Please don’t ask me to pass the mustard.  I wouldn’t have a clue where it is right now.  If you’d like to borrow a certain pair of cute shoes, you’re out of luck for at least 3 weeks.  And if I get a paper cut while moving, I’m out of luck because there’s no WAY I could find a band-aid.  We’re (almost) packed up, and I haven’t even gotten back to California yet!  We’ve had help, and John’s there overseeing and taking pictures.  Probably a little heavy on the later, god love him. The cowgirl hat above is standing tall, anxious to be one of the most sought after possessions in less than a week.  Farmers need hats.  And though it’s beyond me how this actually happened, we’ve become farmers.  Yippee!

Before

During

The clock looks a bit lonely in the picture directly above.  I guess she’s still got teapot, but not for long, I’m sure.  I didn’t call the second picture AFTER because Dad kindly pointed out that the final step in this adventure is really the farmhouse kitchen, whereas DURING was taken mid-pack.  Photos mostly down and appliances moved, I’m going to miss this little (little) kitchen.  She and I wrote a cookbook together.  We learned how to preserve lemons, make a mean pot roast and burn a potholder in the oven (yup.) My neighbors would walk by the kitchen window with a “Hi Molls!”  And, I cooked to the sound of children playing in the courtyard.  It was a great place to live.

Actually, it all looks a bit depressing right now.  No soul.  No happy buzz of daily life.  This is the familiar part where a bit of sadness creeps into the heart and the head gets filled up with very tangible memories.  Each grand stage of life is beautiful.  And, each stage eventually ends no matter how long it lasted: moves, retirement, job changes, children, even death.  Whatever the circumstances, it always gets a bit messy before it gets straight.

xo – Organic Spark

LOTS.

That is my Jeopardy formed answer to the question, “How much has Molly been working on a brand new website for Organic Spark?” I begin so, in honor of both a super-computer beating a human on Jeopardy and my own computer dominating my race to the finish line of this new site.

A slave to my computer’s every need, my eyes become fixed and hair frazzled. Pulled along by the organized homework assignments of my amazing web designer (and cousin) Damon Morda of Branded Clever. Damon is turning a big, unsettling project into something that is actually manageable for a person who gets a bit big-eyed around core reconstruction involving technology. He is organized, talented, stylish and almost always… one step ahead of me. Thank you Damon!

The answer to the question was sadly, no. We forgot the camera.

For those of you with a queasy stomach when it comes to raw meat, I’d suggest we temporarily part ways and meet back next week, same time same place. Because we’re talking pig meat today, with pictures.

A few weeks ago, my mom and I attended the Weston A. Price Foundation yearly conference. Mom departed a day early leaving me solo for a workshop called Porkshop that professed to teach proper pig butchering. To be frank, I was a little apprehensive. I’ve been known to pink glove my way back into full-on meat eating, and each bold new step makes me pause and re-accept my perspective on the necessity of a proper cycle of life. Staring at a recognizably dead animal is no exception.

Slowly, over the course of the past 6 years, my diet has done a complete 180˚. Completely instinctual changes have lead my plate away from vegetarianism into a carnivorous nutrient-dense diet. Foods that would have never – ever – ever touched my hands, my plate and certainly not my mouth are making me feel better and stronger with each passing day. I’ve crossed thresholds, as seemingly simple as eating a bird to more complex, like cooking liver and using chicken feet to increase the gelatin content of my broth. Looking back, I’ve learned a few tricks, and I’d like to share them with you.

Mom and I just got back from the Weston A. Price Foundation yearly conference. Here we are, front row, first arrivals to one of our favorite lectures. In the words of my husband, N-E-R-D-S!

Last year, I described how the conference made me want to run around and shove the whole experience in my purse. That feeling must only be experienced by first-timers, right? Nope. This year, I got so excited that I lost all personal belongings. Literally, I would leave my phone at the sign in booth, and before sprinting back downstairs to snag it, I’d set my camera down on the water-fountain. Press repeat.

From browsing for costume supplies at the local craft store to making homemade candy apples, I think Halloween is one awesome holiday. This year, I dressed as an egg. Not just any egg, I was a pastured egg, complete with the bright yellow/orange yolk that only chickens who run around the fields eating bugs & worms can achieve. And Todd? Although it may appear to be a raincoat, Todd is a banana. Food themes this year. Surprise, surprise…

As I’m sure you noticed, Halloween fell on a Sunday. No one wants a raging party on a school night, so we opted for chili, spiced mulled cider (recipe next week!) and caramel apples. Friends popped by as they pleased, until we had to begin carting in the outdoor furniture for supplemental seating. I love a bit of wholesome chaos.

Ocean City, MD, my husband’s hometown and our marriage destination, occasionally gets a bad wrap, and sigh… I get it, but I don’t agree. Like judging Los Angeles for what’s seen on 90210 or a salad for the iceberg disaster served by a middle school lunchroom, there’s party vibe to Ocean City that often acts as the town’s extroverted poster-child. The blocks near the Route 50 Bridge entrance to the island are lined with carnival rides, crude-named restaurants, t-shirt shops and pulsing bars, which not-so-subtly reflect a tone of rampant drunkenness spiked with cotton candy-induced sugar highs. There’s a mindlessness and a bit of complicated swirling energy, more due to recklessness than crime. But layered throughout and standing firm, a quaint beauty refuses to be sipped away.

Todd and I have our routines. In the morning, we prefer to head left out our back gate, walking towards a busy, friendly street, home to The Farms, an authentic corner store that keeps a box of dog biscuits by the door. Todd maintains a pretty fast clip till he reaches that store and puts on the breaks with equal fervor, until he’s had his morning biscuit, or two. I chat. He chews, and we depart with a wave and a trot.