Darius brought up something that has been floating around my thoughts lately and sometimes weighing heavily on my heart. Living here, so far away from my family is tough. While I’m settling into being comfortable with mySelf, it has also made those things that matter most clearer to me. How do people stand living so far away from those they love? I don’t understand.

Kristin and I were talking on the phone a few months ago and I was filling her in on this and that–plants that went to seed, people I had seen around town, projects I was working on–and I mentioned that I had lit the first fire of the season in the wood stove and that I intended to build a nook in the corner next to it to spend the long winter nights. This caused us both to reminisce about last winter and I realized that it was my favorite part of our time together. Since the wood stove was the source of heat in our very chilly and drafty house, we spent every night together in the living room, working on our own projects, eating dinner, occasionally watching movies, and generally just Being. Halfway through the winter we each purchased small space heaters for our rooms, (because they were holding at a steady 50 degrees) and after a few weeks, we both noticed how much more time we spent alone in our rooms. Kristin pointed out that before electricity and modern conveniences families used to spend all their time together because the fire that heated their homes also cooked their food and gave light when it was dark. Fire was essential so everyone stayed near it together. Andrea, an Apache elder we worked with, told us how her whole family used to cook and sleep in a wickiup around the fire when she was growing up. I try to imagine how close she and her parents, siblings and grandparents must have been.

I remember going to Tijuana on an AMOR work trip with my high school youth group the first time. We built a house over the course of three days for a large three-generation family that at that time lived in a 12 by 12 shack constructed of cardboard, old car parts, and discarded scraps of metal and wood. I was shocked to see them all living together in such a tiny space, and even more surprised to see that they all seemed perfectly content. What an educational experience that was for me, especially at that age. I saw firsthand how strongly families are bonded and for the first time felt sorry for rich Americans. With their 100,000 square feet homes, dozens of rooms, and televisions in every space, their chances of running into each other are slim. With all that room, there’s little necessity for cohabitation, and therefore, less joy, laughter, sharing, and Love.

Darius lives in the other half of my house with eight of his family members. He lives with his sister, two grandparents, mom, two aunties, and two uncles. Sometimes I awake to the sound of yelling, arguments, and slamming of doors. I have seen and felt the despair that has such a hold on every soul here. Sometimes while listening to Darius and his sister screaming and crying next door, I’ve thought that the only way their life will be better than their mother’s is if they leave the reservation. I have cried for them, prayed for them, sent Love through the wall that divides us, and called 911 four times either on behalf of their family or because of them. The reality of their lives is watching their mother stumble through the front yard into a patrol car, being yelled at for the smallest mistakes, and often being neglected. Yet other mornings I awake to the sound of giggling, of pattering feet, of humorous conversation. And what Darius helped me to fully realize through his statement about my family, is that at the end of the day, no matter what has happened, they are family and they are together. Who am I to say what’s best for another? They live together not only out of financial necessity, but also because they choose to stay together. What could be more real and true than that?

I am considering moving back to Prescott. When I think about “home” I think about my parents, and how much I enjoy spending time with them. Throughout the process of considering this idea, I’ve come up against many perceived judgements of my own about what it means to “move back home.” I feel that the American Dream is really founded in leaving your parents behind to become independent–prove yourself. We have been taught that to love and honor your family and want to be near them somehow makes you less, or weak, or a failure. I reject that. I get choked up every time I think about my family and how much I love them. If moving back home means being closer to my parents, then my life will have more meaning, fulfillment, truth, and Love.

And that’s the best part. Darius’ and my wish can be a reality. My family may not be able to drop everything and move here to be with me, but I have the privilege of leaving this reservation when I’m ready, and when I do, I’ll be able to go live there with them.

a gem from the archives

The most valuable piece of wisdom someone shared with me before I moved here was about time.  Nikki Henderson, the Executive Director of  People’s Grocery,  spoke to us at our FoodCorps orientation last August about the importance of diversity, deep listening, and building relationships.  She told us that American white culture generally functions “on time” while many other cultures and communities operate “in time.”  This lesson has made all the difference for me living on the Reservation.

