It's HARD

Happy September!

I was going to do other posts here before the blog challenge week hit again, but our computer monitor (that has faithfully served us for 17 years) died and we only just got the new one.  It seems so BIG and bright!

The topic on the challenge today is for me to write about something that's hard for me, something I struggle with.  That particular topic could be its very own blog!

Here's the biggest struggle I have, day to day:
FOCUS

Oh, my stars....

When the movie "Finding Nemo" came out, I immediately identified with Dory, the little blue tang fish, who (as she regretfully but truthfully admits) suffers from "short term memory loss".

It's not that I forget things immediately, but that I'm easily distracted from something which leads to distracted from THAT, which leads to.....what are we having for supper? 

The only thing I've found that works is to write every, every, EVERYTHING down.  I have a planner that I use daily, two calendars, highlighted reminders, lists for groceries/town errands/daily to-dos.  This blog challenge is in my planner with a little check box to it because if I don't have it there, I'll completely forget.  I can hide things from myself, like a chocolate bar, and if I don't see it, I don't remember it....isn't that awful?! On Sundays, I line out my week with a menu for all the meals and a review of "what's happening".

It really throws me when school schedules change or the day gets scrambled around, because my total daily plan flies out the window, and there it goes. It may SEEM as though I'm organized, but it's just the opposite.  I think truly organized people carry a mental checklist around in their heads and can adjust it on the fly.  

The good thing about this, though, is that I'm going to transfer seamlessly into senility.  No one will be able to tell when I lose my marbles because it will just be an extension of my day to day distraction and forgetfulness.  

**POSTSCRIPT**

Another thing I struggle with was highlighted this morning and I feel compelled to share it with you...

Backing up a trailer...horse trailer, camper trailer, little bitty lawnmower hauling trailer, LEGO trailer...I can DO it, but Lordamercy it's painful for anyone to watch because it takes a ridiculous amount of time and salty vocabulary.  

That's all the confessions for today, folks! 

Peeved

Today's assignment is to write about three pet peeves.
Just three.
A study in restraint, I see...

My first pet peeve is chewing gum.
Very few people who chew gum know how to do so with class and good manners. There's smacking mastication. There's tiny in-mouth bubble popping. It's all funny in the movie caricatures with loud talking waitresses, but in real life it's pretty annoying.
I could tolerate the personal rudeness, but the thing that REALLY peeves me is that no one seems to know how dispose of the stuff discretely and unobtrusively. One of my first jobs was as an assistant janitor at my high school between my freshman and sophomore years. Let me say right now that I believe EVERYONE should have to janitor their own school for three months as a part of their class load.  Once you've scraped dried gum off the bottom of every desk in the building (save the secretary and principal's desks), or cleaned and waxed all the bathrooms, or repainted the lockers...ALL the lockers...much greater care is taken of the educational resources you're provided with.  That's why I can't stand gum.  I cleaned up so stinkin' much of it!  This isn't even counting the gum I cleaned off shoes from the random spitting in the parking lots. Or the gum out of my kids hair.

The second pet peeve on my (rather extensive) list is "I seen".
I really and truly try not to be a grammar Nazi, brace myself against the misuse of "their", "there", and "they're" in writing, but my palms absolutely sweat when I hear someone say "I seen them cows..." or "I seen a big cloud over..." etc.
"I saw..."
"I have seen...."
"I will have seen...."
But not "I seen".
I don't know why this bugs me to the dying end, but it does.

Thirdly, (and blessedly, FINALLY) is when people who are shopping decide they don't want a product or find a better deal on a similar product, and leave it in any old random place in the store. Or their empty Shlurpee container.
Again, this goes back to retail work experience from a job I had with Jo-Ann Fabrics.
It's quick and convenient for the customer, and what's the big deal, right?
It's a big stinkin' deal to the college girl who is working three jobs and has to sweep/organize every aisle after the doors close before she drags off to home for another 3 hours of homework, only to start it all again at 6 AM. Or the retiree who is putting in the hours on this job to afford rent and little Christmas gifts for their family with this job that runs until 9 PM; their legs ache and they can't understand what happened to common courtesy.
It's a big deal.
It's rude.
It's unnecessary.
Take the product back to the aisle it belongs; it's another 5 minutes out of your leisurely shopping day. Take the empty container to the trash at the front of the store that you walk past ANYWAY to leave. Just do. Be decent. Be a good person. It's not that hard.

Tomorrow is "Someone inspiring"!
I will lose sleep tonight over this! So, so many inspiring people that I know of...

Pardon my French...

Every year for the last ten years AT LEAST, I've been trying to learn the French language.  I have an audio cd course, tried several free language education websites, subscribed to France magazine....

And I haven't made any measurable progress, to speak of.

Part of the reason is the way the lessons are set up. 

(I understand the creators of the courses are trying for high success/high retention, but...)

One of the first words you learn is "cat" (chat). Truly. In almost every course that I've started, chat is right up there in the first 10 vocabulary lessons.  

Now, there are a lot of words I can think of that should take higher priority in my opinion. 

"Bathroom" being one of them. (If EVER you needed a high success/high retention word to leap to mind in a situation where French is the primary language, I would think this would be one of the biggies.)

