Look what we found in the field the other evening!
My husband and I were munching potato chips on the deck and enjoying the evening breeze when my daughter came out to grab some chips and, just before she headed back inside, she looked down at the field. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing. “Who put a calf in our field? Is that a calf? THAT’S A CALF.”
So then we all went sprinting down to the field and, sure enough, Emma had her calf!
I’d been home all day and I still somehow managed to miss it, grr. I’d thought she wasn’t due for a few more weeks, and she looked so much smaller than Charlotte (who is due a month after her), so I hadn’t been paying her much attention. Even when my husband said that Emma had some discharge, it didn’t register.
the little family: Mama, sister, and baby brother
We named him Ferdinand. He and Fiona are full siblings.
In case you need a crash course in the state of our small dairy (it’s kinda hard for even me to keep straight), here’s a rundown:
Emma: A2A2 Jersey. Beginning lactation. Fiona: a Devon-Jersey cross, Emma’s second calf. We are planning to sell her this fall as an open (not pregnant) heifer. Ferdinand: a Devon-Jersey cross, several days old. We’ll castrate him and either sell him or raise him for meat (though now that we named him Ferdinand, I sorta feel like we should keep him a bull, ya know?). Butterscotch: a cross of some sort that my daughter bought from a local farmer. Bred to a Devon and due in a few months (and currently living at our friend’s farm where she hung out with the bull). We are planning to sell her this fall as a bred heifer. Charlotte: A2A2 Jersey, due in the next month or so.
Fiona has the most spectacular coloring.
There’s nothing quite like a newborn calf to kick our non-farming butts into high gear. The very next day my husband stayed home to clean out the milking shed . . . and wage full-scale war against the rats that have taken up residence under the floor mats.
They flushed the rats out of the walls where they hid and chased them back and forth between the milking shed and the goat shelter.
Lots of screaming and hollering was involved.
It was quite the entertaining morning, what with all of us circling the shed armed with shovels and logs, and excited dogs (who proved their mettle).
rat carcass headed for the burn pile
I mean, seriously. Who needs a roller coaster when you’ve got scrabbling rats to give you a thrill?
The ladies are porking up quite nicely. They go for slaughter later this month. I have a feeling I’ll be swimming in lard.
Now I’m trying to convince my husband to get two more pigs. I mean, with cheesemaking ramping up, I’m gonna have buckets upon buckets of whey, we might as well put it to good use.
This time, though, I think I want regular pigs, not these slow-growing Guinea hogs. Unless their meat is exceptionally delicious, I don’t really see the point in feeding pigs for 18 months when I can get as much meat from feeding them for half the amount of time.
And here’s a shot of Charlotte.
She’s so big she looks like she swallowed a small car. I’m a little concerned she might be having twins. Her last pregnancy was twins that she miscarried at about six months, and I’ve read that cows that have twins often have multiple twin births. I might have the vet come out next week to check on her.
And finally, with the milk tsunami fast approaching, I knew I had to get my next batch of mead going right away (I use my cheese pot to start fermentation), so I spent the rest of the morning blending up a vat of red raspberries and rhubarb and stirring in the honey like some sort of sweet witch.
As with most of my projects (writing a book, having babies, my YouTube channel, etc), it’s good I didn’t know what I was getting into when I first started. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have dared start because, it turns out, making mead is quite the production: a whole lotta of Doing Nothing mixed with Frantic Research, Last-Minute Sourcing of Various Tools, and then bouts of All-Kitchen-Consuming Mess.
For example, after getting the fruit a-fermenting in my cheese pot, we poured the five gallons of fruity sweet syrup into a carboy and then set it aside for a couple months. Once the violent bubbling ceased, we realized we had to rack it, which meant getting it from that carboy to the second carboy (that I’d borrowed from a friend) without letting in any oxygen.
I sent out a request for empty wine bottles on Facebook and then spend a week soaking the bottles in the buckets in the downstairs tub and then, bit by bit, scraping off the labels. (And then my husband stepped in with his utility knife and a razor scraper and Goo Gone and sped things up considerably.)
I figured I’d have to backsweeten the mead (which is the process of adding a little more honey water or sugar prior to bottling along with some sort of chemical thing that keeps it from fermenting and blowing up once it’s in the bottle) because when I’d tasted the mead a few weeks ago — a process which had required yet another purchase: a pump to withdrawal some of the mead without disturbing the fruit — I thought the mead was dry, dry, dry, which surprised me because: fifteen freaking POUNDS of honey.
tasting the mead at two months
But then I tasted the mead when we were racking it and it tasted much sweeter — perhaps because I was tasting the middle-bottom part and not the very top? In any case, I decided there was no need to backsweeten. So we just went ahead and racked it into the second carboy for now.
