I love a bargain!

I don't like to shop, but I love a bargain. Well, let me amend that. I do really enjoy combing through consignment stores and thrift shops looking for incredible bargains but I don't care about shopping for new stuff. Generally speaking contemporary stores are geared to sell you things you don't really need and didn't know you wanted until you saw it arranged on a display table in bright packaging = ooooh pretty. I mean, if you're shopping for a new sofa and you need a new sofa, that's one kind of shopping. But wandering around Wal*Mart or Macy's encourages one to fall victim to the machinations of marketing gurus and advertising hacks. Give me a Salvation Army Thrift Store or a mom and pop antique shop any day. And salvage stores are fun when you have a big project, like a kitchen renovation.

My husband Russ and I are cut from the same cloth in that regard. We both love old, idiosyncratic stuff. We would happily spend hours together driving around from one target bargain destination to another and probably don't do it as often as we'd like. At one point several years ago my husband found a solid set of cabinets at a salvage store for $40 and couldn't pass up the deal. He figured they'd end up in his workshop for storage. Little did we know they were going to end up as part of our kitchen cabinets in our little farmhouse in town.

Before we bought this place I pilfered one of the larger cabinets for an island in our rented lakehouse. For two years we rented a charming cottage on Lake Winnipesaukee. We got reduced rent in exchange for fixing up the place a little bit -- something that suited both Russ and myself. Russ, who is nothing if not handy and creative, fixed up the doors of the old cabinet and placed beadboard around the sides and back and then trimmed out the bottom. A good coat of white paint and viola! I had an island that added much needed countertop in our modest little lake cottage kitchen. I will say this, a little time, paint, and hardware can go along way. Oh yeah, some new flooring too. Another bargain Russ found because the flooring had some minor flaws. The lakehouse kitchen went from this:

To this:

When all was said and done however, at that time we couldn't afford a decent countertop to the island so I had to live with plywood for two years. I kept it covered with seasonal tableclothes and made do. That island moved with us to the new house and it became one end of the massive island that was going to become the focal point of the new kitchen.

Despite all the bargain hunting we did splurge on a few things in our new kitchen, the main thing being a six-burner Imperial gas range that was going to live in the middle of the huge island. I love to cook and I love being in the kitchen and it was extremely important to me to have a kick-ass domestic goddess zone to call my own. Three things I really wanted: a beastly gas range, an electric wall oven, and a slate or soapstone sink. The slate sink was in, now came time for the range.

The island was a project that was months in the making.

An Immoveable Object

First things first. That sink has got to go.

After we passed papers my husband sat down with some grid paper and a pencil and began planning the layout of the kitchen. After we passed papers I started shopping. In my marriage we are nothing if not gender stereotypes and since I'm the cook in the family my husband was delighted to have the opportunity to create for me the kitchen I've always wanted. While I'm not an incredibly picky person, I do like what I like and there were some things that weren't negotiable for me when we were looking for a house. I wanted a big kitchen. My husband wanted a big barn. Living at the lake house was dreamy in a lot of ways but ultimately it was a summer cottage and as such, it had a summer cottage kitchen, meaning it was small. The only real working kitchen counter space I had was an island my husband built for me using a salvaged cabinet he had originally purchased to use in his (some day) workshop in the (some day) barn. That island was now earmarked to be the cornerstone of our new kitchen island in the new house. So while the new house was only offering a Naked Kitchen at least it was a big Naked Kitchen.

But back to that sink. Yes it was an old-fashioned porcelain sink that is common to farmhouses but this girl had certainly seen better days. I played around with the notion of repairing her and sewing a little skirt to hid her silly legs and extended belly, but on the list of things I knew I really wanted was a slate or soapstone sink, so Bessie the porcelain sink was destined to live out the rest of her life as the barn sink or perhaps a garden sink. The placement of the sink in Naked Kitchen was one thing that wasn't negotiable because we didn't have the resources to move the plumbing, nor was there any real need to do so.