"Police", "thank you", "help", "nice shoes", "more wine, please"....any of these would be more useful right away. 

I'm using an application on my phone right now and it's been very good in leading me along, keeping my interest and success high.  But it, too, has this crazy hierarchy of words I need to know right away!

I'm on Level 6, which means I have a French proficiency of approximately 1% I was informed today. This is very good news. 

I can, as of today, discuss sharks eating black chickens with anyone should the topic arise in conversation. (Les requins manges des poules noire!) I have the linguistic skills to note in passing that the woman has a red dress. (La femme a robe rouge...).  I would be able to ask an elephant about the sugar. (I'm SERIOUS. Apparently, the French converse a disproportionate amount of time about things that are black and red, are quite concerned with elephants, sharks, and cats, AND feel the need to comment on one's dress at any given moment.)

I'm one who tries to figure out meaning in context, but these lessons are killing me.  Today, I had to translate the French sentence "The men ate a whale." I knew all the words, but kept second guessing the word for "whale" because the sentence didn't make any sense at all the way I was reading it.  It turns out, that doesn't really matter when you're speaking French....or perhaps just learning it.  There was also a sentence about the women having cold soup, a chicken and a mouse eating a strawberry, and the sandwich being red. 

I'm hoping there will be a section soon that teaches me to hail a whale's red cab, ask where the black bathroom for chickens is, and how to order wine for la petite chat.  

You know, really useful things.

(All humor aside, I really am making good progress with the application Duolingo. I do 20 minutes a day, generally at the bus stop in the afternoon waiting for the kids or right before lunch. Any learning is good and it's a fun break from War and Peace which I'm happy to say has a bookmark between pages 121-122. Only 1100 pages to go!)

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Part 2}

If you look at a map of the routes United Airlines flies, and imagine taking a flight from Denver to Newark, it seems a pretty straightforward path.  See Example A:

But it turns out, NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO NEWARK. (This is the potential title of a book made up of dreadful travel stories that may be compiled at a future date.)

It took us for stinkin' ever just to get out of the Denver airport. 

The baggage was slow being loaded. 

There were passengers from a connecting flight that we needed to wait for.

There were other planes in front of us.

The pilot forgot to brush his teeth, so had to exit the plane to do so. 

(Not really, but it was starting to seem that that sort of thing was happening)

When we finally DID get out of Denver, the sun was beginning to set behind the Flatirons and this was the view from my seat...

(I know. There will be die-hard Denver Broncos fans that will point out the colors of the sunset match their team colors...blah, blah, blah. Years past I would be able to say something in retaliation like "Yeah, but just just like the sun, your team is going DOWN."  Not this year. *sniffle*)

Now then.

Back to the flight.

Look at the map one more time and trace with your finger the route from Denver to Newark.

Did you happen to go through Canada or over any of the Great Lakes?

No?

Well, WE did. 

I can only assume the pilots were trying to end up in Quebec instead of Newark because

NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO NEWARK. 

And I'll tell you why.

(You knew I would, didn't you?)

The Newark Airport is some sort of crazy, discombobulating, scuzzy, coffee-less/food-less/soul-less landing place after 11 p.m. until 5 a.m. the next day.  

We straggled off our "international" flight from Denver around 11:30 p.m., EST. There were about 3 stores or eateries open, but no one really felt like eating 8 hour old pizza. (Except Doc, and he got a screaming deal on it.) 

As Jenny found a place to nest with the kids and charge various devices, Ivan and I headed to have a glass of wine at the one likely place, Oeno Wine Bar. The only reason it was still open, I discovered after ordering a $15 glass of Chardonnay, was because of the MLB World Series playoff game between the LA Dodgers and New York Mets.

(Incidentally, the Mets won, 3-1, in which case the three Mets fans stood up, stretched, exited the joint and the lights started dimming.)

(But SERIOUSLY...who goes to a WINE BAR to watch baseball??? It would be like going to a steak house to watch opera. It can be done, but probably shouldn't be.)

So that was midnight. 

We only had nine hours to go before our flight left for Bonaire!

Nine of the longest hours of my life.

Don't tell my mom this (because she'll react as though someone just called a 23-19), but...

I slept on the nasty floor in a corner of one of the seating areas, with my head on my purse and my sarong for a blanket. It was only for maybe 20 minutes...long enough to get chilled to the core and want a cup of coffee desperately.

There's no coffee to be had in the Newark Airport at 2 a.m. 

I don't care if you're Batman or the Queen of England or Tom Brady, you won't be getting coffee.

You'll get lots of things....like "lost", "dirty looks", or "ignored", but you won't get coffee. 

(Ivan and I set off on a grand discovery tour around the concourse and got all those things. At one point, we encountered a custodian with a piping hot cup of fresh coffee. I asked him in a quavery, desperate voice where he'd managed to find it and he gestured toward the window..."Out thay-ah. Sorry."  Also, I think we may have set off an alarm in a weird, open kiosk that didn't look like a kiosk, but we'll never know.)

Finally (and this is by now only three and a half hours into a nine hour layover), a kid in a black hooded sweatshirt who was hanging around the central food court asked Ivan if we needed anything. Ivan replied rather hopelessly and glumly that we were seeking coffee and the kid said "I'll get you some."