And what does the mead taste like, you ask? Bear in mind that I’m no connoisseur, but here’s my best shot: it’s light and mildly fruity, with a hint of almond. It doesn’t taste like sour cherries (though every now and then I do get a whiff of cherry), and it’s more strongly alcoholic than I expected — it sorta has a vodka-esque vibe. It kinda blew my socks off, honestly. I mean, I JUST MADE FIVE GALLONS OF ALCOHOL, isn’t that wild?
Since everyone around me turns up their nose at it (because none of them like wine), I’m eager to have other people try it. Is it horrible? Delicious? I need more opinions. Tasting party, anyone?
Technically, I could rack the mead straight into the bottles — and we did fill two bottles because there was some extra mead (my second carboy was smaller) — but now it’s in the second carboy, we’re just going to let it age a little longer. Sometime in the next few weeks I’ll rack it into the bottles.
The alcohol content is as high as it’s going to get, but the aging process should mellow out the flavors. I can drink the mead at any point, and I have been, but technically it’s not ready for six months to a year.
4-5 pounds sour cherries (I used 4 pounds 13.5 ounces), all of them pitted but for a handful 2 lemons (the rind, seed, and white pith removed) 60 (20 grams) organic raisins 15 pounds raw honey 5 gallons water
Now that the play is over and I’ve had some time to process the last month and a half, I’m ready to say more. Here’s what I haven’t told you: For the duration of the show, I dealt with panic attacks and anxiety.
This was the second time I’ve dealt with this. The first time was a few years ago when I was the lead in another play in which, over the course of the rehearsal period, there were a series of unfortunate events that gradually caused my routine theater jitters to morph into panic attacks. Being in front of people has always made me intensely nervous (just reading scripture at church, I get queasy, short of breath, and shaky), but I’d never dealt with anxiety or panic before until, suddenly, I was completely engulfed by it. By the time I began to get proper medical care, it was already too late: my brain was so flooded that it was impossible for me to trust myself to be present to the role on stage. A few days before the show went up, I made the excruciating decision to step down.
I was shattered. Never before had I lost myself so completely. My mind was . . . gone. I had no perspective, no grounding, no center. I was like a different person entirely. The whole experience was utterly disorienting.
Since then, I’ve been in another play (though not as the lead) so I thought I was over it, or that the experience was just a freak incident or something to do with perimenopause or whatever. But then during the first rehearsal for Tiny Beautiful Things, I had a panic attack. I didn’t let on, but by the time I got home that night, it was full-blown. All my nervous excitement had been replaced with sheer, gut-wrenching terror. I felt trapped. Frozen in place. Like someone was pointing a gun at me and I couldn’t move.
Right away, I knew I had to rethink whether or not I could proceed.
The very next day, I met with the director. “You can do this,” she said, squeezing my hand. “I absolutely believe you can, but I will never ask you to do something that doesn’t feel right to you.”
This play is lowstakes, she said. In fact, she had just three priorities for the play and they were, in order of importance:
1) Healthy actors. 2) A fun and safe rehearsal space. 3) The play.
“What if we get two weeks into rehearsals and I have to back out?” I asked.
“Then someone else will take the part. Actually, I’ll go ahead and privately arrange for you to have an understudy.”
“What if we get to opening night and I can’t do it?”
“Then the play doesn’t happen but so what — it’s just a play.”
“Do you want me to keep trying?”
“Yes. If you want to.”
I wanted to.
line memorization
I contacted my medical provider who put me on antidepressants and helped me figure out a schedule for the anti-anxiety medication that would keep me stable enough to function. I found a local therapist and began weekly, and sometimes twice-weekly, therapy sessions. (The therapist confirmed I was having panic attacks and that the situation was, what she called, a “trauma echo.”)
it’s grueling
The next several weeks were touch and go.
I was riddled with crippling self-doubt. My legs shook. Panic melted my insides and I’d freeze, awash in terror. I moved gingerly, afraid any sudden movement might make me shatter. I didn’t talk to people (except for a couple close friends and my therapist) because I didn’t want anyone to know what I was dealing with. I didn’t do publicity for the play, and the director held off attaching my name and face to the show for as long as possible. I ate like I was sick — toast, tomato sandwiches, granola, and not much of any of it. I stopped running since being short of breath triggered the panic. I stopped working at the bakery because even with the anti-anxiety meds, I couldn’t shake the soundtrack of impending doom, a feeling that was intensified by the repetitive work of sheeting out pastry dough. Even watching TV shows or movies made me queasy, so I mostly quit those, too.
It was a horrible feeling, knowing that the play revolved around my role and I might not be able to do it.
