Sunday Sundries

This is one of those scattered, random posts, with a lot of little things that are completely disconnected. You know; like my train of thought, jumped off the track....

Did you know you can get your blog printed and bound into a soft-cover book? And I know that sounds completely silly, but Aunt Bert was the one who has been pushing me about it, because she wants my kids to have a copy. And truthfully, it's a lot easier to do it that way than to try to scrapbook it all over again! Also, this is the lazy woman's journal. Sort of. Anyway, if you are interested, you can go to http://blog2print.sharedbook.com/ and it walks you through it. It's incredibly simple, and surprisingly cheap. I think all of my 2008, with pictures AND comments, turned out to be about $24.95. That's it. The shipping was included in that price. And if, for some misguided reason you want a copy of Cohagen Chronicles, I can get you one too. (And yes, all your comments are in there....which I'm tickled about!)

Daisy has a sidekick! Wayland came home and announced a steer calf has been added to my herd. I'm going to meet him tonight, and feed him. As of right now, he's been named Festus, because that's the perfect western sidekick. Either that or Tonto, but I like the name Festus for a calf. Daisy is going to be SO thrilled, because she was getting very lonesome. And the kids are going to be SO thrilled, because now there's a girl calf for the girl, and a boy calf for the boy. I think, once again, we are the only thrilled ones on the place. Ah, well...

Today, I attended a planning meeting for Vacation Bible School, that is to be held the first week of June, in Jordan. The theme is Crocodile Dock...a swamp theme! All I could think of was my friend Patricia, in Florida! We are going to attempt to do Montana version of the swamp. THAT ought to be entertaining...

I have the daunting job of doing the Bible stories and lessons that the kids experience, rather than just listen to. I need to come up with Pharaoh's throne, the Red Sea that can part, a burning bush that doesn't burn. Now, don't get me wrong, but if only God could part the Red Sea and do a burning only not engulfing bush, how am I, a mere ranchwife, to reproduce those miracles? They have suggestions in the packet, but STILL!

If you have ANY swamp ideas, that can be cheaply made, OR ideas for the above mentioned miracles, I'd certainly welcome them. Also, if you live in the area, and are interested in sending your kids to VBS, or if you are interested in helping, contact me, and I will welcome you with open arms, and brownies. Yes. I am willing to make brownie bribes. No scruples whatsoever.

Okay, I think that's it. And would you please hold our little school in your prayers? We have a meeting tomorrow night, and really, I don't think it's going to be a peaceful little get-together. But perhaps it will, with divine intervention. So, thank you for that.

Hope your Sunday is beautiful. And blessed.

Oh, and the new hair-do took the wind, dirt and cap treatment, yesterday, and held up pretty well! Hoorah! (Because I just knew you were all dying to know that little bit of information....)

Hair today, gone tomorrow...

Before... ...After

....more after....

...in the back....

Lilly squeezed me in to her salon between other appointments, and enthusiastically did a great cut. I didn't take pictures; just told her to do something easy, that didn't take hours to fix, didn't make me look like my mother, fit under a cap and grew out nicely. This is what she came up with.

AND, I have to tell this story, because it's just too funny not too...

I stopped at Scott and Traci Glasscocks to pick up some lentil innoculant for my father-in-law. Picked Scott up from the road grader, drove him to the shop, visiting, for a few minutes. He got out to get the innoculant and Traci came up to say hi, quickly.

She said, "Oh! I LIKE it! That's just what I hoped she'd do."

Scott : "OH! You got your hair cut!"

Is it THAT subtle?

I'm still laughing!

Poor Scott....

Insomnia Insanity

This question kept me pretty busy last night, while I was tossing and turning, and wishing I could sleep like my dog can...

If you could have lunch with any three people alive today, who would you lunch with AND (more importantly, in my book) what would you lunch on?

There are no rules, here, so dream big! The lunch could take 4 or 5 hours, if you need it to. And you don't have to cook it, unless that's part of the coolness for you. (I can just see Traci, with Paula Deen, Bobby Flay and Emeril Lagasse, whipping up something in a big ole kitchen...)

Really. Other people think of this stuff, too, right? Please?

What's a pirate's favorite letter of the alphabet?

R!






I know. That's so bad it made ME cringe....welcome to preschool humor. We are really into pirates around here. And last week, at CUPS, Traci wanted a pirate hat template for Ben's birthday. As luck would have it, I can whip those puppies out with my eyes closed, almost. Here we are, buccaneer bouffants and all. Anne took the pictures, and to her credit, they aren't blurry from her laughter...




