Goin' to Town

It's funny.  Since I've moved to Central California and out into the country, I find driving anywhere more of a decision process than before.

When I lived in Southern California I never thought twice about driving 30+ miles to work, or jumping in my car to go to a store 15 miles away.

Now that I live on the outskirts of Paso Robles I plan my day around "going to town."  Here's the kicker--it's only ten miles away.  Ten miles.  That's it.  So why is it such a big deal?

Yesterday I had to go into town twice!  That was one time too many!  And I ended up missing a meeting because that would have meant going back into town again. 

Granted, the road into town is a small, one-lane, windy road for about half the drive.  But it still only takes 15 minutes.  It used to take 15 minutes to drive to the grocery store when I lived in Southern California, and the store was only four blocks away!

People who come to visit my house the first time always say I live "way out in the boondocks."  Really?

So goin' to town is now a planned event.  All errands that need to be done are carefully mapped out and lists are made.  I wouldn't want to forget anything while I'm in town, because if it doesn't get done then, it's gonna have to wait until next time.

My Favorite Wine

January 19, 2010

Because of my profession--a transportation/tour company owner in wine country--I often get asked, "What's your favorite wine?"  What's my favorite wine?  That's like asking, "Who's your favorite kid?"

As part of my job I have to check out new tasting rooms and taste the wine.  I have to know what the wineries are serving so I know how to fit them in to my customers' requests. It's a difficult job, but I'm willing to sacrifice myself to do this for the betterment of my company and for my customers.  Are you buying any of this?  Neither am I.  But it's a good excuse.  And it really does help me to make recommendations when needed.

So what kind of wine do I like?  Just about everything.  It just depends.  It depends on my mood.  It depends on the weather.  It depends on what I'm eating--or not eating.  And it depends on what's being poured at the moment.

I go through phases.  Sometimes I like big, bold reds--Petite Sirah (yes, it's spelled Sirah when it's Petite, not Syrah like when it's not), Cabernet Franc, and Zinfandel.  Sometimes I like Sauvignon Blanc or Viognier or a dry Riesling.  And often times I like everything in between. 

I don't often like Rose or Pinot Noir, but I found a few of those I like as well.

I very often don't like White Zinfandel or other blush wines, but in a pinch...

And I like dessert wines like Late Harvest Zinfandel or Port--with chocolate, of course.

When it comes to pairing wine with food, I know just what to do.  Pour myself a glass of wine, then ask myself, "Now, what food would go good with this wine?"

So what's my favorite wine?  What day is it?

Country Girl

I'm a country girl.  Yes, most of you knew that about me already.  But people who don't know me can tell at glance that I'm a country girl.

A dead give away is my truck (okay, it's really an SUV--but it is a Rodeo!).  It's always dusty or muddy--I live down a mile-long dirt road!  I try to keep it clean.  Honest!  I realize first impressions mean a lot, and since I do have two businesses, I try to maintain a good first impression.  But the first impression usually says "Country Girl."

If the dust or mud on my truck isn't enough, opening any of the doors to my Rodeo will say "Country Girl" because hay will fall out.  And the fact that I know how to drive in the mud or that I can drive a big motor home while hauling a horse trailer might be another hint.

Usually my speech doesn't give me away.  I don't have a drawl (unless I want to).  And I don't say "y'all"--much.  But one look at the way I'm dressed and you'll say "Country Girl."  Blue jeans, cowboy boots and a fringed leather jacket are my usual attire.

So, yes.  I'm a country girl.  And proud of it!  Now ya'll wanna drop in for some venison stew?

Morning Ritual

January 14, 2010

What's your morning ritual?  Mine usually begins with the alarm going off at 6 a.m. and my husband hitting the snooze button at least twice.  I never "snooze" between the alarms.  I just lay there thinking of all the things I need to do for the day and dreading getting out from under the warm covers.

When I finally do get up, I head for the kitchen to make a cup of Chai tea or coffee.  Whichever I choose, it's decaf.  I never was a caffeine junky, and I gave up caffeine about 10 years ago.  I don't miss it.  I just like having the warm liquid with lots of milk.  It's one of the ways I get my calcium for the day.

While sipping my coffee or tea, I make my son's lunch.  He has a ritual too--he always has a peanut butter sandwich for lunch.  And, if I'm not mad at my husband, I make his lunch too.  Then I kiss my husband and son goodbye as they head off to work and school.

Next, I head for my computer.  I check emails, hoping for a thousand new inquiries--okay, at least a few signed contracts--on either of my businesses.  Then I look at the clock, realize in shock that it's been an hour since I sat down at the computer and not the 15 minutes I thought it's been, and run down to the barn to feed the animals.

If I have time, I stop by the garden to check on the latest veggies I'm trying to grow--right now it's lettuce and spinach.  Then back to the house for some exercise.  Usually I walk/run at least 30 minutes on my treadmill while catching up on a travel or home improvement show.

Then comes one of my favorite parts--a nice, long, very hot shower.

I won't bore you with the rest of my day--I've bored you long enough with this blog, if you've even bothered to read this far.  But the point is, it's nice to have a ritual to my day.  I haven't had a morning ritual much since I left the corporate world about six years ago.  And though you can practically make a commercial out of my morning routine, I cherish it.

