Lesley Lorenz

Snow Day

 Nanaimo Magazine Article

 December, 2011

 By Lesley Lorenz 

“Snow” my Dad would whisper, tiptoeing in to my room at the first silver edge of dawn. My eyes would flash open with excitement, and I’d rush to my bedroom window. When I was quite little, the side street next to our house was still a dirt road, and you could hear the crunchy jingle of tire chains as they etched out two long, thick braids into the glittering snow. I would run to my closet to throw my snow pants on right over top of my jammies, and I could hear my brother running down the hall in his plastic pants too.  “Are we going skiing?” he’d ask, his ears cherry red from sleep. We skied on Mount Seymour in North Vancouver; it had one towrope and one chair. My brother started skiing when he was so small that when he went up the towrope his skis didn’t touch the ground, he just dangled like a badly hung Christmas ornament.

We’d ski all morning and then take our lunch into the lodge, clomping in the heavy ski boots like proto-type transformers. We’d be allowed to choose a chocolate bar from the machine, an unheard of treat down in the valley, but here in the clouds my mother would relent and allow us sweets. After all, we’d had our tiger’s milk – a concoction she brewed each morning featuring lecithin, wheat germ and a few other items that easily triggered the gag reflex. She knew she was keeping us healthy though – as she calculated by how early in the spring we could comfortably go barefoot.

We didn’t have facebook or twitter or chat on line. You had to stand outside your friend’s house and yell, or perhaps brave the kitchen door if you thought their Mom wasn’t going to hand out a chore before you could escape. On snow days we would make the hugest snowman possible, pushing and rolling until we felt faint under our soaking wet toques. Our woolen mittens had clumps of frozen snow stuck to them, which we would suck on for energy. Once back inside in front of the fire, my brother took off his rubber boots and he had an athletic sock on one foot and a baby mitten on the other one, barely covering his toes.

A good old – fashioned snow day. I still love’em!

Soo is Due

When we drove out to Coombs for our little black pygmy goat, her owner pointed to the base of a fountainous maple tree and said “she was born right there, in April of last year”. Soo peered up at us with bright blue eyes as her owner continued “she’s been with the billy for over a month. We’re pretty sure she’s pregnant.” The family was heading off to Nova Scotia, and didn’t think she’d weather the journey too well. How could we resist? Soo came home with us in the back of the truck.

Originally, we decided to get a (pregnant) doe because of our love of goat cheese. Oh, how I wanted to make my own fragrant, fresh cheese. We went to several goat ‘fairs’, where the animals were judged and rated – but no pygmies made an appearance. I milked a demonstration goat and asked “will my doe just let me grab her teats and milk her after the babies are born?”

I’d swear that milkmaid was going to fall off her three-legged stool laughing at my innocent question. Apparently, Mark was going to have to make us a milk stand lickety-split, and I was only to feed her when she was locked into the stand. It took weeks – at first she wouldn’t put her head through for the feed, then she darted about frantically when I touched her back, but finally she let me grab her udder and practice milking a bit while she had her breakfast.

She has fattened up nicely, and I feel the kids kicking every day. Most goats have two or three offspring at a time; I’m hoping for a boy and a girl. It will be wonderful when her babies arrive, as she’s a herd animal and is constantly looking for companionship. She follows the chickens around – hardly bigger than them – and stays right by my side whenever I work in the garden. When I go to the coop to collect eggs, she stands up on her hind legs and peers right in too. She head butts our front door, hoping to be invited in, and the other day I guess I didn’t close it tight enough when I went to work. When I came home, there she was standing on the dining room table, munching away on the floral centrepiece. She had even managed to politely avoid leaving any droppings behind her while she dined inside.

The goat is entertaining – cheese or not, I adore her!

Island Kitchen Secrets

Nanaimo Magazine Article

September, 2011

By Lesley Lorenz-Drysdale

My husband just about passes out in anticipation at the mention of my special homemade ravioli – so just this once, I’ll share a secret recipe. I’ve been warned that this concoction I contrived is just too good to be given away, but I can’t help myself – I want everyone to be pleasantly stuffed! So here is a slightly vague but still valuable map to a delicious Italian treat.

Sausage Ravioli with Wild Mushroom Sauce

Start at the market – Cedar Farmer’s Market, next Sunday. Its right next to the Crow and Gate Pub, a perfect place to freshen up with a cold one after you’ve shopped the farmers’ wares. Go see the sausage man. He’s got a huge freezer full of lean and flavourful homemade sausage. I like the Cognac variety, but go with your instinct – try Mexican or Italian sausage instead. Next, wander over to see the Wild Mushroom lady. She’s easy to spot – her hair as wild as the forest moss. I’ve used Morel, Chanterelle or Lobster Mushrooms. They are all equally wonderful and aromatic. On your way home get some heavy cream. You don’t need much – but skim milk just won’t do for this recipe.