(I'd like to say at this juncture that I believe in angels from God, and I believe this young man was one of them.)

As we were following him through the maze of stands, a rather stout black woman  pushing an empty (as it would turn out) coffee canister stopped our young savior and asked where he was going. He told her he was fetching us coffee, and she said something to the effect of "Ain't no damned coffee made 'til 5, fool." to which he said, "Yes there is. I made some."  I got the distinct impression that this was not his job or place, but like I said, I'm pretty sure he was an angel sent for me. (Because Ivan doesn't drink coffee, you see. He was just in it for the active distraction from sitting in the waiting area for 9 hours.)

Black Hoody led us to a closed coffee stand, went behind the counter, grabbed a big cardboard cup and asked if I wanted regular or decaf.  I almost wept with gratitude. 

"Regular, PLEASE and thank you so very, very much!" 

"No problem."

After he handed me the gorgeous beverage, I asked how much and he said, "I'll be right back" and vanished into the maze of stands again. 

So there I was, standing next to the counter with my contraband cup of joe when another traveler with the same haunted, hungry eyes approached and asked where I'd managed to get the life-giving elixir. I gestured with my head to the other side of the counter, "Back there. Some guy got it for me and now I'm waiting to pay him." 

The traveler said, "Where is he?!? Where did he go?!?!"

"I don't know!"was the truthful reply.

"They said there was no coffee until 5 a.m.!!!"

"I know."

"But YOU have coffee!"

Indeed. 

(Dear reader, you may be thinking that the Christian thing to do in this moment would be to grab another cup and split the booty with the other desperate traveler, but I will confess that although the thought flitted through my mind, I immediately and selfishly rebuked it, hoping my Newark story would not include being mugged for 10 ounces of caffeine that may or may not have been stolen. Let him find his own angel in a black hoody. Or something.)

After a short time, the other traveler gave up and left the scene. Moments later, Black Hoody angel reappeared, said "I got the code. Follow me." which I did unthinkingly. He led me about 10 paces to a pay kiosk, entered the super secret pass code (I should have paid more attention to THAT), took my 5 bucks, deposited it, carefully retrieved the 50 cents in change and handed it back to me. 

"Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH! I can't tell you how much I appreciate this!"

"No problem."

And he vanished into the airport. 

"I just KNEW your house was magical!"

This was the statement my friend Amber exclaimed yesterday as she and her kids visited us for the first time.

Now, my house is a lot of things....dusty, rather cluttered at times, quirky, warm, small....but it has never once occurred to me that it's in any way magical!

As I picked up and puttered around this morning, I tried to think of what might make it magical.

Perhaps it was the fact that she was greeted at the door by a pirate who was heartily informing the visitors of maps and buried treasure in our yard.

Maybe it was the sparkly pink flamingo sunglasses resting next to the tiara adorned teapot.

Or the conversation over the lunch table sincerely examining the feeding habits of foot trolls.

The dragon pictures scattered about the house?

Our dogs' thoughts that are narrated by everyone in the family, as though translating for a foreign cousin who wants to participate but doesn't know the language?

The coconut happily hanging out with the homegrown tomatoes on the counter?

Or maybe it's the dust bunnies with cardboard box houses that the kids created...

I don't know.
Maybe it's not magical, it's just "crazy" and she was politely reluctant to use that particular word, bless her heart!
But she mentioned the magic more than once, so something struck her deeply (besides the garlic in the pizza...).

I would hope that some of the magic would be how delighted we are to have guests, how they feel loved and appreciated, that the hugs we greet them with are genuine and deep.
I hope some of the magic in our home is the humor and safety to discuss any and everything, no matter how frivolous or deeply difficult.
If only some of the magic here is the wonder of being surrounded by a library's worth of good books and the beautiful art of my talented friends and family!

My greatest wish though, is that the true magic of our house is love.

Cowboy Humor

It's a sad state of affairs....

....when flamingos are rustled from the mailbox.

We put new ones down there, but this time they're branded with the OC on the right hip. (I know. I couldn't really find the right hip on the plastic flamingos so I just went for the general area. Flamingo branding is tricky!)

A homemade pie reward will be given for information leading to the swipers of the previous flamingos. 

Socklessness

It's my firm belief that socks bind a free spirit.  

I know they also keep feet sanitary and provide a cushion between shoe leather and skin.  Sometimes they're fun colored and express an individual's personality. They keep toesies warm.  Some people buy those socks with "R" for right foot and "L" for left foot, and RELIGIOUSLY wear their socks according to the letter on the sole. If they can only find two "L"s, they break out in a cold sweat at the cosmic implications of such a dilemma.  

I'm a barefoot-er sort of person. 

(Confession: this morning I didn't wear socks inside my Muck boots, fed cows, tromped around SOCKLESS for two hours, then came home and have been puttering around barefoot. No one knew until this very moment. And the world kept turning.)

  

I completely resent having to wear socks in the winter. 

Or any other time, really, but winter is the worst.

I don't mind my skin getting wet if I step in a little puddle of melted snow, but I nearly come unglued if my sock gets wet as a result of such an incidence. It's just...YUCKY.  