Here it’s Apache Time.  I love Apache time–probably because I’ve always operated in this kind of time.  This whole community runs In Time and the things that need to get done get done, and people arrive exactly as they are needed.  Things move slowly here, but there is a sense of working with time instead of against it.  I feel as though there’s an understanding among people that has nothing to do with a watch or a calendar, and instead moves with the energy of the place and people involved–with the Earth.  I would say that living here requires patience, and it does, but more so than patience, it has brought about a whole different way of experiencing the world.  Everything flows naturally.  I no longer get annoyed at slow drivers when I’m driving behind them because I know that I’ll get where I need to be in time and those waiting for me understand that.  I don’t get angry when someone is half an hour late because in the meantime I can sit and enjoy the sunshine.  I know that all is well and things happen at the right time.

I like that in experiencing this new sense of time, I am also becoming intimate with my Own Time.  When I moved in here, I had a lot of stuff, and I got most of it unpacked within the first few weeks, however there were many odds and ends in my room that I just couldn’t find a place for.  So instead of stressing about it, I allowed myself to have my process as it felt true for me.  Six months later, is my room organized?  No.  Do I feel comfortable in my room?  Yes.  I know that at some point I will get there, and it will be in my Own Time.

In the summer of 2007 I started sewing a quilt.  It was a large and exciting project, and for a couple of weeks I was devoted to working on it.  When I moved to Tucson the pieces were all basted together and I spent many nights hand quilting them together while watching movies.  Then I took a break, and it wasn’t until last month that I chose to continue quilting.  And then, I finished it!

I started writing this entry back in early March.  It didn’t feel true for me to publish it then so I let it sit here for a month and a half until I was ready to revisit it.  I was recently in New York visiting my brother and it was a shock to my understanding of time.  I traveled the city without a watch or cell phone and watched as everyone on the subway and street hurried their way along, rarely stopping to look around.  I’ve been on that time before and I don’t judge those who use it, but I am ever so grateful to be in a place where I can honor my Own Time and that of those around me in a way that feels true.

I used my grandmother’s whole wheat and honey bread recipe as inspiration and then ran with it.  I’m not totally sure of the amount of each ingredient as I sort of threw them together, but I think this is pretty close:

Sprouted Six Grain Bread

2 cups sprouted grains (I used wheat, spelt, kamut, quinoa, and millet)
2 cups wheat or spelt flour
2 cups white bread flour
1 cup oats (soaked in a bit of hot water for a few minutes)
1 1/2 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons yeast
1/4 cup honey
2 cups warm water (or however much it takes to make the dough right)

I’ll follow this recipe tomorrow night when I make my bread and report back with any edits and/or additions needed.  I let the dough rise until it doubled in size and then allowed it to prove again for another couple of hours.  I think I baked it at 375 degrees for about 30 minutes.  It was late at night when it came out of the oven, and it was so delicious that Kristin and I both couldn’t resist eating two slices each.  Thick slices, with lots of butter.

While I also found this amusing, I knew he was right, and the implications of being “resified” reach far beyond humor.  One day recently when Kristin and I were driving home from work there was a man lying on the shoulder bank of the main road through town and several EMTs were standing around him.  They looked like they were smiling and maybe joking so I assumed that he was unconscious but otherwise okay.  I said this to Kristin and she said “They also don’t seem to be in any hurry.”  And just like that we both acknowledged the possibility that the man we just drove past might be dead.  And then we drove home in respectful, thoughtful silence.  This was the moment I realized I was resified.

Living here doesn’t make one numb, but it does give a whole new perspective on life.  Through the sadness and suffering here, I am reminded every day of what is truly important.  When I see a dog eating the remains of another dog, I view it as life’s cycle.  When I see someone drunk on the side of the road, I say a prayer or send angels.  When someone asks me to drive her home because she’s wasted and another woman just punched her in the face causing her to fall through my front door, I drive her home with Love, patience, and compassion.  I transmute all of these daily interactions into Love and light because that is what I must do.  For me, this has been my resification.

the deceased horse on the left with the abandoned dorm in the background

Today was beautiful and I spent the afternoon working in the yard.  It’s quiet at the Fort on weekends and as I was wiping my feet to go inside, a car full of old white tourists passed my house.  I nodded in greeting and went inside.  Two minutes later there was a knock on my front door and one of the old men was there.  “There’s a horse stuck in the cattle guard over there,” he told me.  “Is there anyone we can call?”  I scanned the Fort in hopes of seeing one of the security guards that are always making rounds in their car but saw no one.  So I told the man I would take care of it and came back inside to call 911 for the third time in six months (For the record I have never felt unsafe here–the first call was for a domestic dispute next door and the second because there was a drunk man staggering along in the middle of the highway at night).

