Soapy Saturday

In my latest attempt at avoidance of the things that I really should be concerned with, my ditzy brain has been consumed with a longing to make homemade soap. I've always coveted those creamy, pretty bars of handcrafted soap that I see at the Farmers Market. I've never bought any because the little voice in my head keeps chanting "you can do that." The chant became a clamour so I hastened to the Internet to do a little research.

The Internet soap making websites are full of dire warnings about the dangers of Lye. You can't make soap without Lye but you can hurt yourself terribly with Lye. There were little pictures of a woman disfigured and blinded by a soap making gone wrong. I pointed her out to my little nagging voice and told it to hush. It commenced a muttering and a few days later I found myself examining the cooking oils on the grocery store shelf. Then I contemplated buying a stick blender and the next thing I knew, I was in the hardware store buying the dreaded Lye! I lined everything up on the counter and looked at it for a really long time before I cranked up the nerve to begin.

Blind dogs are not a crucial component of soap making, even if they think they are. I should have named my blind dog VISA, because he's everywhere I want to be. Soap making commenced after all dogs were banished from the room. Wearing my hand fashioned and totally unneccesary HazMat suit, I warmed olive oil and lard into a big pot. Then using slow motion movements worthy of a bomb disposal unit, I added lye crystals to a pot of distilled water. Holy Nuclear Reaction Batman! That was cool. I waited, but the Lye didnt launch itself off the counter and assault my eyes. Although it looked like it wanted to.

I fiddled back and forth with a candy thermometer until both pots had cooled to 100*F. I poured the lye solution into the warmed oils. Using my stick blender and whisk with increasing confidence, I stirred the coffee coloured goop until I achieved the magical state of "trace". My soap goop soup had the pudding consistency of trace within 15 minutes. I was amazed. I did it! And I still had both my eyeballs! Soapmaking suddenly became a non scary and intriquing thing to do.

I scooped out a cup of soap and blended it with cocoa. I drizzled that mixture back into my lovely pot of gloop and swirled it thru. Now I didn't just have non threatening and homely homemade soap - I had created a docile and attractive soap. Into the plastic margarine tub mold it went and I quickly swaddled it in a towel. I left it to nap on top of the pellet stove but I couldnt resist a few peeks and pokes. Soap needs to continue the internal chemical heating process for a few days in order to neutralize the lye. Then it needs to cure for 2 to 4 weeks before it is safe to use.

Most things I attempt for the first time do not turn out as well as this soap has done. Usually I need to rethink or redo something in order to get it right. They say soap making is addiction and I can see why. My creative juices are bubbling over with thoughts of growing this herb or that flower to add to my soap. There is a whole universe of essential oils for fragrance opening up before me. And best of all, homemade soap is cheap!

Talk of the Town

Everybody's talking about it.

It was the lead story on the 8am radio news. The old guys drinking coffee on the porch at the gas station were discussing it. My neighbour wanted to know if I knew. We've been wondering when this was going to happen for a long time. I wonder how long it's going to take us to get used to it.

The big news is that the Island has a Stoplight!! Well, not quite, but a flashing yellow light was installed over the intersection where the fire station is located. It is a leap in to the modern century for us. Now we're on a slippery slope leading to fast food, drive thrus and horror of horrors, a Mall.

The Island is 4000 sq miles of virgin stoplight free territory. It's the last frontier of traffic control. An oasis of unimpeded vehicle movement. I guess I'm okay with it. If they can build a complex high above us in space, it was only a matter of time until that blinking light technology made it's way to here. The first traffic lights were installed in England in 1868. traffics lights became common in the larger U.S. cities in the 1920's. Manitoulin Island is about 140 years off the pace. I'm good with that.

I cant tell people that I live in a land without stoplights anymore. Not that I'd want anyone to be harmed because there wasnt a traffic light where one was needed but it makes things a little less special. A flashing yellow means 'Drive with Caution". Because we are 140 years behind everyone else, I'm pretty sure that we do already.

I hope we are still another century away from a Walmart.

On Weirdness

One of my border collies is obsessive compulsive. All border collies by their very nature are intense and focused. This makes them good dogs or Baddogs, depending on what they are focused on.

My dog likes to run. He could run professionally. He could go out on tour and give seminars to teach other dogs to run. He is the Forrest Gump of dogs.

The Farmerman baled straw last weekend. My dog spent hours running a trajectory that took him around a bale and back again.
There was no purpose to this endless loop other than to run. My other, younger dogs wanted to play and do other normal doggie things like chase crows out of corn and engage in the lovely sport of sheep intimidation. Wierdy Dog just wanted to herd a bale all day.

In my work with autistic people, I often see compulsive behaviour. If you thwart it one way, it will return in another form.
Adults with good cognitive skills can learn to recognize their compulsions and learn techniques to soothe themselves. Adults with autism and developmental delay (and dogs) cannot.

I often read about people with compulsive dogs looking for ways to train the behaviour out of their pet. My feeling is that the dog is who he is and we need to adapt their environment to protect their quality of life. I used to think the WeirdyDog would be ‘cured’ of his compulsions if he got more exercise. Moving to the farm has proven to me that no matter how tired he is, if there is a stimulus, he will perform whatever behaviour he needs to satisfy himself. He doesn’t give a flea about being ‘weird’.
Drugging, training, crating is not the answer. It’s not bothering him. It’s only bothering me and I’ve learned to rethink the issue.

My goat hates me

Goats are in their own little class of livestock. They don't conform. I think the reason that their babies are called kids is because they resemble unruly human children. If they went to school, the 'kids' would be the shifty ones at the back of the class, lounging incorrectly in the seats and making paper airplanes to throw at the teachers back. The lambs would probably sit in a tidy circle at the front of the class and complete their homework on time. Goats were absent on the day that Man was given Dominion over the animals and have been scratching graffiti on the barn walls ever since.

Pickles is every inch a goat. She's rude and bossy and quick to use her pointy horns to get what she wants. No fence can hold her, no dog can rattle her and no persuasion can sway her. Being a goat also makes her charming and coquettish when she thinks I have something she needs.

I've had enough of her attempting to poke holes in the placid sheep at feeding time. I made her new quarters in the poultry barn. She needs a warmer place for winter anyways and a safe place to have her babies in the spring. She can boss the ducks to her hearts content. Being ducks, they won't notice.

The gander has an attitude to match hers. I've bought a whistle and a striped shirt. I'm prepared for a hockey brawl but it's better than having punctured sheep.

Listen to the whispers

This is a blog about living a life surrounded by the whispers of wind and water and grain.
Manitoulin Island is a place of quietitude and mysticism. It is unique in that it does not fit in as part of either Southern or Northern Ontario. It has a genuine complexion that draws people to explore it and desire to remain or take home a memory of beauty and serenity.
This is my chance to explore the place I call home...