Butterfly Birthday

Today is my birthday. Yep, I'm turning 29 again.

I usually don't buy myself a birthday gift. But this year, my husband was out of town spending the weekend with his mom (also her birthday), and I was left home alone with just Camille. This meant I had some time on my hands.

And because I also just got my layoff notice rescinded at the last minute, I had some cash burning a hole in my pocket. Yeah!

So I decided to spend some of that extra time and money doing something that makes me truly happy: gardening, of course. I planned, purchased, and planted the butterfly garden I've been wanting for years. And I justified it by calling it my birthday gift to myself!

Armed with plant lists for butterfly gardens from Monarch Watch and and Las Pilitas Nursery, I took Armstrong Garden Center by storm. With the help of my new friend and Armstrong employee, Martín, I filled my truck bed full of California natives and butterfly-attracting plant species. Enough to fill a 4' x 30' raised bed I had sitting empty and lifeless.

Among the plants I included are a few different types of milkweed, butterfly bushes, shasta daisies, cosmos, and numerous other nectar flowers. I planted them fairly closely together, but with some breathing room to allow the perennials to grow in both height and width. As I set the seedlings out in the yard, awaiting planting, it was amazing to see countless butterflies flutter-by, pausing on the colorful blooms.

"They already found the flowers, Momma!" Camille exclaimed proudly.

Even more so than the butterflies, we've enjoyed the antics of the flying, fleeting hummingbirds now frequenting our yard, slipping their long and slender beaks into the nectar flowers while they hover, motionless, in mid air. One sat still long enough for me to snap a quick shot.

I have one empty raised bed left in the backyard to fill, and I'm looking forward to adding a few more milkweed plants along with coneflowers, sunflowers, and verbena. Then we'll be able to certify and register our Monarch Waystation!

My gift may have been for the butterflies, but it was a happy, happy birthday to me!

Fried Egg Throwdown

Okay, I may not be Bobby Flay in the kitchen, but since our gals have been laying for awhile, it's time for our first official Pocket Square Farm THROWDOWN!

"How exactly are free-range, farm-fresh eggs different than those you buy in the store?" you may wonder.

Well, ponder no more, because today's blog will answer just that.

First, on the top, the defending champion of scrambles of quiches of the modern day kitchen: store bought eggs. We're not talking farmer's market, here. Think bigger: Ralph's, Von's, or Albertson's, for example. These bad boys are large and in charge. In fact, these are the cheapest extra large white eggs I could find.

Next, down below, we have the underdog(s): the proud bounty of Lillian, Penelope, Serafina, and Esther--the lovely ladies of Pocket Square Farm. They may squawk. They definitely poop A LOT. But darn, do they lay pretty little eggs... if I do say so myself!

Let the THROWDOWN begin!

First, Mason cracks open the store-bought eggs.

Mason is an experienced egg-cracker with a gentle hand, but the store-bought variety still ran all over the pan. They are thin, watery, and light yellow in color. The yolks lay relatively flat in the bottom of the pan--sad, flimsy, lifeless.

Camille took her crack at the farm-fresh eggs. Despite being a novice chef, her three-year-old fingers were able to break open the thick shells and drop the PSF eggs into the frying pan... without any yolks tearing or running.

The yolks are darkly colored, closer to orange than yellow. They seem to stand at attention in the dish, while the whites maintain a firm oval shape. The consistency of the raw eggs is incredibly thick.

A little salt and pepper, and it's time to turn on the heat!

Here are the store-bought extra large white eggs...

... compared to our PSF "homegrown" eggs.

I realize it may be a bit unethical to serve as farmer, cook, and judge in this so-called competition. Regardless, after taste testing both sunny-side-up servings, I officially declare the winners to be...

...Pocket Square Farm Eggs, of course!

Like those other guys ever stood a chance.

Thick enough to cut with a knife, and rich and creamy like custard, these eggs are really something else. We can't wait to try them in pancake batter and baked goods!

With the eggs in our happy tummies and the shells in the compost bin, I declare this throwdown a triumph for urban chicken-rearers everywhere!

Diggin' Mother's Day

I can unabashedly admit that one of my favorite days of the year is Mother's Day. This is the one day I generally refuse to do anything even remotely productive. At the very least, I shirk my usual responsibilities, deferring instead to my [extremely capable] hubby.

Kids need to get dressed?

Your turn, honey.

Time for breakfast?

Ask Dad what he's cooking.

Can't find your missing shoe?

Oh well. Go barefoot.

I figure I'm entitled to such lackadaisical behavior 1/365th of the year. Reveling in this kind of passive protest is really just a brief anecdote to my normal, everyday rush. After all, most days I feel like I'm sprinting through life at break-neck speeds; I might as well take a measly 24 hours to halt and relish the beauty of doing... well... nothing.