I walked to the cattle guard to be with the horse.  I didn’t know what I could do, but I felt that I needed to be there for her.  She had broken at least one of her legs, and it was stuck awkwardly so that she couldn’t move the rest of her body.  People in cars glanced and then continued on their way.  A man in a truck stopped to stand with me and stayed until a policeman arrived about about five minutes later.  (I think he literally thought that as a young white woman, I might need someone to be there with me, and I was thankful that he was)  After taking one look at her, the officer shook his head as if to say, “This doesn’t look good.”  I asked if he was going to shoot her and he said he had called the livestock something-or-rather and he’d wait for them to get her out.  Then he told me that it would be a half hour until they could get there.  So I sat and waited with her.  She made sounds of agony and every so often would try unsuccessfully to get up, which only hurt her more.  I felt so helpless.  All I could do was be a calm, comforting presence, and so I focused all of my energy toward Being so.  I prayed for her to pass out and never wake up.  I talked to her and stroked her mane when she would hold still, and that small amount of soothing was all I could do.  Eventually (probably 20 minutes later) another policeman arrived and immediately started planning the best angle from which to shoot to put her out of her misery.  I was grateful that he was willing to shoot her and my only wish is that he had come sooner.  She could sense what was about to happen and hid her head as best she could.  I told the horse that it was okay to die and everything was going to be all right, and then I stood behind the policeman, plugged my ears, and watched as he shot her square in the forehead.

Looking back, it occurs to me that until today I had never seen anyone shoot a real gun, nor had I ever seen a living being be shot.  The only animal (other than fish) that I had watched die was by my own hands when I slaughtered my rooster a few years ago.  A horse is a big thing to see die.  When the bullet hit her skull, her body shuddered, blood came streaming out of her nostrils, she urinated, and then her head fell.  I kept my ears covered for a long time, eyes closed, listening to my own deep inhales and exhales, imagining her spirit getting up and galloping away with the rest of the horses at the Fort.  When I opened my eyes, her body was completely still.

I am writing this here mostly because I need to write about it, but also because I think it’s important to remind people living off the Reservation(s) how fortunate we often are not to see this kind of death close up in our lifetime.  The horse’s death was a necessary reminder of all I have and I choose to welcome it not with guilt, but gratitude.  I don’t feel guilty; I feel grateful.  I am grateful that my parents loved each other and have stayed together to this day, not because they feel they have to, but because their love is true.  I am grateful for my brother and sister and all my genuine, kind, intentional friends that inspire me to follow my own path.  I am grateful for the innocence of my childhood that lasted far longer than most.  I am grateful that I have always had a warm house, hot clean water, and access to healthy food.  I am grateful for my education.  And now I am grateful for this experience.  I am grateful for the perspective that I have gained by living here.  To know what people experience is to start to know what I can do to help make things better, and I know that change begins with mySelf.  I will think about the dead dogs and horses of the Reservation and they will remind me that just as their lives had a purpose, mine does too.

After Sean told me that I was resified, he referenced the Serenity Prayer and said that he felt it was the mantra of Reservation life.  I couldn’t agree more.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

Last month I was telling Kristin and our friend, Daniel, about a drawing that I remember creating when I was a child.  It was essentially my current dream community:  all my best friends living next door, and all of our food being provided by the land.  Over Christmas I went through all of my belongings in my closet at my parents’ house and lo and behold, guess what I found?  Check out this biographical gem:

it's a pencil drawing from 18 years ago so it might be hard to see. there's a brighter version below.

It’s a communal farm!  I drew this in third grade when Jill, Amanda, Andrew, and Danny were my best friends.  I had this awesome plan where we would all live together in a place where all our needs were fulfilled.  In our little community there was a blueberry patch, raspberry patch, apple and peach orchard and a little garden to feed us all.  Some of my favorite things about this drawing:

1.  The “money pitt”–I was a little communist!
2.  Each of the houses has a little wagon parked out front in its designated space.
3.  The only commerce in our community is a fresh produce market and an ice cream stand.  What else could one need in life?  (I’m serious)
4.  There is a pool and a trampoline.
5.  Everyone else has a normal little house, while I live in a treehouse.  I think maybe the little bucket hanging down went to a pool where I could collect water for the house.  Little sustainable Kathleen!
6.  If we wanted to go somewhere, it would have to be by foot, horse, or airplane.  I’m pretty sure that the airplane drawn in the upper left corner was inspired by Pippi Longstocking’s homemade person-powered airplane.  I thought that was the bee’s knees.
7.  There’s an entrance to our community just like an amusement park.
8.  That’s definitely me on the trampoline.  No doubt about it.