As mentioned, we were working on a limited budget so my shopping was not based on casually flipping pages in a catalogue or making pilgrimages to Ikea or Ethan Allen. No, I was hardcore, camping out at salvage shops, foraging at local antique stores, and feverishly clicking away on Craig's List and eBay. What I realized while I was bargain-hunting was that I was not only looking for good deals but I was being "green," a term I really kind of hate because for some people being green means using their plastic grocery store bags more than once, like to pick up their dog's droppings or lining their bathroom trash can. For people like my parents, who grew up during the Depression, being "green" is just common sense -- don't throw something away if there's still some life in it. I was remodeling a kitchen during the Great Recession so I liked the idea of being both frugal and reusing items that were still useful.

My first major score in that regard was a slate sink I found on Craig's List.

This sink was listed on Craig's List for $850 at a location about an hour north of the new house. The owner discovered the old girl on the floor of his garage behind an antique car. I found a similar but longer sink a couple of hours away in Maine for only $600, so I used what little persuasive charm I had to talk the guy down to $600 for the sink that was geographically closer. It worked! So my husband and I hopped right into the truck and picked up our first major purchase for the new kitchen.

Of course all recycled items need a little TLC before you can lock and load, but this sink proved to need remarkably little work. There are a couple of significant nicks, but in our opinion it adds to the old house charm we're looking for. Some Brasso on the "Monson Maine Slate Company" plate on the front of the sink and a good rubbing with mineral oil brought out her natural rich beauty.

What we didn't realize until after we bought the sink was that it would be a challenge to find fixtures for the 18 inch faucet openings...

Creating a Kitchen

I'm a complete victim of lifestyle/decorating magazines -- This Old House, Handyman, Old House Journal, Martha Stewart Living, Country Living -- I've always loved reading magazines about fixing up old homes or getting all crafty during certain holidays, so when we knew we were going to buy a 220 year old house I began to study these magazines like scripture, memorizing styles that I liked, studying color schemes, wedging sticky notes onto pages that had something on them I'd like to replicate, and otherwise fantasizing about my dream home. And just as often, reading about how to modernize something quirky that goes with an old house, like floors that aren't level, having one electrical outlet per room, or figuring out how to eliminate mystery drafts.

Because it doesn't quite look like Martha Stewart's Maine estate "Skylands" (yes, I know the names Martha has for her homes) our new house fell a bit short of "dream" status. In all honesty though, it's pretty close, or as close as I want to get without the the benefit of a full-time housekeeper and groundskeeper. AND! the property came with an unusual bonus... a naked kitchen.

We all know that the kitchen is a key selling point for any home so we surmised that Naked Kitchen (see right) was probably one of the main reasons why the house had been on the market for so long. Naked Kitchen was basically one large, long room. No counters or cabinets at all. All this room had to offer was a standalone refrigerator, a lonely gas range, and a spindly looking old-fashioned porcelin sink with it's belly and pipes shamefully exposed. When we first went through the house I desperately wanted to grab a curtain and cover it's scrawny 2X4 legs and provide it with some dignity. While the cranberry-painted trim had a period look the walls were sponge-painted a yellow gold. Very, very wrong.

But my husband and I are optimists. We tend to see all the possibilities in something rather than all the problems so for us Naked Kitchen was a selling point. We could make our dream kitchen because all we had right now was a big blank slate! There was just one problem: budget.

The house was a short sell and we were shopping on a short-sell budget. For the past two years we had been renting a small cottage on a lake in central New Hampshire, a cottage that got much smaller when my older stepson dropped out of college and moved back in with us. With a certain budget in mind my husband and I started househunting, one of those couples in a position to take advantage of the disaster zone that the housing market had become in recent years. We had been casually looking around for 12 or so months and even considered an old farmhouse that had not yet been outfitted with indoor plumbing or heat. Yes boys and girls, believe it or not there are still some folks who live on the farm like it's 1910.