I don't like the way socks creepily smunch down until they're all wadded up around my ankle. And THEN they start easing off the ankle to the end of my toes.  When I was a moon boot wearing kid, I could hardly stand the creeping socks. I still can't. It's just....YUCKY. 

Socks are evil things for being in groups of three or five in the laundry. That vexes me.  Or for fading unevenly so that one is slightly lighter than the other, making a pair seem not q-u-i-t-e a pair.  Then what? 

(I know. It's a bitter diatribe. I've been holding this sock resentment in for years and only today felt brave enough to air my thoughts. Work with me, here.)

I like the freedom of bare feet.  

I like feeling the world with 'em.  (Yes, even the LEGOs. Talk about waking up your senses and feeling alive! In pain, but definitely alive.)

I like looking down and seeing my toenails painted.

I like that I can pick stuff up without having to bend over, simply by using my toes.

I like having feet tough enough tor trot across a gravel driveway in the summer. 

I like not worrying if my white dog sheds on the black socks.  (Who has time for that sort of anxiety, anyway?)

I like not slowing down to pull socks up or locate them.

Now, then...

are you a Sockie? 

When was the last time you bared your sole?

(I'd like to point out that there's nothing morally or ethically superior about either camp; we are who we are, and that's that. I don't understand the "L" and "R" people, but I don't condemn them, either. I might laugh at them, and hide their "R" socks occasionally, but I respect them for their devotion to the letter.)

 

A Wild Yarn

My friend Elise bought a knitting book several years ago with the most hilarious, hideous sweater patterns to make for men.  The patterns themselves could probably have been made a little more classy by using different yarns, actually, but the models used to display the sweaters were beyond redemption.  Truly.  Every one of them was posed in such a way that we could just tell they had been talked into this particular modelling gig by someone they owed lots of money to, because there was no possible way for them to pull off "sexy beast" and "my sister knit this for me" at the same time (which seemed to be what the pattern designers were going for).  

As we sat in the park and looked through the book, we laughed until tears were in our eyes, each picture funnier than the last!  And ever since then, we've been looking for the same sorts of patterns and pictures for each other...kind of like unbelievable JELL-O recipes; so awful you can't look but you can't stop looking.  

I think I finally have enough images that I can make up the calendar of sweater centerfolds that we've been planning.  I plan on hanging mine in the living room like a piece of art. You know, similar to a velvet Elvis; everyone will see it, but no one will say anything because it's impossible to come up with anything that really does it justice. 

As a teaser, I'm going to post a few NEVER BEFORE REVEALED IMAGES here, so that you can see what still cracks us up:

As if the peach and mint green cap sleeve sweater wasn't enough, the polyester pants demand a pose that makes you squirm uncomfortably at the viewing of the whole mess...

Interpretive dance should probably never be used to sell sweater patterns for men.

Belted sweaters seemed to be easier to carry off, especially if one didn't have to pose with any other models.  (We have much better belted sweater images. I didn't want to shock you TOO much before the calendar came out...) I was hoping to catch a glimpse of a Star Wars guy in the background of this set, but no such luck.

I think she's grinning because she won a fantasy football bet in which these guys had to wear the sweaters for a week in Lukenback, Texas or something.  

I cannot come up with a single person, male or female, that I'd gift with a granny square tank top...even the ones that I'm not feeling so charitable toward right now.  No one deserves that sort of abuse. 

(But these models seem completely tickled with their wardrobe at the moment! There may have been a cocktail party just before the photos to ease the pain.  I don't know.)

Here's that "look" I was talking about....he's not happy, Bob; not happy. 

The best for last...

Elise hasn't seen this one!  

The photographer was obviously in a hurry to wrap up the shoot because he didn't give this poor chap time to put on his polyester double knit wide-legged pants! (He DID manage to snag a sexy hat, probably hoping to draw attention away from...*ahem*....and it almost worked.) 

Gives one a whole new perspective on knitting, doesn't it?!

Won't this be a great calendar?

And a year long testament to twisted friends forever...

And they lived happily ever after...

This is not the truth.
This ending came about because the storyteller, having woven an amazing tale of good vs. evil, heros and villains, princesses who originate humbly and rise by virtue and good luck to royal statuses, wraps up the saga with those iconic words of finale because they flat can't come up with anything more at the time.  They've got nothin'.  So they proclaim that all lived "happily ever after" and toddle off to make a bologna sandwich with a big glass of milk.

It's not true, of course.

It's sort of a lazy, slap-down-the-ending, we're-done-here,-folks, don't-worry-your-cute-little-head ending to a story that sticks with kids for a long time.  This is rough, because kids want MORE!  We ALL want MORE!

(This is how Disney makes their dough...Lion King, 1 1/2, 3, 14, etc.)

Really, though...
Cinderella STILL had a veddy ticked off step mother and sisters, not to mention the new in-laws.
Sleeping Beauty lost how many years?  When she was LAST awake, it was wax seals on parchment letters; today, instant messages and Twitter.
Goldilocks? That chick will have recurring nightmares about bear beds after hibernation, don't you know?

And the list goes on.