What really gets me is how the universe brought this drawing to me at the perfect time.  I am an accumulator; I hold on to meaningful and useful things.  Yet in going through my closet, I found very few pieces of everyday art.  This was the only drawing from this era that I found, and really the only piece of artwork outside of art class that remained.  Why was it that for all of these years I kept this drawing?  Because it was true for me and I knew it.

This week I made a copy of the original and then colored it in.  It felt great.  I reinforced the outlines in black ink, and my hand moved so effortlessly over the old drawing, as if I were nine years old again and nothing had changed.  I made my house purple because I loved purple when I was little.  Although, I must point out, depending on what part of third grade I drew this during, I might have already changed my favorite color to blue because that was Andrew Ashcraft’s favorite color and I wanted to marry him.  (I love looking at this drawing–his house is on the opposite side of “my place”–so young and innocent.)

It is so reassuring to see this and know that somewhere inside of mySelf I have kept this dream alive–always known it was real and true.  It was just waiting for the right time to come to the surface.  This drawing has inspired me.  Why don’t we map out our dreams as adults?  I intend to dream more and draw the images in my mind.  What’s keeping me from making this happen?  I am listening to my child Self and my true Self and with both of us supporting me, I now have the courage to go forth and make my dream a reality.  Who’s with me?

I have lots of intentions this month (and the next too).  I intend to plan for my spring garden, make new garden beds out back, finish a quilt I started 4 years ago, mend clothes, paint, draw, bake and cook new recipes, and sew.  I’m off to a good start this weekend.  Yesterday I started 108 little seedlings.  Siberian and Red Russian Kale; Rhubarb, Fordhook Giant, and Flamingo Pink Chard; Violet De Galmi and Red Creole Onions; Dolce Vita Spinach; Red and Green Romaine, Red and Green Oak Leaf Lettuce and Cilantro.  I bought seedling tray sets that have a watering tray and a clear plastic lid that acts like a mini greenhouse and I plan to put them out in the sun during the day and then bring them in at night.  Today I will make a sign attached to my bedside lamp that says “Did you bring in the babies?”  We’ll see how it works.

Yesterday I also made some simple half white, half whole wheat “no knead” bread.  It was delicious as usual and next time I’m going to try to add some spouted grains like quinoa, millet, and amaranth into it.

On Friday I adopted a kitten!  I’ve decided to call him Elwood.  He’s adorable, as of course kittens are, and he looks and acts very much like Delilah.  I had been considering getting a second cat because it seems like Delilah is depressed.  It may have to do with the energy here, or perhaps she’s lonely.  Sometimes when I’m holding her she will be following something that I can’t see around the room with her eyes.  I’m grateful that I can’t see everything she does.  So I hope that she and Elwood will become the best of buds and then when I’m at work or out of town, she’ll have someone to keep her company.  As is stands right now, Elwood is staying in Kristin’s room.  I’ve been exchanging blankets between them so they’ll get used to one another’s smell.  So far Delilah is visibly pissed off and has hissed under the door a couple of times.  All in good time….

This morning I made some awesome muffins.  Yesterday I made carrot, kale, and apple juice with my juicer(!) and had lots of pulp left.  I found a recipe through Pinterest (as a side note I am completely addicted to this website.) and toyed with it a bit to suit my desires.  First, I prefer spelt flour in my baked goods because it has a nuttier profile than wheat flour.  Second, I couldn’t bring myself to use an entire cup of olive oil so I substituted a half of a cup of applesauce and a half of a cup of coconut oil.  I didn’t want to use four eggs, so I used just two then added a half of a cup of yogurt in place of the other two.  I threw in raisins and the sprouted, cooked amaranth for some oomph.