Anyway, we fell in love with this house almost immediately. We lumbered through the tedious process of purchasing a short sell property and when we finally signed the papers Naked Kitchen became our challenge. The mission: Create a kitchen we could love on a shoestring budget.

Fallinter

You know, like we were enjoying Fall and we were choosing our pumpkins and picking apples, considering that it was probably about time to unpack our winter boots and gloves, and start getting the wood into the woodshed. And then we got 16 inches of snow overnight on October 30th and it was suddenly winter. Fallinter.

I didn't even get my bulbs into the ground! In my memory I don't recall seeing snow before Halloween. All I can say is thank goodness my husband found a deal on a snowblower a few months ago.

So I'm planning on enjoying a snowy Sunday at home. Puttering around the house and doing some baking. A classic apple pie is on the horizon, as well as my stepson's favorite winter (or Fallinter) cookie. I use an Ina Garten recipe that can't be beat. Try it, you'll like it.

Ina's Ultimate Ginger Cookie

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup dark brown sugar, lightly packed
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1/3 cup unsulfured molasses
1 extra-large egg, at room temperature
1 1/4 cups chopped crystallized ginger (6 ounces)
Granulated sugar, for rolling the cookies

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line 2 sheet pans with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, sift together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, ginger, and salt and then combine the mixture with your hands. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the brown sugar, oil, and molasses on medium speed for 5 minutes. Turn the mixer to low speed, add the egg, and beat for 1 minute. Scrape the bowl with a rubber spatula and beat for 1 more minute. With the mixer still on low, slowly add the dry ingredients to the bowl and mix on medium speed for 2 minutes. Add the crystallized ginger and mix until combined.

Scoop the dough with 2 spoons or a small ice cream scoop. With your hands, roll each cookie into a 1 3/4-inch ball and then flatten them lightly with your fingers. Press both sides of each cookie in granulated sugar and place them on the sheet pans. Bake for exactly 13 minutes. The cookies will be crackled on the top and soft inside. Let the cookies cool on the sheets for 1 to 2 minutes, then transfer to wire racks to cool completely

Martha Stewart = FAIL!

Oh, the joys of old home ownership. We moved into the house in the middle of June and have spent essentially the entire summer working on it -- painting it inside and out, renovating the kitchen, scraping, priming, and painting the porch, floor to ceiling. I feel like my right hand has actually turned into a Purdy angled paint brush and edging has become my form of caligraphy.

Finally it was time to have a housewarming. Fall is here, the trees are ablaze, my husband can still take the kids out in the Model A, and the goats have settled in. The kitchen isn't quite finished, I'm still painting some of the drawers and all the hardware isn't on yet, but all the housewarming tips I recently read said "just do it." Much like trying to pick the perfect timing to have a baby, there is never really a perfect time for inviting people into your "new" old home, there will always be a missing knob, an unpainted corner, a broken doo-dad. Just do it.

The housewarming was great. Lots of folks showed up and we had a great time, but WOW, am I out of practice on throwing a party. Two years in the tiny lakeside cottage that preceeded buying this house limited me to family events and the occasional summer beach party where it's mainly burgers on the grill and bowls of chips. In the summer it's all about the weather, which you cannot control. When it gets chilly it's all about the food and whether or not you're a good conversationalist/housekeeper. Martha Stewart seems to be able to do both. But she also has a personal assistant and a gardener. And lots of money. The issue of Martha Stewart Living where she had a photo spread about a dinner party in her barn still haunts me.

I was afraid of making food to early and having it sit out so I underestimated the time I would need to get everything ready. The quiche came out at the right time but I never even got to the deviled eggs at all because once people started to arrive I simply didn't have time to make them. Same with the tomato salad I had planned to make. Which is stupid because both could have easily been made earlier that morning and put in the spare fridge -- I was just so busy cleaning that I didn't plan well. I'm totally out of practice.

Of course it doesn't help at all that my husband was out of town for three days right before the party. He literally got home after midnight Friday night, then he chose to leave the party about an hour in so he could see his son's soccer game. He was gone for two hours leaving me alone to entertain. Jerk. lol.