As Sugar, I said the following words daily for over a month:
How you get unstuck is, you reach. Therapy and speaking with friends and support groups will help, don’t hold it inside. Get it out, talk it out, cry it out. But know this, no one else can make this right for you. You have to reach for your desire to heal. True healing is a fierce place . . . and you have to work really hard to get there.
But when was the “reach” too big? Just because something was hard didn’t mean it shouldn’t be done, but just because something could be done didn’t mean it should.
How far was I willing to push myself? When was too much too much?
A friend asked me how I felt about needing prescription medications to do something for fun, something voluntary. It was a good question, and one I asked myself many times over the last few weeks. Because I definitely wasn’t having fun. Unlike the rehearsals for other shows, there was no joy in it, just sheer terror.
Why was I doing this if it made me so miserable?
But here’s the thing. I knew I loved acting (or I did at one time). I knew I wanted to do the role. I was being handed an enormous gift: a compassionate, actor-centered director, a fantastic, meaty role that I cared about, and wonderful castmates and crew. If ever there was a time to work through the pain of that earlier experience and regain trust in myself, now was the time. I had medication and a no-nonsense therapist. I had the time and freedom to hunker down and work through this issue.
And I had my husband.
Typically the one to rail against my harebrained ideas and high-energy vibes, my husband never — not even once — suggested that I quit. Instead, when I’d cry that my head was going to explode and I couldn’t do it, he’d remind me that I have a pretty big head. When I’d bellyflop on the floor and wail that I felt like I was crawling out of my skin, he’d crouch beside me and knead the backs of my thighs. Late at night when I’d whimper, What if I can’t? he’d say, But you can. He’d remind me that I had a different director this time. She thinks you can do it. Listen to her. And as I’d stoically gather my things to head out the door to rehearsal, he’d do his best impression of Shia Labeouf and roar, “JUST DO IT,” and then grin.
Each night after pre-show warmups, our director had us gather around Sugar’s office rug, plant our feet on the floor, put our hands on our chest, close our eyes, and repeat each phrase after her:
I take from the earth (I take from the earth) All that I need (all that I need). I take from the heavens (I take from the heavens) All that I need (all that I need). And when I have it all inside me (and when I have it all inside me), I give it away (I give it away).
And with the last line, we’d open our eyes and extend our hands.
Each day, I’d find myself thinking about that meditation, craving the moment when we’d stand in a circle and repeat those words. This show wasn’t just about me; it was about the people who came to see it as much as it was about the people performing. Theater was about connection. In each show, I was giving myself, in a very real way, to others.
The switch from viewing theater as Performance to Gift was huge. I’d done the best I could and now it was time to let it go.
Exhale.
heading to a show, twice-wrapped in my Kate Clothes
Producing this play — swallowing huge swaths of text whole and then delivering the words back into the world — reminded me of childbirth. Each day as the evening rehearsal or show approached, I’d feel myself pulling inward, steeling myself for the 90-minute mountain of words and emotion I’d have to scale. Each performance left me exhausted and drained, relieved, sometimes sad and sometimes exhilarated, always proud. I could do this. I was doing this.
How incredibly satisfying to finally be doing The Thing that I honestly didn’t know I could.
strike
Did I mess up? Yes, many times. Did I blank? Yes, but only for a millisecond, and then the words would appear, hanging before me ready to be spoken. Did my brain flood? No. Medicine is amazing. Did I mangle the words? Yes, and then I adlibbed and kept going and it was fine.
There is still so much I don’t know.
Will I forevermore deal with crippling panic and anxiety when it comes to performance? I don’t know.
With this play, did I successfully prove to myself that I can be present on stage even in the midst of self-doubt? I don’t know.
Next time, will I need medication? Will there be a next time? Do I even want to act again?
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
celebrating with the cast and crew
I debated sharing this story here. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I don’t want people to worry. I don’t want people to feel awkward watching me in future shows (if there are future shows). It’d be so much easier to just skip this whole topic and move on to more cheery, fun things like making mead (coming soon!).
But! If I allow people to believe that acting is all rainbows and butterflies then I’m lying by omission. If I’m gonna talk about stuff, then I have to actually talk about it. I’m not a superhero. No one is. Hard things are hard, and we owe it to each other to tell the truth.
Keeping this scary part of my acting experience a secret does me a disservice because HOLY HECK LOOK WHAT I JUST ACCOMPLISHED, and it does the people who know me a disservice because it implies that I’m more “together” than I really am or that the things I choose to do are easy for me.
To quote Sugar one more time, “We have to let the people who love us see what made us.”
This play both wrecked and made me.
after the first show: me and the director photo credit: the assistant director
