Hay there.  I’ve owned this site for a while, but this is my first post.  I’ve been a little shy, scared even:  sheepish, lately.  Generally, I consider myself an introvert in an extrovert’s body, but this last year found me hunkered down on my little suburban farm in Northern Nevada, with the company of those closest to me and most tolerant of the chaos surrounding me: my Tribe, as I call them.

I’ve been wanting to blog for a while, and so here it goes.  I don’t profess to be a master at anything, but I enjoy growing food and flowers in the high desert, turning what I grow into free-flowing deliciousness, and living my life with humor and optimism.  Speaking of humor, I am writing this whilst watching my brilliant and spunky six-year-old daughter, Ruby, dancing her pants off to a god-awful pre-teen anthem: “Girls Be Girls” or something horrid like that.  My life is punctuated with “Rubyisms” that keep me going, even when our reality has been much harsher than we’d ever expected.

A few things about me:  I’m a working mom, an attorney by day, and a wannabe farmer by eve & weekend.  I am the surviving mom of my son, Tanner, lost to cancer at four-years-old, and of course, one and only mom of aforesaid (apologies, I did mention I’m a lawyer) wonder-daughter. I love gardening, cooking, preserving, and gin, and not necessarily in that order.  My dream is to own a craft distillery where I would grow herbs locally, and use locally grown grains, to make a kick-ass gin. I love vintage pin-up girls, and most fifties kitschy crap.  And, I’m a huge proponent of the Oxford Comma, but that’s another story.

We live on an acre and half of struggling dry pasture and cottonwood trees.  We have some hens and two accidental roosters, one of whom is just itching to be Sunday dinner.  We have Honky Tonk, a lame but lovely Sebastopol goose; Blossom and Ducky McDuckface, our Black Swedish ducks; and five wild baby mallards we inherited.   We call them the Wildings (today is the season premiere of Game of Thrones, by the way).  There’s been a lot of chicken death around here: My bad schnauzer, raccoons, and just cuz.  So, we really should stop naming them, but somehow we can’t resist.  Rubyism, when we find a dead chicken:  “It’s okay, Mama.  We just sent another friend up to Tanner!” Or, “We’ll just go to the feed store and get more.”  She’s a rancher’s daughter….  We’re hoping to escalate my insanity soon with the addition of some miniature dairy goats.  You know, goatish instead of sheepish.

Anyhoo,  this year was challenging for me professionally.  After losing a child to cancer, I wouldn’t have thought that much could get at me any more, but having someone attempt to sabotage my career shook me more than I thought possible.  It’s taken a while to come back out into the sunshine.  I felt like a lamb on its way to slaughter for quite a while.  It’s over now, and I could have sought retribution, but I want to believe that success is the best revenge.  It’s working.   I put on three-inch heels on my 5’11 frame in the morning, hold my redhead up, until I can kick those heels off for mud boots in the eve.  Look the devil in the eye, aye!  It’s time to be a wolf.

So, for my first post, I’m going to share with you the signature cocktail of my Tribe, with some variations.  I’m not much for measuring.  You’ll get used to it.  This is the drink we enjoy when we’re happy, sad, and saving the world. Or when they’ve been saving me… I believe that a martini is to be made of gin, but most of my Tribe disagrees.  It’s okay.  I do it for them every day.   I won’t judge you, Philistines.   Use vodka if you must.  Chopin potato vodka is our favorite.  It’s gluten free!  (Even though there’s no gluten in spirits, fool…  Sigh.)  My Scottish roots draw me to good Scottish gins like The Botanist, Caorunn, Hendrix, etc. but there are so many good and interesting craft gins out there. Try them all!

The Tribe Martini: 

Place a couple of shots of good gin (three if you dare?!) in a shaker with ice.

Add a couple of olives or a splash of olive juice.  Just a splash, people. Filthy martinis have no place in civilized society.

Squeeze a quarter of lemon into the shaker.

Add a sprig or two of fresh basil. (In the winter, when basil is gone, we add a swizzle stick of rosemary instead.)

Shake, shake, shake.  Either strain or pour with ice depending on your preference or level of whimpiness.  Enjoy!

If you don’t like the thought of a slightly salty drink, this would also be delish with a spoonful of simple syrup instead of the olives/olive juice.  Or, heck, try one of each.  I won’t tell!

Hope to chat with you soon.  Bah bah bah!  XOXO, Dixie