Oh well, live and learn. I'll just have to throw a Christmas open house to keep the ball rolling and get back in the game.

Things that worked? Cherry tomatoes mixed with bocconcini and fresh basil drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Green olives stuffed with blue cheese. The ubiquitous platters of cheese, fruit, and crackers. Ham and cheese quiche. Platters of high-end salami with sliced cucumbers. Chili with nachos for scooping.

Guests love to bring dessert and THAT I remembered, so I made a batch of mint brownies and let the guests do the rest. They did not disappoint. Apple crisp, pumpkin pies, and cookies showed up just like I thought they would.

I'm thinking December 10th for a Christmas Party. That gives me eight weeks to get my act together.

Fleeting Pastoral Bliss

It really is a nice moment of the day, when I have time on a weekend morning to take my coffee out to the barn and sit with the animals. For whatever reason, most of the chickens want to stand around me. The goats too, so I sit on an antique milking stool sipping coffee surrounded by three affectionate goatlings and 6 or 8 chickens that are cooing and clucking softly. It's a nice time of peacefulness.

The happy sounds of an animal is balm for my soul. I spend so much time around people in crisis, people who are complaining, venting, demanding, neurotic, that the calm and contented sounds of our little farm family go a long way to making me feel like there is some balance in the world. In contrast to many of the people I work with, our animals ask for very little. Food, water, shelter, a scratch behind the ear, and in particular they just seem to want me near them. On some primal level they feel comfort from having their humans around and in turn, providing for their basic needs becomes a form of meditation. You don't have to think long and hard about cleaning out a stall, filling a water bucket, refreshing a feeder with alfalfa pellets or chicken crumble. The animals stand around watching you shovel and lift and tote and sweep without a single critical thought in their head. They don't offer a better way to spread the lime. They don't try to top you with stories about how back in the day they used to clean 100 stalls in the winter without gloves or a proper coat. They just watch and then they move in to enjoy the comforts of your labor.

I think of them being appreciative but I know the response is really more basic than that. Assuming you are a good and responsible animal owner, your presence translates into a full belly and clean stall. Good things happen when a particular biped comes on the scene. The bowl magically fills, the water becomes clean, the cold wind is lessened, and they are soothed by pats and scratches and kisses.

People look at us funny when we tell them we have goats and chickens. Generally speaking we don't run in those kinds of circles. My husband is a manufacturer's rep for a high-end product and I run a non-profit with my Master's degree diploma hanging on the wall behind me. But you say "goats and chickens" and I think people lock on an image of a goat tethered to a junk car in the front yard nibbling on tin cans, a rooster perched up on the roof crowing loudly and annoying the neighbors. Instead, what I have is a lifestyle that is part fleeting pastoral serenity welded to modern comforts and convienences. We have these animals because we want to, not out of necessity. They are a hobby and a source of pleasure, not survival.

Becoming a gentleman/woman farmer is a new adventure for us. I feel like I've been blessed with so many interesting and varied chapters in my life -- this adventure with my husband feels like a comfortable warm coat as I move into the second half of my story here in the village.

Greenville, a respite.

Greenville is one of those small New England towns where nothing ever changes but it seems like every summer when we come up here there's always something new to wonder about. Usually one small business has opened and another one has closed, typically a mom and pop restaurant but sometimes a novelty or antique shop. The population is somewhere in the neighborhood of 600, so we’re seriously talking small town here.

