EACH TIME, I am blown away by that descent. Every season of every year. What glory! What beauty! I'm home!
Saturday, March 3, 2012
SW VA MOUNTAIN MAN LIVES UP TO HIS IMAGE
I started a new interim ministry job a couple of months ago which has proven very lucrative for my mental health aside from putting a little folding money in my pocket. Unfortunately said employ has cut down a bit on my unlimited time for introspective musings. So I enlisted the gentleman of the house who will now duly impress you with his manly pursuits.
Harvesting Trees: a Floyd Virginia Tradition
One of the great benefits of owning your own forested mountain land is the ability to harvest and mill lumber for various projects from woodworking to home construction. Recently, I found myself in need of a little more storage space around our farm so I decided to enclose one of the existing sheds attached to our barn. A simple enough project in itself, however, finding rough sawn lumber to match the existing barn siding proved to be difficult. While studying my shed project I noticed a tall straight white pine about 28. inches in diameter. The tree had very few limbs, was easily accessible, not more than a hundred feet away from where I was standing. A number of larger trees surrounded it; in fact the white pine seemed to be crowding out the more valuable hardwoods.
How do you get from a standing tree to a pile of lumber ready to be used for your project? I called the local Floyd County Forestry Department who gave me a number of saw mill operators that might be willing to take on the task. I found a great sawyer by the name of David Slusher who lives on Black Ridge Road on the way to Chateau Morrisette Winery. David operates a portable band saw mill and is highly experienced. All he needed was a list of lumber sizes and some logs and he’d “get started right away”.
So, out the door I went, cut down the tree, sawed it into lengths 6 inches longer than the finished boards I would need, loaded the logs onto a one ton dump truck and it was off to Black Ridge. A few days later David called to tell me my order was ready. Within an hour, I was back at the barn with a load of freshly sawn lumber ready for my board and batten project.
This was really the first time I had ever harvested my own timber for my own lumber demands. It dawned on me that people have been doing this in one form or another since the earliest days of colonization. Of course with time and progress, techniques may have changed, but the end results remain the same. If you own a timber rich tract of land, no matter what the size, with a little knowledge and careful consideration you can harvest enough lumber for your own needs, save money, support local tradesmen, steward resources and carry on a sustainable lifestyle richly steeped in SW Virginia tradition.
Labels:
farm lifel,
floyd land for sale,
Floyd VA,
Sustainability,
SW VA,
timber
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
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.
http://www.floydfest.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/cover_2011_thumb-300x290.jpg
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.
http://www.floydfest.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/cover_2011_thumb-300x290.jpg
Labels:
arts community,
Floyd Virginia Land for sale,
FloydFest,
NEA,
SW VA
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
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.
Labels:
Bent Mountain,
Bottom Creek,
Christmas Parade,
tractorsHr
Friday, November 11, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
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.
l
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.
l
Saturday, October 15, 2011
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?
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?
Thursday, October 6, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 8, 2011
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 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.
Friday, July 22, 2011
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.
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.
Labels:
Bent Mountain,
mountains,
sleeping porch,
summertime,
SW Virginia
Friday, July 15, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, June 24, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, June 17, 2011
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.
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.
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