Also, from last week, the Cupcakes having fun, building towers and impressing each other. Angus is really rather in love with Allison, and she plays him like a trout on the end of a 3 lb. test line....



And Baby Gwennie, with her big eyes and busy hands. We just love that little thing! And she's so good about sharing her toys.




I missed CUPS yesterday, because of the rain, and Anne had the flu bug at her house, again. I did bake and eat some peach turnovers, in commemoration of the group, and drank a great cup of espresso with half and half. We only have two more preschool days, and so are going to have to come up with a plan for Summer CUPS. Ice cream CUPS? Flower CUPS?

Hair we go, again...

#1 #2
#3

#4

#5

I have my biennial haircut, tomorrow, at 2:30 pm, and you, my dear blog readers, are being enlisted for advice. I may totally ignore your comments, but you did such a good job with Madame Serenghetti that I'm starting to trust you with some of my bigger fashion questions.

I need a cut that doesn't take extensive fussing...make that, ANY fussing, but can look like I tried when I actually do. It will go under ball caps, during branding time, have children's hands run through it about 60 times a day, attend professional trainings for SHMASBO, and a family reunion, in July.

Here are some of my options. What do you think?

*And I realize that when it's all said and done, I won't look like Faith, Meg, Jennifer or that cute little brunette. Right?

She DID it!

I can't believe she did it. The Fontologist planted yarrow seeds, despite (and maybe because of) the dire warnings! And then posted a comment on the Friends Don't Let Friends Plant Yarrow post. Can you BELIEVE that?!!! Go read it for yourself. I'm so horrified!

I've been out in the beds, cleaning out dead foliage and seeking signs of greenage. I have plants for give-away. If you want iris, ribbon grass, sidelcea, tarragon, chives, blue fescue, salvia....bring a box and you can have a bunch. And I'll throw in some yarrow, too, if you dare! Every year I give away plants, my friends suspiciously poke in the piles and ask, " Is this one yarrow? No? How about this one?" They are getting smarter about free plants.

And I've been reading Lauren Springer Ogden, once again. She's my gardening guru, horticultural heroine, revered plantswoman. Her Undaunted Garden book is the one with the pages stuck together by drool, and little sticky note markers and underlined passages. Barbara Damrosch was the garden writer I cut my teeth on, and she also commands a lot of respect in my house. Rob Proctor, who co-authored a book with Lauren, is just plain fun, and I'm not sure he's still with Denver Botanical Gardens, but if he is, and I get there, I'm getting his autograph.

Well, I'd better go dump the Kawasaki Mule and shed her, and get some pea and lettuce seeds in the ground before the moisture hits.

She planted yarrow. And I thought we were going to be such good friends....

Pictures from Bookclub

The girls, eating pickle/cream cheese/ham appetizers, drinking homemade raspberry lemonade (lemons squeezed by hand by Mr. Gus Glasscock, thank you very much!), and wine and discussing life since the last meeting.

Clara, with Skylar and Gwennie, the youngest attendees. They were pretty quiet, until we started eating. THEN they decided they were hungry, too!

And it turns out, Skylar really, really loves dirt cake.

And so do I.

Anne, mixing up fruit salad and goofing off for the camera. Beth is industriously slicing onions, tomatos and lettuce.
Traci and Celestia, with Gnarly Head Cab and a great joke!

Discussion (HA!) and dinner.

We had grilled burgers, potato salad, fruit salad, chips, dirt cake and the previously mentioned beverages. Yum!

We really needed about 3 more hours to actually discuss the book in depth. Get a bunch of mothers in a room and start discussing everyday tasks and worship....it could take a while.

I appreciated the input from the bookclub members that had kids that had flown the coop, and they lived to tell about it. And it was good to hear that EVERYONE has a household chore they hate. Turns out, Beth doesn't like to cook, but she'll clean bathrooms, no problem. I love to cook, and hate to clean bathrooms. If we lived 50 miles closer to each other, she'd come have lunch at my house, with the kids, and clean my bathrooms. Everyone wins! (In our dreams...)

Wayland said, before leaving with the kids, that he was going to call every 15 minutes throughout the evening, so we had a plan. We were going to turn up the music, laugh loudly, clink glasses, holler for someone...

It was the perfect plan.