I can make the same observation though, for all the equally small (or smaller!) towns we drive through on the 25 mile stretch of Route 7 that carries us from Exit 157 off of I-95 to the crest of the hill that slowly dips down into Greenville, Maine. This summer I noticed that the Fish Market in Corinna had closed after being open for close to four years. That in particular made me sad as I wanted that little shack to succeed. I mean, the words “Maine” and “seafood” just belong together, even if you are 150 miles inland. Plus, I love all types of seafood and hate to see any source shut down. The one time my husband and I stopped into the Fish Market however, we found the shop pathetically under stocked and completely lacking in charm so we never went back. Too far of a drive when there is a little old retired fisherman parked on the side of the road in Greenville with battered coolers of lobster and clams and fresh picked peas lined up in the back of his truck. A handwritten sign declares the product but not the price. I’m not entirely sure if it’s the same man every year though, as the weathered faces of 70 year old Maine men, with their distinctive accent old-fashioned accent and lack of eye contact start to blur together.

My father, my grandfather’s only son, inherited this house 25 years ago from his childless Great Uncle Ross, who in turn had inherited it from a woman I only know as “the crazy lady” who was his companion for many years. They lived together in the house until she died and then Ross continued here for many years after until he died in a nursing home in Dover-Foxcroft. I think he might have been a little bit crazy too.

At any rate, we’ve been coming up here for summer vacations since my father inherited the house, and for the last five or so years it’s been mainly me and my sister and our families because mom and dad are getting too old to make the five hour drive comfortably, although they do try to make it up here at least once a year, usually after Labor Day to close the place up for the winter.

It’s an extraordinarily simple house. Roughly 1,200 square feet and absolutely square with a dormer on one side where the window for the upstairs bedroom sits. Two bedrooms, one modest bathroom, a simple kitchen, a living room, and one all-purpose room that has at times served as a second living room, a dining room, or extra bedroom.

Like the town, this house never changes. Year after year we come up here in the warm months, unlock the door and step into a place both familiar and new. We haven’t seen it since the year before so in a way it’s like going off to a new land that’s free from the chores and needs of home, but it’s also excruciatingly familiar. The summer sofa in the screened in porch still has the patriotic red, white, and blue throw tucked carefully over it’s cushions. The little ceramic dogs are still lined up like canine soldiers on the upper sill of the living room doorway. Pictures of Greenville from 50 years ago still adorn the walls and the handsome oak woodwork still brings warmth and charm to the humble rooms. Even though the last remodel of the bathroom and kitchen were in the 1970s the fixtures don’t seem worn because, frankly, they get so little actual use. So on the one hand we’re are “away” and on the other hand we are “home away from home.” It feels nice, being here.

My sister and I are up here this weekend outwardly to bring up a new (old) sofa that she has, and also to get away from the daily demands of home, teenagers, animals, and husbands for a couple of days. My sister is my only sibling and my best friend. We talked a lot about friendship this weekend, something I’ll probably write about later, and we laughed a lot, which we usually do.

Settling Into a Routine

My husband and I are settling into somewhat of a routine. A routine that will change dramatically when the doelings are fully grown and milking, but we have a way to go before we get there (thank God). For the past week we've been getting up and making our coffee and going out and opening up the barn and sitting with our new family members.

Unlike the beagles, who would make a break for it if we opened up the door of the house, the kids prefer to stand around with us, getting their heads scratched and munching hay from our hands. The outside world isn't really calling them -- they're homebodies. Adorable little Ruth has taken to nibbling our fingers if we stop petting her, kind of like how a dog will bump your hand if he wants attention. Boaz and Ruth, who are more similar in size, butt heads now and then. And when I was talking to Boaz after a sip of coffee I got the most amazing expression from him. His face was merely inches from mine and his top lip curled up while he stared directly into my eyes.

Now, a little research revealed that this could be a moderately alarming development. Goats, horses, and other animals display the flehmen response, which is a curling back of the upper lip, as a way of better examining scents. ALSO, it is displayed when a goat detects the smell of urine and is checking out the scene for a little hanky panky. Boaz was staring at me, more specifically my mouth, when he did the flehmen.

Okay. Ew.

Is our little guy starting to feel "the urge?" Or is he trying to tell me that my morning breath scented with coffee smells like a toilet?