Wash your hands and put on an apron. I collect aprons from the fifties – I figure they’re somehow lucky, akin to tying some well-earned experience and wisdom around my waist. I get out my pasta maker and break a couple of eggs into a bowl, add a cup and a half of flour and a pinch of salt, a little oil and water so that the dough is workable, not too dry. Wheel it through until it’s skinny but not falling apart (a state many of us wish to be in!) and lay out strips on a floured counter. Chop the sausages into itty bitty pieces and add onions and some chopped hazelnuts or pine nuts, whatever you have on hand. Sauté until your kitchen smells unbearably good. Fill up your ravioli (kind of like pinching perogies or stuffing wontons) and let them rest on the counter while you prepare the sauce. Sauté your mushrooms in good old-fashioned butter until there are nutty brown. Add whipping cream, a pinch of salt, fresh ground pepper and a snowfall of grated parmesan. Pop the ravioli into lightly boiling water for a few minutes.

By now everyone in your house will be gravitating towards the kitchen, their mouths watering.  Sip your wine, untie your apron, and let them wait a moment. Savour the anticipation…

For a more specific recipe, click here

Ukrainian Canadians (The Perogy Pinchers)

Nanaimo Magazine Article

July, 2010

By Lesley Lorenz

Several years ago, I painted the perogy pinchers from life. I was new to the island, and began dancing with the local Ukrainian troop. The culture of these wonderful people permeated into daily tasks – so that tradition was woven into their lives at the most basic level. My background is Polish and Russian, but they nevertheless welcomed me in. The dance steps I was taught carried significance – certain steps were tiny and precise – and originated from the forest regions of the Ukraine. The large, exuberant jumps and turns were characteristic of the plains area. I was informed that in order to perform with the troop, I would have to embroider the sleeves of the blouse being made for me. It took nearly two months to stitch the ornate pattern – which was specific to the plains region – into the sleeves.  I drew around the edges of my foot, and sent the picture off to the Ukraine, where a custom-fitted pair of red leather boots was made for me. But there was still one more task I had to complete – to pinch perogies with the Babas in the church kitchen.

I was to bring the stuffing – 10 lbs of potatoes, mashed, two whole onions grated in to the mix, a slab of butter and a block of cheese. The Babas looked at my mix carefully, inspecting it before we began pinching. Apparently, I had not added the cheese at the correct moment, and the stuffing was lumpy. Undaunted, they began to sing and pinch and tell stories to each other. They argued at length over which potatoes made the very best perogies, and they advised each other on how to grow the crunchiest cucumbers for pickling in late summer. These women had spent a lifetime feeding the next generations, one by one, pinching perogies and teaching tradition.

I was honoured to be allowed to watch the next session, to draw the activities and expressions and babushkas (head scarves which are still worn in the kitchen). The painting means a lot to me. The hands shape more than perogies; they shape history into bite sized pieces to nurture their culture.

Homesteading

Nanaimo Magazine Article
May, 2011
By Lesley Lorenz

My father’s father challenged the land. At the age of twenty one – the third son of eight – he left the family wheat farm with a two-horse team and headed north to Nipawan. Axe in hand, he began hacking away at the thick trunked birch that crisscrossed the property. 160 acres of crown land would become his if he could clear at least 30 acres and build a home on the land. Each week, he would cut a wagon load of firewood, drive it into town and sell the load for two dollars – enough to buy his coffee and sugar, staples for one. His humble cabin he built alone with downed timber, but it was drafty and cold, and by the time winter set in he was so cold that he preferred to sleep in the barn, between the horses.

The man had the biggest hands I’ve ever seen, and I imagine they were covered in blisters and calluses from working the land. When I was a child, sitting next to him at the dinner table, I was awed by his size – he’d reach for the salt, and it would disappear into the grasp of a giant. Even so – with size and youth and enthusiasm on his side – the land proved to be too much. After a winter of bedding down in the hay with the livestock, Mike Lorenz folded his hand and headed back home.

Am I sorry the land that taunted him won? In the end, it was the twist in the fabric of our family history that led to my personal strand. He left Nipawan and went back to Ituna, where beautiful Sophie, my grandmother, was learning to pinch perogies and stitch the dowry linens for her wedding. The story – have I told it before? – was that he fought for her hand – and although his suspenders broke, he held his pants up with his left hand and managed to fight off his competitor with only his trusty right hook – stronger from all the axe swinging he’d been filling his days with.

The deal securely clinched, they wed, took on the duties of running a fox farm, and got busy creating the first of their offspring, my father. So while we don’t have family acreage in Nipawan, we do have – and I’ve counted – forty-three souls that count him as a forefather.

To Bee or Not to Bee

A question of declining population

By Lesley Lorenz Drysdale

Humans are presented with the dilemma of the birds and the bees – or rather, the songbirds, the frogs and the bees. While we proliferate and profit from large swaths of land dedicated to a single purpose – a field of hay, or a hectare of suburban sprawl, our tiny compatriots need diversity to survive. While I have generally been discouraged by the lack of impact a single person may have on environmental issues, we can give the bees a helping hand.