I don't mind fairy tales...
Truly, I don't.
I like the clear black-n-white good vs. evil examples.
I like that commoners can accidentally or by good luck become kings and queens.
I like the tiaras.
:)
And I like that girls feel beautiful when they put on a crown, that boys feel brave and noble when they pick up a sword...or shovel to kill a rattlesnake.  I like the crafty old crones who are witches, because they aren't just hanging out in the nursing home, waiting for their lukewarm tapioca pudding.

But I have always felt very unsatisfied with
"And they lived happily ever after!"

I'd really like something more along the lines of:
"And they lived through the ever after; working hard, embracing the day, finding love and grace especially when they didn't deserve it, with good, strong coffee to motivate them every morning! Their adventures, big and small, are another story for another time..."

NOW you can make a bologna sandwich.

Confession #422

I fell out of love with Downton Abby when Matthew died.
*whew. there, I said it*

I was Downton before Downton was cool, Just as the rest of the world started really plugging in and watching Season 1 and 2 to catch up, really.  And I still watch it....I just don't LOVE it.

BUT...
I'm devouring this show entitled "Call the Midwife".
It's set in the east end of London (very poor neighborhoods) in the 1950s and is based on a real, true midwife's memoirs. The midwives live with nuns at a place called Nonantes House and work side by side with them to care for mothers, babies and community.  It's just a dear show, saved from being schmaltzy by having realistically flawed characters and a sense of nostalgia, not sugar. The producers have taken great pains to ensure historical and cultural accuracy, right down to the way the nuns knit....continental as opposed to the odd American style.  The music is 1950s wonderful, interspersed with holy vespers sung by the nuns.
I cry with happiness and anguish, nearly every episode...

Here's the cast from Season 1




My guilty show is "Selfridges" which is about an insanely charismatic, marketing genius who started the first department store in London around the turn of the century. (Yes. They're BOTH set in London.  It's BBC!) He's rather a philanderer but has a fair, decent heart so I forgive him as I'm bawling him out while I watch.  This one is about to go the way of Downton Abby, I'm afraid, so it may only be one of my favorites for one more season...
Oh! It's based on a real person, too!  I watched a documentary on Harry Selfridge and the t.v. show seems to be taking pains to stay true to his story.  (Really, he was such a character that they didn't really HAVE to make anything up.)

Sometimes I get all lost in the fashion and setting details of both shows, missing big chunks of the plot in trying to figure out what china pattern they're using or taking notes in my head on the cut of a gown. (You know. Because I'm very likely to sew my own walking suit...*sarcastic sigh*)

AND....
(yes...there's MORE)
in January, I'll be starting the Australian show "Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries".
It should be deliciously wicked and NOT set in London. (Melbourne, I think.)

Now you know.

I'd Clean My Oven For You

In the last couple years, there have been reverse-snob remarks and memes that proudly proclaim that "you're the friend I'd have at my house when I'm wearing yoga pants with my hair all a frizzle and the dog is throwing up on the hall carpet with the kids stringing up their stuffed animals and the toothbrushes by the kitchen sink."

Well, isn't THAT a complimentary picture?!

I understand that the idea is that we'd be good enough friends that you'd forgive that sort of thing and roll with it, but I just can't go down that road. 

My dear, if we are truly good friends....

I'd clean my oven for you.  

You won't have to look at that coffee cake and wonder if some black remnants of meals gone wrong in the past have sifted down while it was baking.  

I love you that much.

I'd shower for you. 

I may not have time for that sort of "luxury" today because I've been moving cows with my husband all day, the kids are whining because they're HUNGRY (again. still.) and the dog is looking ill, but I'd do it for you.

I love you that much.

I'd make fresh coffee for you.

Even though the coffee in the pot is perfectly good; it's three hours old and the charm is gone.  There are grounds in the bottom of the cup I poured 15 minutes ago.  It's tough.

I love you that much.

I'd find a clean hand towel for you.

They're at a premium some days.  I think the Farmer thinks they're "rags" because we haven't bought a new one since we got married 15 years ago and these are looking rahther shabby.  The kids used two of them in the maternity box with the last batch of kittens we had.  But I'd find one for you.

I love you that much.

I'd clean off the front seat of my car for you.

It's the "junk drawer" of automobiles....with my fencing gloves, homework slips to sign, a couple water bottles, four-leaf clover earrings, sombrero from the fiesta two years ago...  

I'll sweep it off for you.

I love you that much.  

I'd dust the t.v. for you.

I'd bring out the real china for you, not just the Chinette.

I'd blow dry my hair for you. 

I'd sweep the deck for you.

I'd make the pizza dough that takes 36 hours to cure.

I love you that much.

(If you were at my house and NONE of these things were done (except the fresh coffee), please know that it wasn't because I don't love you.  It was because I just didn't have time.  

Was the bathroom not a place you contemplated your last panel of shots?  Love.

Did you feel comfortable going barefoot in my home?  Love.

Homemade cookies?  Love.

Big hugs through tears? Love.)

I don't want to get to the point I don't invite or welcome people at my house because it's not "perfect" or because I'm not "perfect", but I want you to know that it's sort of a big deal if...

I'd clean my oven for you. 

Are You Ranch Wife Material?

I happened to stumble on a little quiz today for women dating (or aspiring to date) a rancher.
Of COURSE I took it!