Both options are disturbing. The first possibility could be a problem for us as we don't want Boaz getting ideas before he undergoes snippy-snippy at the vet next week. We won't be breeding Boaz with his cousins as they all share the same grandfather. Plus there's that stinky buck thing I already mentioned. The second possibility spells peril for my husband who must face me each morning before I brush my teeth.
I'll start brushing my teeth BEFORE visiting the new babies and see if I get better results.

I think the kids are also settling in because instead of bawling when we left them to get ready for the day they just quietly wandered out into the field and started browsing away.

Becoming a Goat Herder

So we've taken the next step toward becoming a "farm," as much as an acre "in the village" can be a farm. A Gentleman's Farm perhaps?

 

This week we brought home three baby goats who are joining our 12 chickens in the barn behind the house. We decided on Nubians because they're sort of a good cross of goat. My 6'5 husband put the kabosh on Nigerian Dwarf goats because they are too small. Nubians are a pretty good size with does weighing around 135 pounds and bucks coming in around 175 pounds, standing at, 30 inches and 35 inches at the withers respectively. Plus, I absolutely love their huge floppy ears. See the picture below to see what I mean.

 

Then I read an excellent book "Goat Song," a gift from my sister-in-law when she heard we were thinking about getting goats, that is all about a couple who moved from New York City who bought a farm in Vermont and started raising Nubian goats. The author, Brad Kessler, made Nubians sound so sweet, funny, and mischevious that I was sold on the breed by the time I finished the book.

 

In a twist of fate I was searching for kids (baby goats) for sale on Craig's List and came across an ad for kids by the author of "Goat Song," although I didn't know it at the time. I emailed for information and a few days later we found ourselves driving three hours to see our potential new kids and to select a buckling, which was thrown in for free as a way to avoid the little guy from becoming a meat goat. Doelings turn into does which can be bred and then milked. Bucklings grow into bucks which then go into rut and become obnoxious, stinky, smelly horn dogs. Needless to say most bucklings go the way of the meat market.

 

But we did want a herd of sorts and two does seemed like a small herd. Two does and a wether (castrated male) seemed more respectable. Plus two girls and a boy would be the perfect bookend for our household. In the house live Katie and Suki, our female beagles, along with Lucky, our neutered male beagle. The barn needed a similar balance. Also, we fell in love with a dappled little guy when we went to visit Brad and Dona's farm and that completely sealed the deal.

 

I can't tell you how funny it was to put hay in the back of a black Escalade and load in three baby goats.

Ruth, Naomi, and Boaz traveled quite nicely with us. Brad called it -- the kids fussed a bit for the first 15 minutes or so with Boaz letting rip a few ear splitting screams initially. Nubians are very vocal animals.

 

I sat in back to keep an eye on them and Ruth, the youngest and smallest of the three kids, leapt into my lap after a few minutes. The  kids are all super friendly and people-oriented in large part because they were bottle-fed. I soothed Ruth and let her stay there for awhile but my husband was concerned that she'd pee on the leather seats so off she went back with the others. They were troopers on the winding roads but I think poor Boaz suffered from motion sickness. My clue was when he parked himself in a corner, head down, for a good 90 minutes. He seemed to rally though when we hit the highway in New Hampshire.

Naomi is quite the love. She stood on the edge of the tilted and folded dog crate that leaned toward the back seat where I was sitting for virtually the entire trip, alternating between nuzzling my arm and gazing intently out the front window. For the first couple of hours she would shy away every time a car passed us in the other direction, but she's a quick study and after that seemed to realize it wasn't a threat. She made the least noise of the trio and seems game for the new adventure.

Really, they all did very well. I was concerned when we first put them in the new stall because they ate hay non-stop and we just weren't sure if that was okay or not, but a quick search online seemed to indicate that a goat can't overeat good hay so we let them be and turned out the lights. At last check they were quiet and we assume asleep. We didn't want to turn on the light and take the chance of disturbing them.

I'm really amazed at how intelligent and wise these little guys are despite the gangly limbs and youthful, naked curiosity. Perhaps we got some old soul goats? I like to think so.