Cravings

January 13, 2010

Do you ever get cravings? I mean specific cravings. For specific foods and/or combinations. I do. All the time. And they are VERY specific. If I don't satisfy that particular craving for that specific thing--like trying to substitute with something close--then I still crave it.

I used to get asked if I was pregnant when I would voice a specific craving. No, I'm not. In fact, when I was pregnant, I DIDN'T have specific cravings--because I craved EVERYTHING! I've learned not to voice my cravings so much anymore--at least around non-family members--because I always get strange looks, and "the question." But I'll share them with you because I know you won't give me funny looks.

Some of the things I crave that are very specific are: grits with butter and Tobasco, peanut butter and pickle sandwich, french fries with seasalt and malt vinegar, broiled chicken breast on a wheat bun with mustard and pickles, crab legs with a dip of lemon, thyme, and real butter (not that oily stuff they call butter). Oh, and don't forget cottage cheese with Nacho Cheese Dorito's as a spoon. This morning it was Maple Nut ice cream.  And the list goes on.

I also like hot sauce on just about everything. But I need specific hot sauces for specific things like Tobasco on the eggs, but Tapatio on nachos or chips or chili (yes, I put hot sauce on my chili), or salsa on my tacos.

What are some of your specific cravings? I'd love to hear about them because I'm always willing to try new things, and, who knows, maybe I can add to my list after trying some of yours! I'll be waiting to hear...

Counting Sheep

January 11, 2010

I count sheep, and it works!  No, not when I can't sleep, though if I haven't counted sheep, it does keep me awake.  But I'm talking about my REAL sheep. 

Every evening I make the trek to the barn to feed the animals, and I start my mental check of everyone.  The chickens are already in their coop for the night, so I don't bother them.  My ram is waiting faithfully in his pen to be fed and locked in for the night, so I throw a flake of hay to him and close his gate.  The cows are waiting by the barn door for their flake of hay, so I toss them their share.  And my barn dog, Rocky, starts spinning around in happiness anticipating his Puppy Chow.

By this time the sheep have heard me enter the barn and they all coming running and "talking" to me.  This is their evening ritual--to come to the barn for the night and get fed.  It's a good habit for them to have, and it allows me to do what I've really come to do--count sheep.

Why do I count them?  Because over the years I've discovered that they can disappear from time to time.  Several have died of old age; some have been stuck in the fence while trying to reach that tasty morsel of grass on the other side; and lots have died in the jaws of my neighbors' dogs.  So when the count doesn't reach the correct number, I begin hunting for the missing.

Luckily that hasn't happened much lately for two reasons:  1) my neighbor has been criminal prosecuted for allowing her dogs to roam free and onto my property--yes, our court system does work some times, and it was all done by the District Attorney, not me.  And, 2) Rocky, the barn dog, is a Great Pyrenees puppy who is currently about 6 inches taller than me when he stands on his hind legs and out-weights me by about 10 pounds.  But he's only a baby of nine-months, so he'll get bigger.  And he loves his sheep!  So, needless to say, their aren't too many creatures, canine or otherwise, willing to take Rocky on.

But the habbit is now established.  I have to count sheep each night so I can sleep.

Fire Building: Man vs. Woman

January 8, 2010

I love fireplaces.  I love sitting by them with a cup of tea or a glass of wine while reading a novel or watching old movies.  It's one of the best ways to relax on a rainy day or to create that romantic mood on date night.

I've had a fireplace in almost every house I've every lived in.  And when I lived in Oregon with my dad, the fireplace and our woodburning store was the main way we heated the house.

So when I scoped out the home I now live in, I made sure it had a fireplace.  But not just any fireplace--a double-sided fireplace with a whalebone fossil encased in limestone as a focal point.

Now, I don't go for those fakey electric fireplaces, or even a gas-burning one.  If it isn't real wood, it isn't a real fire.  Some nice sticks to get the fire going, some smaller pieces to feed it once it gets going, and a few big logs to stoke it up and keep it burning for awhile is the only way to go.  And the wood?  Oak.  It burns the longest and I've got plenty of it.

But isn't it amazing the difference between how a woman starts a fire and how a man starts one?  I start by crumpling up newspaper to make a bed both on top of the logholder and under it.  I put some small sticks and twigs on top of the newspaper, then put a few small logs on top of that.  Then I strike a match, apply it to a few places on the lowest newspaper, and watch it go.

My husband, on the other hand, takes fire starting as a battle.  He doesn't use newspaper--he doesn't need that whimpy stuff.  He puts the logs on the logholder--no sticks--then chooses his weapon:  a plumbers torch!  He pops the lighter, and, with a deathly look on his face, attacks the logs with a high flame.  He keeps at it until either the logs give up in defeat or he wages war with the additional amo of a few pieces of cardboard.

Originally I thought this was just something my husband did.  I mean, my dad never used a torch of any kind to start a fire.  But when my step-dad came for Thanksgiving, I noticed the same look on his face as he reached for the torch--that same murderous expression as he attacked the wood and the same pleasure on his face when the wood relented.

Funny.  I seem to get the fire started with as good, if not better, results with my one match and crumpled newspaper than the men do with their torch.  So is it the pleasure they get from using yet another tool or from conquering yet another foe?  What's your take?