The first morning after we moved in this week, we took our 8 year old back to the city for the final morning of his football camp, and also needed to finish moving some things out of our old house. We had a big covered trailer that was being pulled by one of the farm trucks. I then realized that I’d be riding, up front, in the farm truck, in rush hour, to the city.
Farm trucks and I have a messy (no pun intended) relationship. I appreciate that they are work horses and they have helped me do things I’d otherwise not have been able to do (pick up & transport that cool, big piece of furniture that I found on Craig’s List or carry the 40 bags of mulch we needed, when re-landscaping etc).
However, they are dirty and I really, really like clean vehicles.
They are big too.
You can’t just step into one - you have to hoist yourself up.
Also, there are tools, and dirt and farm “stuff” everywhere on the interior.
So, on this rainy morning, I took my to go cup filled to the brim with hot, delicious freshly made dark roast with just the perfect amount of cream, and hoisted myself up into the farm truck.
We bounced along, all three of of us in the front seat. The misty morning drive was gorgeous. Like in those cute movies where the couple is driving down the country road in a pick up truck with the breeze blowing and a great song on the radio.
I concentrated on that scene and my delicious coffee, until I realized my sparkly new, clean, summer athletic shoes were resting on a pile of tools.
A bit of this and a bit of that.
I found it amusing.
We pulled into football camp, which was practically in downtown, at a university campus. I asked my gentleman farmer if he could maneuver the farm beast properly through the morning city traffic and into the athletic complex parking lot.
I just got a look.
He perfectly got us there on time.
My son and I jumped out of the truck, ran onto the field to check him in and I’ll admit, I got a look or two from one or two pretty moms as they got into their diamond white Audi SUV’s with their Starbucks in hand, probably off now to a kid free morning of yoga and shopping at Whole Foods.
That was me at one point in time, sort of...
I hoisted myself up into the farm truck again & placed my feet gingerly on my farm tool foot rest and sighed as we passed by the Dunn Bros coffee shop.
Cappuccino life was tugging at me.
My gentleman farmer pulled the farm truck & trailer through traffic like a pro, and as if he could read my mind said something like “this truck won’t be coming up to the city much more”.
It was then I realized that this cornfield vehicle had diligently served my cappuccino self well over the years. It had made its way up from the farm on various occasions to be helpful, and now was, perhaps, making one of its last trips up to the city to finish moving us down to the cornfields.
The farm truck and I now have a different type of relationship.
I still don’t like the piles of farm tools that cover its interior, but like any good work horse, it does its job and does it well. It’s reliable and consistent and works hard.
The dirt and mess are just part of the deal, and makes it what it is.
Thar farm truck once again served us well. It quickly moved our remaining items to our new home, and once again, proved its worth.
And guess what? My sparkly new summer shoes are still clean, after all.
This week our family moves about 60 miles from the city we currently live in, to the town where the farm is.
Cornfields (Pearl - part 1)
Doesn't this picture just melt your heart?
A couple of years ago, I was doing my "Cappuccino" thing with my then 5 and 2 year old, walking through our urban neighborhood streets on our way to a happening neighborhood early summer party. I could smell the urban springtime smells, I could practically see the skyline of downtown as I sauntered along.
It was May - so my gentleman farmer was down at the farm, doing the "Cornfield" thing.
My cell rang. It was My Gentleman Farmer. He said that there was a lamb in distress and being rejected by its mother.
See, in my Cornfield world, you don't take a sick runt lamb to a vet. No, you pick it up, put it in another pen with another mother and hope the ewe (aka female sheep, for us urbanites) lets it nurse and takes it as her own. Some ewes do, some don't. Every farmer is different in their care of the lambs, but in this case, I knew that this runt lamb was screwed.
My Gentleman Farmer said he was bringing the lamb home.
To my cappuccino home.
I asked him if that was legal. Surely there is a city ordinance in this urban land full of cappuccinos, that you can't have a lamb in your yard.
But alas, the lamb was coming to the city.
She arrived late that night in a big box filled with hay. She stunk. She was very tiny. Probably 5-7 lbs. All legs and gangly. Not necessarily Mary's Little Lamb nor one that Martha Stewart would have on her ranch in upstate New York.
My boys loved her. They named her Pearl. We gave her a bath in my white clean urban bathtub in my clean urban, white subway type tiled bathroom.
My bathtub was dirty and my bathroom wasn't clean afterwards. But Pearl the lamb was.
She was scared. But she soon took us on as her mothers. All of us.
We fed her a lamb formula out of a vintage cola bottle with a large nipple on top.
How vintage chic is that?
She would cuddle in the nook of your neck. She also purred like a cat. Yes, the lamb purred like a cat.
The Cornfield in me took over, I was in love. We put her in a diaper (I know, I know ...but that's the Cappuccino in me - I couldn't deal with lamb potty and poo in my urban house with my white fluffy area rug, and beautiful wood floors).
I also took it upon myself to potty train her too.
We'd take her outside and put her down on the grass in our front lawn, and when she went potty we'd praise her, give her a warm bottle or snuggle her. Like a dog. She got it pretty quickly. It was awesome.
The 2nd morning we had her I was in full Cornfield mode.
I had a mug of probably a locally roasted coffee, with the perfect amount of organic cream. I had the lamb in one arm and my coffee in the other hand. I stood on my front stoop and set Pearl down. I sighed and was enjoying the beautiful morning as my pet lamb sniffed and gracefully did her business. Then, I looked up and noticed the neighbors in their yard across the street looking at me....and also, the man walking his dog on the sidewalk looking at me. The dog was still. Never had he ever, ever, in his urban dog life, seen a baby lamb.
Neither had my neighbors.
One neighbor said..."did you get a dog? Or is that a cat?"
I said "no, it's a lamb."
Nothing. No response.
The walking neighbor leaned in and said..."it's a lamb?"
The dog went nuts...
Pearl scooted back to me and I scooped her up and just smiled.
That's when the cornfield and the cappuccino within me merged.
There isn't much I like more than cappuccino and all that a cappuccino stands for.
Classic, strong, not trendy, can stand the tests of times - and is certainly able to make one feel incredibly fabulous.
I like coffee in general actually, but I'm picky.
I like coffee in a perfect coffee cup. Not too big. Something sentimental is always nice, or seasonal.
I love coffee out of a coffee shop to go paper type cup, you know, with a cardboard like sleeve and plastic cover to drink from.
Cappuccino in a big wide mug with a pretty design on top is always nice too.
Coffee in a church basement out of a white styrofoam type cup is not preferred...unless I'm desperate.
I like coffee a certain way too.
Offer me a cream that's a slight off white color and served in a vintage looking glass bottle and leaves little traces of oil after it's stirred in - and I'm all in.
I like half and half, I like evaporated milk (I got that from my mom).
I can do the cheap processed flavored cream if I have to.
I like the little non refrigerated plastic containers of creamer too.
However - I'd rather skip my coffee than pour powdered, non dairy creamer in....and that's a fact.
Cappuccinos are my favorite though.
However, whether it's a chic coffee shop in a newly renovated warehouse area of an urban setting, a high end coffee shop in the heart of a bustling downtown metropolis....or a rural diner, where all you get is weak black coffee and the little non refrigerated individual containers of creamer. Coffee always, always makes me happy.