But I was a little baffled by a few of the questions.

For example:

Would you rather A.) Eat out  or B) Have home-cooked meal?
Any current ranch wife would choose A,
We're the ones who make the home-cooked meals, three times a day.  Dang straight, we'd rather eat out!

What is your favorite color?  A.) Turquoise or B.) Black
Um....the ACTUAL correct answer would be C.) Green.
Green like grass, alfalfa, John Deere and (this is so obvious) MONEY....which comes if you have an adequate supply of the first three things mentioned in the same breath.

Do you highlight your hair?  A.) Yes  or B.) No
The correct answer is A.) Yes.  But not always in a salon.  Ranch wives get highlights in their hair by actually being out in the sun many hours.  And silver "highlights" from working cows with their husband and/or father-in-law.

Do you like to vacation in the summer?  A.) Yes  or B.) No
Who DOESN'T?
It's just that our "summer vacations" usually have a parts pick up involved or delivery of cows to a sale barn.  They're really more "stay-cations", but we'll take what we can get. Especially if we get to eat out while we're there.
*In a funny side note: on my way back from Tour de Friends 2014, I got a call while in Belgrade that my friend and cousin needed a swather part from the New Holland dealer there.  Could I maybe pick it up for them? Well, sure!*


A more comprehensive quiz would include the following questions:

1. Can you cook?

1.a. For more than 6 people in one meal?

1.b. With no recipe and only 5 incompatible ingredients?

1.c. In 30 minutes, after working cows with your husband and 4 neighbors all morning?


2. Can you handle "flexible" schedules?

2.a. "Flexible" meaning: immediately going from town clothes to corral clothes?

2.b. With the distinct possibility of having to go to town in the corral clothes for vaccine?

2.c. Or pick up herbicide chemical, because THAT plan changed, too, in the last 15 minutes?


3. Are you good with animals?

3.a. Like snakes in your flower bed?

3.b. Or skunks on the front step?

3.c. Or mice who try to sizzle up your coverall leg in the barn/granary/feed store?

BONUS: Or bulls in your yard in the middle of the night?


4. Do you like people?

4.a. Specifically, the 25 people who live in your community?

4.b. MORE specifically, the 25 people who live in your community who will know when you go to town, feed your cats, how you voted in the last 3 elections, secret ingredient in your potluck meatballs and what your mother's maiden name is?

4.c. All the people in a 150 mile radius that will come racing when your grass is on fire, attend your wedding and funeral, bring casseroles when you have surgery, spend $700 on your kid's 4H cake at the fair, put your cows in when they're out on the highway?


5. Are you good with numbers?

5.a. Numbers of cows counted as they streamed through the gate 3=4 at a time?

5.b. Numbers on parts you're supposed to pick up from John Deere that may or may not contain the letter (trick!) z or n?

5.c. Numbers that the guy who called for your husband gave you that will affect your life because it has to do with the price per pound of your calves, way to reach the cattle buyer in the next 3 states for the next 2 days, truck driver that will show up on the pre-determined date to pick up those calves and alternate dates there-in.


6,  Are you susceptible to falling in love with long eyelashes and knobby kneed babies?

6.a. Even when they're in your pickup truck on the floor?

6.b. And poop on the door of that same pickup truck?

6.c. In March, when there's a freak spring storm that dumps 8 inches of snow in 6 hours, then drops to =10 degrees not counting windchill?


7.  Do you have a high tolerance to pain?

7.a. Where you may tear your ACL and continue to work for another 8 hours?

7.b. Then the next day, drive yourself to the doctor 82 miles away, with a grocery list and parts to pick up?

7.c. And blame yourself for the whole damned mess?



If you managed to answer "yes" to 18 of those questions, you're nuts.
And potential ranch wife material, at least for a few years, bless your brave heart!

If you ditched the quiz 3.4 questions in, I applaud your intelligence and decisiveness...
but pity your lack of adventurous spirit and ability to roll with punches.

(It should be mentioned that some of the most unlikely aspects make the best ranch wives, simply because they don't have any idea of what they're getting into and just plough in with everything they've got.  I'm friends with some of these brave girls and will never cease to admire their chutzpah in a profession that takes strong women down daily.)

How to Get Yourself Uninvited From Potlucks For The Rest of Your Life

1. Volunteer to bring a JELL-O salad to the next community potluck.

2. Dig out your vintage "Joys of JELL-O" pocket cookbook circa 1967. (My Aunt Bert bought one for me on our Lewistown trip yesterday.)

3. Locate the recipe for Molded Chef's Salad on page 69. (Don't get distracted by the glossy Ring-Around-The-Tuna...garnished with curly endive and radish roses on page 65!)

4. Read through the recipe to ensure you have all the ingredients.  It could be tricky.

(You realize this is a lime JELL-O based recipe, right?  With tuna?  And hardboiled egg? 

AND an anchovy-mayonnaise dressing?)

5. Assemble ingredients according to the recipe.  

6. (You may need a bit of wine in order to fulfill this next step.  Or a gas mask.)  Pour the lime JELL-O in the circular mold, then add the tuna mixture and egg as directed.  (Be STRONG!  This is gonna get you out of COUNTLESS potlucks in the future!!!)  