He didn't call once.

Drats.

Thelma missed bookclub this time, and we missed her. It's funny; it's like a little family, but without all the hangups! So, when one member is missing, it's very noticable. Particularly Thelma, who brings a lot of generosity to the discussions, and laughter, AND good food...

Next meeting is at Traci's, and we're reading "Riding the Bus With My Sister".

And eating.

And laughing.

And relaxing.

Quotidian

Once again, I find myself dovetailing a post of the Fontologist. We live hundreds of miles apart, have no communication, save the computer and notecards loaded with seeds, (not yarrow) and yet seem to have VERY similar, eerily similar thought processes. And once again, she beat me to the punch on a topic that I've been struggling with. (I HATE to be the follower-upper! It's so...secondary. Kind of like the drum after a joke. Badda-BUM!)

This month, for bookclub, we read The Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy and Woman's Work. The word "quotidian" according to Webster's means "occurring every day; belonging to every day; commonplace, ordinary" . Well, THAT sounds applicable to my life! Here's a quote from the book that sums it up pretty well:

Our daily tasks, whether we perceive them as drudgery or essential, life-supporting work, do not define who we are as women or as human beings. But they have a considerable spiritual import, and their significance for Christian theology, the way they come together in the fabric of faith, is not often appreciated. But it is the daily tasks, daily acts of love and worship that serve to remind us that the religion is not strictly an intellectual pursuit, and these days it is easy to lose sight of that as, like our society itself, churches are becoming more politicized and polarized. Christian faith is a way of life, not an impregnable fortress made up of ideas; not a philosophy; not a grocery list of beliefs.

Being a stay at home mom, just getting out of bed to face another peas-in-the-fish-bowl moment or mop-the-floor-for-the-4th-time-today thing can be daunting and less than inspiring. A book that challenges me to think of these things as worship, sort of irritated me, at first. Like my cousin Beth said at bookclub, "It's something you need to hear at least once a year, even though you don't want to hear it at all." Drats.

AND I recalled a felt banner that hung in the sanctuary of the little church I grew up in, that gently reminded us to "Bloom where you are planted." Those cheery little homespun platitudes, that are almost ALWAYS right, nag at me, and as I look around, I think to myself, "Well, I'm planted in some dirt, that's for sure. And water from the toilet. A little sunshine and voila! I have all the ingredients to bloom." But sometimes even the humor of the situation doesn't help.

Nearly all of my friends are in the same boat. Do I matter, anymore, except to get the food on and the underwear washed? (Yes, it's that time, AGAIN in my home...) Am I just a mommy-blob? Will I ever know the words to songs NOT recorded by Bob the Tomato and Larry the Cucumber? Am I making a difference? Am I still interesting/funny/pretty/smart? Will I ever be, again?

The truth is, (and this is hard to admit) it's not about me.
Dang.

And IF I'd just get over myself, I'd be a lot happier and probably bloom.
Really.

I've been reading The Message version of the Bible, just for a shake-up, and this morning, I got a pretty good shaking.

Psalm 143:7-10 says:

Hurry with your answer, God!
I'm nearly at the end of my rope.
Don't turn away; don't ignore me!
That would be certain death.
If you wake me each morning with the sound of your loving voice,
I'll go to sleep each night trusting in you.
Point out the road I must travel;
I'm all ears, all eyes before you.
Save me from my enemies, God-
you're my only hope!
Teach me how to please you,
because you're my God.
Lead me by your blessed Spirit
into cleared and level pastureland.

Dang.

Conundrum

Here's my problem....this week. And if you are drinking a beverage, right now, you'd probably better swallow and put it down before reading on. (Anne)

I have pimples on my wrinkles. SOB!

Now, this is a beauty dilemma thus far unaddressed by any women's magazine, product manufacturer, or radio talk show, from what I can tell. I've done extensive research since this hit, and came up empty handed.

All I can figure out is that when I was spending so much time outside, sweating in my scotch cap and silk scarf, it caused the breakout. That, and the stress of the sick kids and life, and that infamous dental excursion with Country Wife...

I poured through the Mary Kay catalog, that incidentally is sold by my step-sister Cari Mae. (Isn't that a great name for a Mary Kay lady? And it's her REAL name! And she's a walking ad for the company, let me tell you. I have the misguided idea that if I buy the products, somehow they will somehow transform me into HER! It never works. I'm still me, with lots of cool lipgloss.)