Mason bees can be cultivated in your yard just as songbirds can be fed and bathed and housed in your garden. Bee houses are a fun and inexpensive project that your whole family can participate in. You can purchase a bee house at your local nursery, or even build one yourself with one of the designs available on line. Similar to a small bird house with a dozen or more holes drilled into it, the bee house encourages bees to find a home near your fruit trees or berry bushes.

You can also purchase the bees themselves. Stored in tiny containers the size of matchboxes, the cocoons are popped into a doorway at the top of the bee house and as the weather warms, the ‘newbees’ emerge and head down below into one of the many compartments available. The males will appear first, and mate with the females as soon as they hatch. The males then die off and the females look for a nearby nesting spot. Females then visit flowers to gather pollen and nectar to provide for their young. The female bee backs into the hole and lays an egg on top of the mass of nectar and pollen. Female-destined eggs are laid in the back of the nest, and male eggs towards the front.

You can expect your yield of bees to double each year, or perhaps even quadruple in a good year. Your garden will be buzzing with activity and the fruits of your labour (and theirs) can be canned, or made into jam, or even picked and crushed for home-made wine.

As Will Shakespeare also penned:

“For so work the honey-bees, creatures that by a rule in nature teach the act of order to a peopled kingdom.”

Internet Farming

March Article, Nanaimo Magazine
By Lesley Lorenz-Drysdale

On line you can buy a semen tank, fertilized eggs, hey (sic) or raccoon-proof chicken coops. Thanks to the resourcefulness of island farmers and homesteaders, the tools of the agricultural trade are used, reused and converted for new uses – such as the self described “automatic water thingie” – listed on a popular buy, sell or trade website as a homemade item consisting of a double sink and toilet floater, it promises to provide water to your livestock on demand – and it’s only $10!

With so many options, how is a new farmer outstanding in her field to decide what to plant, what to grow and what to breed? Will there be enough water and grass for 2 goats, and a cow? What breed of goats are the best for milking, and are they going to stare me down with their weirdly slitted eyes while I stare fiercely back, milk pail in hand? What about sheep? My knitting needles are poised and patiently waiting for enough wool to supply the whole family with the notoriously ugly toques I knit. I also want to make sure there are plenty of peas and carrots and a cute little cabin for guests to stay in when they visit the ranch.
Perhaps I’ll begin with the soil, test it to see what would grow best, and work my way up from there. My gumboot-clad neighbour said the fields were last planted with garlic – great big elephant garlic – so I am assuming my goats will have bad breath during the morning milking. The milk will probably carry the flavour too – but that works for me, as I intend to make goat cheese, and it will come pre-seasoned!

We can only afford a tractor built in the post-war era, complete with a metal driver’s seat that matches a tricycle seat exactly. How do you get replacement parts for a piece of machinery built in 1947? Wait … I bet I could find it online, or at least track down a farm-yard mechanic who machines his own tools and parts.

City to Farm Lifestyle Renovation

March 2011
Nanaimo Magazine Article
By Lesley Lorenz

We just bought a farm out in Cedar, and the five acres are beautiful, but the farmhouse needs LOTS of work. Built in 1973, the home still has original plumbing (olive green fixtures in the bathrooms), orange shag carpets and glitter-flecked textured ceilings. The light fixtures look like they came straight out of a Star Trek stage set – orange orbs encased in black wrought iron capsules. There is a herd of feral peacocks that are apparently ours – the previous owners vacated the property two years ago and the peacocks have been alternately fending for themselves and getting handouts from our generous next-door neighbours.

My parents are helping, with Dad taking on the role of overseer and the rest of the island-based family following orders. I attempted to negotiate a roof repair with a local handyman of the retired persuasion, but was worried about the situation on the roof when he informed me his ‘assistant’ was eighty-three years old. We spend our evenings and weekends ripping out drywall and filling our dumpster with dusty carpets, broken appliances and a stack of saved empty dog food bags. Eventually, we will paint all the walls and ceilings, lay new floors and pop in double-paned windows. While we work, the herd of peacocks peer in the windows at us – the flock numbers about sixteen individuals, so there’s usually at least one or two tracking our progress. We also have a pond (okay, a large puddle) which becomes a croaking mass of frogs around dusk. Deer traverse the property, nibbling at the few spring bulbs that have started to poke their heads up in the fields.

My eldest son took out an entire closet wall kung-fu style, complete with Bruce Lee sound effects. However, he’s not nearly as fearsome as the trades who walk around quoting gargantuan numbers to upgrade the electricity and plumbing into the 21st century. Somehow, the numbers grow exponentially between their verbal estimates and the paperwork that is left on the sawdust-covered kitchen counter. How long ‘till we’re setting up a roadside stand with free-range eggs and cut flowers and home-made jam? I’m crossing my fingers I’ll be harvesting the fruits of my five acres in the fall. I’ll keep you posted, so you-all can mosey on by in September.