7. Chill the completely disgusting JELL-O mold in the fridge for 2-3 hours until firm. 

8. Prepare the Creamy Anchovy Dressing...if you're still game.  Mayonnaise and anchovies mixed to put atop a lime-tuna-egg-vegetable salad.  It's...remarkable. And greyish.  (Another glass of wine would not be the worst idea, here...)  

9. Unmold the now-firm Molded Chef-Salad on a plate of crisp lettuce leaves.  

(It may not look EXACTLY like the picture in the JELL-O recipe book.

All the better!  Remember our mission?  No potlucks for the rest of your life!)

10. Plate the salad, garnishing with the anchovy dressing, and present it to your family for a "taste test".  

I will spare you the gagging and spewing of green JELL-O into the garbage can, but suffice it to say that you will have a Get-Out-Of-Potlucks-Free if you take this little gem to the next one.

Sara Hags, I challenge you to a wine pairing with this dish...

I didn't read through the cookbook very carefully when I was in Lewistown, just enough to see that the original cook (Margaret Argenbright) had written notes on her favorite recipes about who she'd served, the date, and whether the recipe was good or not.  She did NOT have a note on this recipe, but there was a smudge on the corner of the page indicating that she, too, had probably stopped at this recipe and marveled at the incompatibility of the ingredients and flavors. 

Good luck and keep jelling!

Adventures in Sourdough

I know.
Some people have adventures in Abu Dhabi or Greece.  I have adventures in sourdough.  It's cheaper and more accessible, but I'm finding it takes approximately the same time frame as those other adventures.

In order to have a sourdough loaf by Friday, I have to start last Sunday.
Seriously!

Here's the wording off the envelope of starter:
*ahem*

Place water, flour and culture in the bowl; mix until smooth, then cover with plastic wrap and let rest for 24 hours in warm draft free place.

Okay...good enough....I expected the starter to take a while.

NOW...to make the bread:
Take a portion of the "mother sponge" and put it in a bowl.  Feed it (add 1/2 cup water, 1/2 cup flour) and let it rest for 6-8 hours at room temperature.

After the baby sponge is all happy and restored, add the remaining ingredients to it, mix until smooth, then let it rest for 6-8 hours. (We're about 42 hours into the recipe and all I've got is some well-fed, well-rested baby sourdough.)

On floured surface, shape the loaf and place it in a greased pan, cover with plastic wrap AGAIN and....wait for it....let it rest for 4-6 hours until doubled in size.  (I would HOPE it would grow...I mean, my goodness!...48 hours of this pampering!)

Finally I get to bake the loaf in a hot oven that has carefully been prepared with steam so its little crust will be just so...for about 40 minutes.

That's right, folks.
FIFTY HOURS from start to finish!

But wait.
There's more.

The directions also say:
(I'm not making this up.)
Think of the Mother Sponge as sort of a pet; you want to feed it (recommended twice a day) and let it acclimate to its environment.
The Mother Sponge will become more sour when held at room temperature and fed often.

The tricky thing about this sour Mother Sponge is that she really stinks.  REALLY stinks.  Last night, when I was caring for Her Royal Spongie-ness, making sure she was fed and acclimated, Angus said "Mom!  I think the cat pooped in the house!"
Um...
Actually, no...but you pegged the odor, kid.

The one loaf I managed to produce was pretty good.  Not 50 hours and twice daily feedings to the Mother Sponge good, but pretty good.  I'm not sure what to do, now, though.  Should I give baby sponges away to my friends, as one would with kittens?  Or would it be more appropriate to give them to people I DON'T like? (As one would with kittens?)  Bake it all up and never go there again?  Bury it?

Who needs to go abroad, when such thrills can be had in one's own kitchen?

What's YOUR super power?

I was at a birthday party a few weeks ago where the mom had done a spectacular job (as usual) decorating her daughter's birthday cake and pulling together a really fun time for the kids.  One of the other moms complimented her and then asked me what my "Mom Super Power" was.  She had noticed that each mom in the community seemed to have a special talent for something....cake decorating, organizing occasions, games, making people feel comfortable and at ease at functions.  And she wondered what I thought my super power was.

Well.
Um...

I really didn't know what to say!
I make a decent pizza from scratch?

It took awhile, but I finally figured it out.
I can play.

When our little school took our field trip to Helena, I was Coral, Queen of the Mermaids every time we went to the pool. If you've never been mermaid royalty, let me tell you...it's one of the best gigs going!  All the splashing and diving and boiling of little shrimp in the hot tub; that's good stuff.

And at school, I'm Queen Seabring of the Fairies.  I'm a summer fairy, which stinks this time of year, but all the little wizards and fairies help me through the cold, dark months until once again, we shine.

I've been a monster, a wolf, a troll, a patient for the nursiest nurse around, a mail woman...whatever is needed in the game at the time!

The ability to completely suspend any sort of dignity and just BE someone or something else is a super power, I think.  My kids' birthday cakes leave something to be desired and I'm always running late on the decorating for holidays, but we have a wonderful time in our own little world(s)!

What's YOUR super power?

Goodnight, Moon...