The only thing I've come up with is the "Age-fighting creme". It doesn't say what age it's fighting, so that may work for skin that can't make up it's mind. You think? It sounds a bit militant, for a skin care product, but at this point I'm starting to get a bit desperate. We are running out of turtleneck weather, you see. And I can't wear a turtleneck up to my hairline! Well, I could, but that's beyond daisy-ness. It's just kinda creepy.

Do you have any tips? (Maybe I phrased that wrong. This is a disaster. Do you have immediate assistance to share with me?) I'm willing to try home-remedies, like honey wheat-germ masks, or egg white concoctions. I'm willing to order Elizabeth Arden or Mary Kay, if you have a guaranteed, honest-to-goodness-it-worked-for-my-pimply-wrinkled-skin story. I'm willing to drink water, green tea, or pomegranate juice. (I'm NOT, however, going to do a toe-of-newt, hair-of-dog, thing. I'm pretty sure I've already been exposed to toe-of-newt, hair-of-dog and so far, in my house, it hasn't done a thing for any of us. Except the dog and the newt.)

Cohagen Easter

Here's where we go to worship on Easter Sunday. It's usually cold and windy, and sometimes wet. But most years, the sunrise is spectacular. This year, the sun crept in, behind clouds, and it was a damp morning for singing "The Old Rugged Cross" with the neighbors. Some of the folks who got up at an insane hour for worship.

I like the stocking caps, barn coats, cowboy hats, blankets and rosy cheeks.

The littlest attendee....Angus didn't think much of sitting on a hill for church, but he liked the music, and sang out loudly! Sweet, to hear little voices, praising God....
(Dad made it up the hill with most of his coffee. The rest was on his jeans!)

If you scroll back up to the picture of the rocky hill, look at the highest point. That's where Maggie went, immediately, then needed rescuing by her mother. She's not afraid of heights. I am. Next year, I'm going to hold the boy and Daddy is going to save the girl.

Maggie leads the way, down, followed by Daddy and Angus, and Grandma Celestia in the red coat. We were in a hurry to get to the gym, where breakfast and coffee awaits!

This morning, the menu consisted of:

Cinnamon twists

Breakfast burritos

Cherry coffeecake

3 kinds of kuchen

Link sausage

Breakfast casserole

Coffee and juice

Luke 24:1-8 The Message-

At the crack of dawn on Sunday, the women came to the tomb carrying the burial spices they had prepared. They found the entrance stone rolled back from the tomb, so they walked in. But once inside, they couldn't find the body of the Master, Jesus.

They were puzzled, wondering what to make of this. Then, out of nowhere it seemed, two men, light cascading over them, stood there. The women were awestruck and bowed down in worship. The men said, "Why are you looking for the Living One in a cemetary? He is not here, but raised up. Remember how He told you when you were still back in Galilee that He had to be handed over to sinners, be killed on a cross, and in three days rise up?" Then they remembered Jesus' words.

Daisy

Meet Daisy, our little bum calf! I love this picture of her, because she just got done eating and she has milk foam on her little chin, and you can tell, she's casing the Mom to see if there might be more, hidden somewhere in the barn coat...

Maggie chose her name, but I especially like it because in our family, it has special significance. When I was first married and trying to fit in on the ranch, I had a rough time. There's the Pluhar way and the wrong way, and I always did things the wrong way. And Pluhars were very generous about my blunders, but I could still tell that I wasn't quite getting it. One day, after a particularlly rough day, I told Wayland that I felt like a daisy in a field of lawnmowers!

Ever since then, if someone is a daisy, it means they march to the beat of their own drum, and are a little odd, in a good way. When Maggie was born, we could tell right away that she was a daisy. I'm still a daisy, although I've learned how to fit in a little better. My friend Vickie, is the daisiest of daisies, and takes daisy-hood to a new level, altogether. When we get together, there's no telling what might happen!

So, Miss Daisy-the-calf, so far, is living up to her name, and I've been enjoying her immensely. She's eating milk crumbles, along with two bottles a day, and I've caught her muching on chopped hay. She greets me with her tongue curled out, and when I leave, she makes little moos and follows me. We're going to be good friends, I can tell.

So for everyone who has thoughtfully enquired of my bum, she's doing well, and hopefully will move to my house sometime this week.

Dye job...

I don't know why this cartoon struck me as so funny!