It's not that I desire to be spoiled monetarily on Mother's Day... not at all. I don't ask for lavish gifts or fancy outings. Reservations at an expensive restaurant are the last thing on my mind. In fact, my formula for a perfect Mother's Day goes something like this:

(cup of coffee + a good book + comfy chair tucked in a sunny spot) - (whining kids + constant interruptions + sibling rivalry) = one happy mommy

a favorite outdoor reading locale

Now, if you can work a little gardening into this equation, my level of joy increases exponentially! And because my husband recognizes this about me, he and the children gave me the PERFECT Mother's Day gift this year: some fruitful additions to Pocket Square Farm.

My family planted two apple trees in the front yard; a fuji and a pink lady. The pink lady is already bearing fruit. We planted them very close together, and as they grow we will prune the inside branches and allow the outer branches to grow in an open basket arrangement. In the end, the two varieties of trees will take the shape of one larger tree, with the added advantage of cross pollination.

My boys used two wheel barrels full of freshly finished, homemade compost to plant these trees. The compost shone warmly in the sun, and it smelled sweet as can be. It was so rewarding NOT to have to buy plastic bags full of compost made elsewhere and shipped to Long Beach. This is what sustainability is all about: Yesterday's rotten apple peels are nourishing tomorrow's apples, all within our small urban plot.

In the back, on the same side of the yard, they planted two orange trees for me: a valencia for juicing and a navel for eating. I'm guessing it will take a few years for these to really be productive, but it will be worth the wait. In the meantime, we look forward to the bright, wafting scent of orange blossoms dancing in the breeze.

Because our blueberry patch was looking a little "underwhelmed" with only two bushes in the designated raised bed, we added two more blueberry bushes for good measure. I realize that these plants may seem to be crowded, but I generally go by a "plant as many plants as you possibly can in the space you have" mentality, so I'm really not worried. If they get too big in the future, I can just prune back the inner branches similar to the apple trees. As for now, we're enjoying handfuls of fresh blueberries once or twice a week. Our mouths are watering looking forward to homemade blueberry muffins at the height of berry season.

In the end, I got just what I wanted: some time with my family in the garden and a few undisturbed minutes to myself to enjoy life's simple pleasures. Ahhhhhhh.

But enough daydreaming.

Mother's Day is over and the kids are screaming my name--gotta run!

Totally Egg-static!

When we first brought home our chicks in the beginning of December, we promised our kids they would have fresh eggs by Easter.

But as the weeks passed, and still no eggs, we began to get nervous. "How many days until Easter?" they inquired repeatedly. We could see the little wheels turning in their minds. Mason and Camille may have been eagerly anticipating a visit from a large white rabbit carrying chocolates, but they were even more excited about the prospect of our first farm-fresh egg.

What would I do if our chickens didn't deliver? I contemplated buying brown eggs at the market and slipping them into the empty nesting boxes on Easter morning. After all, parents have gone to further lengths to keep their children's innocent little hearts from being broken!

Fortunately, fate (or chicken puberty, as you may call it) stepped in just in the nick of time. A few days before Easter, as I was feeding our gals, I peeked into the nesting box... just in case.

Lo and behold, I spied our first egg. It rested, tiny and brown, right in the middle of one of our two nesting boxes. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. After a few seconds of shocked speechlessness, I screamed. Loudly.

My family came running, probably expecting the worst from the volume of my high-pitched wailing. "What's wrong? What is it?" they begged.

After lifting the children up to peer at our "delivery," we snapped a few pictures, lifted it out gently, and passed it around. The kids took turns holding it, ever so carefully, looks of awe and wonder on their faces. I was so glad I hadn't resorted to "faking" it!

Mason took a turn holding the egg first...

...followed by his sister, of course.

The brown egg looks large in their hands, but was actually quite small in comparison to these white, store-bought eggs.

After five months of chicken-rearing, coop building, and daily hen care, I'm reminded of the credit card commercials:

Baby chicks $20

Chick supplies $50

Grit and mash $100

Coop materials $400

Our first egg: PRICELESS!

All Choked Up

Awhile back (last August, in fact) I planted my first artichoke seedling.

Historically, artichokes aren't one of my favorite foods, but I've been trying to diversify my plantings (and my palate). So when my local nursery stocked vibrant green artichoke seedlings, I just had to buy one. I stuck the plant in a rear corner of a raised bed in my backyard, with no better reason for its placement than the fact that it was the only open space left. I know, that was not very scientific of me.

The plant took root and grew, and grew, and grew some more. As months passed I realized I had a monster of sorts on my hands. Other plants withered and died away with the change of seasons, but not the artichoke.