When I was young, the night really scared me.  I liked seeing what was coming, liked the surety of life in the light...it's a hay bale, darn it! not a big hairy, scary thing waiting to pounce on and devour me. (You know..those things exist in every child's mind, don't they?) My family didn't go camping and we sure didn't light fireworks very often, especially in July when it was hot and dry and likely to start fires, so we didn't spend much time outside in the night. I read a lot; anyone who reads Nancy Drew knows that the bad stuff goes down in the dark. Wicked people lurked in the night! And wolves!

*shivers!*

After I had kids, I stopped sleeping.  Not stop-stopped, but there was no more of the secure, deep sleeps I had known when I was younger (and more naive, maybe).If something woke me up in the night, I was A-WAKE.  There was no going back to peaceful slumber...my brain was going and I had to be up, because goodness knows one cannot just lay in bed with a busy brain and a still body.  

And I'm still that way.  

BUT...

I found out that I love the night.

I love BEING in the night. 

There's such a peace I've found being out with the stars, with the moon in all her stages.  

It's going to sound really strange, but I love going for walks with friends in the dark because when we talk, there's nothing to distract from the thoughts that are shared.  It's somehow safer to share things...it feels private and insulated.  

It's easier to share things with God at night, too. 

I've given up trying to put myself back to sleep.  I've been given all sorts of advice on brain tricks; how to bore yourself into rest...apparently, my brain is too weirdly wired to be able to hypnotize itself like other people's can.  I usually end up getting up and letting the dog(s) out, wandering around out in the yard if it's a nice night saying goodnight to the moon and trying to breathe in the starlight.  Then, I go back in and read whatever strikes me and sometimes pray a little, wandering back to bed around 3:30 if the book is boring or making coffee at 4:30 if the book was thrilling. 

Last night, I stood out in the gorgeous dark with the big, sweet old moon and twirled slowly, thinking about how many people before me had seen those same stars in the same patterns, thinking of people I love and those who need love....

Then, Tessie bumped around my legs, telling me it was time to go back in...all the cats were accounted for...

Goodnight, Moon.  

Book Report!

Okay, so it's not REALLY a book report, because I'm still reading it and no one assigned it.  (Although, if someone had told me 20 years ago that I'd be reading this sort of book voluntarily, I'd have laughed!)

Our book club is doing cookbooks this year as a genre.
I KNOW....how odd is that?
We've been in the book club business for 14 years, now, if you can imagine, and some years are trickier than others.  We nearly folded this year because there was rumbling about how no one had time to finish the book before the next month, no one had time to meet once a month, etc.  But because everyone in our group loves to eat and are wonderful cooks, we decided to do cookbooks so there's no plot to follow and they're useful long after the meeting.

I was looking for something interesting, even though my turn isn't until February, and stumbled across....

It's not a cookbook, but it has a couple recipes in the back.  It's basically just about how Thomas Jefferson went to France after the American Revolution and before the French Revolution to drum up money for the new United States (since France was a key ally in helping us gain our independence from Britain), and dug around through the French culture to see what was useful to bring back to America.  

The book talks about the culture of the colonies at the time (austere and proud of it), the culture of France at the time (excessive and not ashamed of it), slavery (illegal in France), cuisine (see descriptions of the cultures), fashion (see descriptions of the cultures), personalities of the Founding Fathers (Ben Franklin was fond of kissing everyone in France, John Adams not so much) and so forth.  I can only read a little at a time because I don't HAVE time to sit down and read right through.  It's a little dry...no John Grisham here, folks...but since I just finished a novel about Marie Antoinette, it ties together rather nicely and I'm already there in my head, setting-wise.

(Every time I read it, I think of my friend Sara Hagedorn Calvert...)

Now then...

Any ideas for cookbooks?  Leave them in the comments!  So far, we've done a self-published Montana Silversmiths cookbook, Gooseberry Patch, and a Southern Living "Off the Eaten Path".  I was thinking of maybe doing a cocktail party in February, a la Breakfast at Tiffany's, which would mean canapes and cock/mocktails...what do you think?  

Day 22: What Is Your Dream Job?

Ooooooo!

THIS is sort of like my bucket list and lottery question all neatly wrapped into one topic!

The thing about dream jobs is that they seldom fit the life one is currently leading, so part of the scenario I'll describe would be if I didn't have to consider anyone else's well being or future.  That's why it's called a "dream" job.  

So....

I'd really love to be a photojournalist for National Geographic Travel magazine who is centrally stationed in the Caribbean on an island in a little hut where it doesn't matter if I track a little sand in and where I can make beach glass jewelry to sell to the wealthy (and gullible) tourists.  

See?  

What's YOUR dream job?

Or are you doing it right now?

Day 18: The Meaning Behind Your Blog Name

At first glance, it appears to be quite simple:

The Cohagen Chronicles are stories about my life in Cohagen, MT.

If you work out the acronym, it's much deeper and  more interesting....

C-Cows

O-On

H-Her

A-Awesome

G-Green

E-Endless

N-Native land

C-Children

H-Have 

R-Revised

O-Our

N-Notions

I-In

C-Cherishing

L-Life's

E-Events

S-Supremely

Okay, so it's neither deep NOR more interesting, but I didn't have time to come up with a numerical and symbolic code that would correspond with each letter.  

You get what you get.