Carrot, Kale and Apple Pulp Muffins

2 cups spelt flour
1 teaspoon sea salt
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
2 teaspoons baking soda
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 cup coconut oil (my house is cold so I had to warm it until it liquified)
1/2 cup applesauce (it was a treat to open one of my own canned applesauces!)
1/4 cup warm water
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs, beaten and at room temperature
1/2 cup yogurt
2 cups pulp (I had a combination of carrot, kale, and apple in that order)
1/2 cup raisins
1/8 cup sprouted and cooked amaranth (optional–this was just something I had in the fridge and decided to throw in.  I really like the buttery flavor that it contributes to baked goods)

Mix dry ingredients together and set aside.  Combine pulp, amaranth, sugar, water, yogurt and applesauce in large bowl.  Add the vanilla to the beaten eggs and then pour into the bowl with the other wet ingredients.  Mix thoroughly and then incorporate the coconut oil while stirring constantly.  Throw in the raisins or nuts if you’d like.  Add dry mixture into the large bowl and fold until just mixed together.  Don’t forget to grease your muffin pan!  Cook at 350 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes.

kristin in the school garden

Many people have been asking me what I do here as a FoodCorps Service Member, so I thought it might be nice to share what a typical week has been thus far.  No two days are the same and every week has twists and turns, but as a general rule, the following is my experience.

Mondays I spend at the office.  Johns Hopkins Center for American Indian Health has an office just north of Whiteriver, behind the hospital, and on Mondays I have meetings with my coworkers to talk about the week and what we all hope to accomplish.  After our meetings I spend the rest of the afternoon preparing for the lesson (I am in charge of teaching the third grade lesson) for Wednesday.

On Tuesday Kristin and I work at the People’s Farm all day.  The farm is located in Canyon Day, which is about two miles from our home.  It is owned by the Tribe and is under the supervision of the Hydrology Department.  They just finished harvesting several acres of alfalfa.  They also have a garden area, complete with two new hoop houses.  Next to the garden is a community center that is in the works.  So far I have weeded, watered and mixed soil (and played in the mud!) on my days there.  From now on, I think we’ll be helping to complete the community center–lay stone for flooring, make benches and tables etc.  I really enjoy my time at the Farm.  The Farm Supervisor, Mike, is a genuine, goodhearted man with kind eyes.  Through his intentions he has made a lot of progress at the Farm.  I usually work with Clayton and Denaya.  They are the “farm hands” and I love working with them.  They keep me laughing all day long and have taught me a great deal.

Wednesdays are our longest day.  We drive to Cibecue in the morning and don’t return home until the evening.  We have 45 minutes with each grade–third, fourth, and fifth.  So far we have taught lessons about the food groups, parts of a plant, bugs, and weeding.  We have about 90 students all together.  It’s hard to fit a lot of learning into our brief window, but I think the kids are learning.  Something that has been inspiring is how much kids love fruits and vegetables.  We’ve done a few taste tests (carrots, tomatoes, broccoli, cucumber, celery) and they always come back asking for more.  This gives me hope.

On Thursday Kristin and I are in charge of the Whiteriver Farmers’ Market.  It consists of one shade structure that we put up, two tables, and two chairs.  The People’s Farm (Clayton and Danaya) supports us and provides any produce they have harvested from the garden.  This season they have had tomatoes, chiles, squash, melons, and garlic.  Members of the community are invited to bring any crops they’ve grown which makes it more of a “Gardeners’ Market” although very few people participated in August and September.  One man came the first time we set up with twenty or so zucchinis.  Vanya told us later that he promised to take his granddaughter to Disneyland with the money he made from selling them.  Sometimes Kristin and I make samples for people to taste–cucumber water, watermelon juice, pico de gallo etc.  One time I sold zucchini muffins and I’m still not sure whether or not people really liked them.

Fridays are a mostly unstructured day.  We have a staff meeting  at the office just before lunch and then I usually fill out my time sheet and enter data for the week, or do miscellaneous office work.  In the afternoon I drive to Cibecue with Sean to help with the Native Vision program.  This after school program teaches kids about living a healthy lifestyle through sports.  We pretty much get to run around and play elementary school games like Red Light Green Light, Sharks and Minnows, and What Time is it Mr. Fox.  Kristin and I always try to incorporate healthy snacks and lessons about nutrition while they are eating them.