The artichoke plant got greedier, taller, wider, darker, and just generally more massive. Furry fronds unfurled from its fuzzy center, and the larger, more languid leaves lay lazily upon the ground. First it overtook a few assorted flowers... then the herbs planted nearby... and finally the patch of savoy cabbage was smothered in an array of artichoke foliage.

Of course, there were no actual artichokes to be found.

My feelings and opinions about the artichoke plant turned from admiration and curiosity to suspicion and resentment. Did I really want to commit 16 square feet of raised bed to a single artichoke plant? I mean, in a small urban yard this thing was squatting on some valuable real estate. Would it ever produce an actual artichoke? And if so... when, and how many?

I ranted and raved to my husband in a nonsensical tirade about selfish plants that always take and never give. Tying my shoelaces in a dramatic flurry, I grabbed the biggest shovel we own and stormed out the back door, ready to do some serious damage to that good-for-nothing, free-loading, perennial fiend!

I flew through the yard, scattering chickens this way and that, as I planted the spade at the root of the great beast. Raising one foot to the top of the shovel, I gripped the handle mercilessly and prepared to dig with all my might. I bent forward and down toward the plant to ensure enough leverage when--lo and behold--a minor miracle occurred.


I found myself nose to nose with none other than our first tiny artichoke, tucked sweetly within the greenery. Surprised, I dropped the shovel, and parted the great leaves in search of more baby artichokes. I found nine altogether, and I hadn't even known they were there. Fury melted away to a feeling significantly more maternal.

In fact, I got all choked up.

So the monstrous artichoke plant has been granted clemency... for now.


Of course, we'll have to see whether my family will actually eat any of the artichokes before the beast is officially pardoned!

R.I.F. Season

March means one thing to obsessive gardeners: the great gear up for spring! Time to dust off those reference books, purchase any supplies you may need, and get your gardening gloves, hand trowel, and seed packets ready. Spring planting is just around the corner.

As a tenth year educator in the Long Beach Unified School District, however, March has come to mean something else: layoff notices. Yep, that's right... the big R.I.F. is back in town, second year running.

If you have the luxury of not being familiar with the acronym R.I.F., allow me to enlighten you. It stands for Reduction In Force, as in (and I quote), "...the Governing Board has directed that notice be given to you that your services will not be required for the ensuing 2011-2012 school year." End quote.

"The reasons are as follows," it continues. Blah blah blah blah blah blah.

The fine print really doesn't matter. What it boils down to is that there is hardly any money flowing into our public school system, and too much flowing out. Sacramento needs to balance its budget on the backs of our teachers and against the futures of our children. Because it's really okay, you see, for our governments to run trillions of dollars in debt, but heaven forbid we finance the salary of one great educator.

Am I getting too political for you? If I've made you uncomfortable, I apologize. Pocket Square Farm is not supposed to be a vehicle for political commentary, but the teacher in me (and the mother of two children just beginning their careers in the Long Beach school system) just can't help herself. It's all I can think about right now.

So here's my attempt to turn R.I.F. season around. I am officially re-defining this acronym.

Until either my notice is rescinded or the last nail is hammered in the coffin that is my career, the letters R.I.F. will hereby stand for "Reemergence Into Farming."

I have been down and out of the garden for the last month, instead working toward my GATE certification, completing my professional portfolio, and preparing my students for the 4th grade state writing test. (You may have noticed the stark lack of posts to this blog. I have been a little busy.)

But whatever will be will be, so instead of staying angry I will go back to my other passion: organic farming. I will grab my shovel, dig deep into the earth, and cultivate the small patch of soil that absolutely belongs to me.

I may not be able to plant the seeds of change that are so desperately needed for educational reform in the U.S., but by God I can plant some green beans and watch them grow!

The Coop that Ross Built

This is the coop that Ross built.

These are the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

This is the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Here are the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Next the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Here's the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.


Open the doors and take a look;
Our ladies in waiting enjoy quite a nook
Inside the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.


This is the bar where the ladies now roost
(We had to train them by giving a boost)!
Open the doors and take a look;
Our ladies in waiting enjoy quite a nook
Inside the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Here are the nesting boxes where our gals will lay--
They'd better or they may become dinner one day--
Beside the bar where the ladies now roost
(We had to train them by giving a boost)!
Open the doors and take a look;
Our ladies in waiting enjoy quite a nook
Inside the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Our Chicken McMansion is done and it's dandy
Thanks to my husband who's totally handy;
He hinged the nesting boxes where our gals will lay--
They'd better or they may become dinner one day--
Beside the bar where the ladies now roost
(We had to train them by giving a boost)!
Open the doors and take a look;
Our ladies in waiting enjoy quite a nook
Inside the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

(Thanks, Honey!)