There are things I miss, but I love where I am.  As a child I was determined that as an adult I would settle in a small town, (apparently Prescott wasn’t small enough for me?) probably because I had some romantic idea of knowing everyone in the community.  At a young age I also dreamed of having my own farm.  These dreams, now intentions, have always been true for me and it’s comforting to know that I have always known what I wanted.  I love that if I call the post office, Cheryl, the postmaster, will not only recognize my voice, but tell me whether or not I have a package waiting for me.  I love that people raise a finger or two from their steering wheel in passing along the back road from Whiteriver to Fort Apache.  I love being so close to wilderness even as I sit here inside my house.

Here is a sampling of photos from around Fort Apache, our commute to Cibecue, and the forest east of Pinetop.  I am continually amazed at the beauty of the White Mountains–so much that sometimes I am rendered speechless.  I know I am in the right place–when I returned from my brother’s wedding last weekend and passed through the red mountains that host a stunning display of pine, juniper, and oak, I felt at home.

bridge to the farmstead at Fort Apache

abandoned field at the farmstead

dairy stalls and storage house at Fort Apache

the road home near Canyon Day

my favorite view

grass in the breeze

meadow of the Black River

Last week Kristin and I bought some raw milk from a local dairy farm and I decided that I wanted to make cheese.  (Kristin was in the middle of a raw food cleanse and I certainly can’t consume a gallon of milk within a week’s time, so I needed to do something with some of it.  I kept saying, “you know what’s raw?  this milk!”)  So yes, I looked for instructions on the internet and found a recipe for mozzarella.  It was a slightly complicated process involving a lot of heating of water, switching of bowls, pouring etc., but at the end of Sunday, I had homemade mozzarella cheese!

This is the process in a nutshell:  Heat the milk up to 90-100 degrees with a bit of citric acid mixed in.  When it reaches the right temperature, add rennet and stir for 30 seconds.  Then let it sit still for 5-10 minutes.  You’re supposed to “cut” the curd (insert childish giggle) after that, but mine kind of just stayed in a big hot glob, so I pulled it out.  After you cut it you remove it from the whey and place it in a colander to drain.  Then you heat up water to 175 degrees, dip the cheese in to get sticky and malleable.  Stretch it by folding it over itself a few times and then place it in cold salt water.  BAM!  Cheese!  Here are some photos of the process:

Tonight I made caprese salad with basil from my garden, tomatoes grown at Day-Star Farm in Holbrook (great people!) and my mozzarella made from raw milk from Taylor.  It was delicious!

Confession:  I thought canning was a lot of work.  Also, I thought making yogurt was for the birds.  Turns out neither of those things is true.  It’s amazing how we perpetuate our own beliefs without a real foundation.  Last week my new roommate/coworker/friend Kristin and I spent the morning canning and making homemade yogurt with our supervisor, Vanya.  The takeaway:  it’s so easy!

I remember a few years after my grandmother had passed on, my mom found a jar of her applesauce in our cupboard.   What a beautiful way to leave something of yourself behind for your family.  It was as if she were there in the room with us when we ate it.

A friend of Vanya’s went up to Colorado last week to pick up organic fruit and Kristin and I decided to stock up for the winter.  We bought a case of pears, a case of peaches, and a case of nectarines.  (best idea ever!)  As of right now we have eaten all but two nectarines, have a dozen or so peaches left, and nearly the whole case of pears.   (I made a pear crisp the other night that was incredible).  While at Vanya’s we learned how to make peach jam.  Then we cut nectarines into eighths and submerged them in slightly sweet hot water.  I can already imagine our delight when we have these summer fruits to enjoy in the middle of winter.

While we were making the jam and canning the nectarines, we also learned how to make yogurt.  This is how easy making yogurt is:

1.  Heat up milk to 110 degrees.
2.  Pour milk into a glass jar.
3.  Add a tablespoon of yogurt to the jar.
4.  Let the jar sit in a warm place (we set them on a heating pad and covered them with towels) for three to four hours.

Yep.  It was that simple.  Kristin and I are going to experiment with raw milk next week and perhaps a milk lower in fat sometime in the future.  One thing is for sure:  we’ll be making our own yogurt from now on.  This weekend I intend to make pear sauce and preserve it for the winter.  And when apples start falling off the trees (there are so many apple trees here I can’t count them) we’re going to make applesauce as well.