Maybe because I need a dye job in the worst way, and it reminds me to perhaps be a little more subtle...
We dyed Easter eggs Saturday afternoon, on the picnic table, in (are you ready for this?) 60 degree weather!!
Angus dyed the same 3 eggs, 15 times. He's very thorough.

Aren't they pretty? Just love the colors against the white paper towel.

"And this one is mine. And this one is mine..."

"Where did it go?"

I LOVE Easter colors!

This was the most relaxed egg dying I've ever done with kids.

And afterward, they stayed outside and played on the playground in their underwear.

And we ate supper on the deck with Daddy.

Friends Don't Let Friends Plant Yarrow!

(Mugshot of the offending plant)

That's right. At least in my book. This post is in response to the hilarious comment left by Lori on my last post. There was a frantic tone, in her comment, and I wanted to address the issue right away, so she would be able to burn the yarrow seed with peace of mind.


I was suckered into Achillea millefolium by the assurance that it was easy to grow. So easy, in fact, that even beginning gardeners with no experience whatsoever can get it to prosper and flourish! (I now know that if that sort of description is attached to a plant, it indicates a weed. Really. Because if even a fool can grow it, which you would have to be to choose this plant, that means it can grow itself.)


And it looks SO pretty, with feathery leaves, strong stalks and teeny little blossoms all bunched together in a nice little bouquet! Under that innocent facade is a plant that spreads by shallow mats of roots, copious amounts of seeds and will root in any old teaspoon of dirt or gravel. It has taken over my flower beds, despite digging it out every year as completely as I can, cutting off the heads of the survivors before it goes to seed and gingerly spraying it with white vinegar.


I have nightmares that it will slip into the house, some night, while I'm sleeping, and attach itself to the dust.


My friend, J---, who used to sell it to me, cheap, along with the other plants, told me later that it had taken over in her yard too! That was sweet justice, to me, but we made a pact to tell every one not to plant it, henceforth. Friends don't let friends plant yarrow.


I indoctrinate all my beginning gardener friends, then the next spring, offer them "divisions" of the stuff. That's how I know if they are really listening to my advice. If they accept the yarrow, with the iris tubers and the chrysanthemum divisions, I lose all respect for them, and dont try to help them further. They will be calling in a few years, whining about the creeping crud, invading their posie patch and yard. And I will certainly empathise with them, then tell them to pass the word.


Friends don't let friends plant yarrow. You've been warned! Take heed. If it grows that enthusiastically and vigorously in Eastern Montana, where the soil is clay, the water is alkaline, the temperatures range from 100+ degrees in the summer to -40 degrees in the winter, you know it's bad stuff.

Green fingers, brown knees, red face...

My virtual friend, Michelle the Fontologist, had a great post this morning, about gardening. I'd include a link, if I had a clue as to how to do that, but you can look her up on my side-bar of friends and family. I've been studiously avoiding the topic of gardening because, well, it's hard to write about it without getting tears in my eyes when there was snow in April, here! You have to get down on your hands and knees, with your nose 2 cm from the dirt to find anything green on the prairie or in my flower beds. I did that, this afternoon, and found the bravest columbine sprigs! (Or, for Anne, Aquilegia vulgaris) So now I can write about it.

Do you garden? And by gardening, I don't mean just vegetables and useful plants. I mean, do you grow ANYTHING, in a can, a boot, a well-composted bed, sandy knoll, gumbo hole? Do you cultivate?

AND (to me, this is the more interesting question) why do you garden?

So, here's my story. (Yeah, you were just waiting for the big reveal, weren't you? I hate to disappoint followers, so here you have it.)

I really didn't have much to do with gardening or flowers growing up, because we had wicked gumbo ground, alkali water and my mom wasn't all that interested in growing things, I guess. I'm not sure. With those conditions, it had to be discouraging. We did little vegetable gardens, but didn't have a lot of success.

I had a boyfriend whose mother had the most glorious yard and garden, in North Dakota, on the Missouri River, and that was the first time I ever understood that gardening could be more than just to fill the pantry with jars. She had lovely flowers, and really, really enjoyed the whole process.

When I married Wayland, we moved to the ranch after about 9 months, just up the road from my mother-in-law and the Cohagen Botanical Gardens (my title, not hers). It was intimidating, to say the least. AND on top of that, we moved into a little trailer house on a prairie hill. With no existing yard. No native trees. No old homestead flowers. It was the pasture! We didn't have a fence!

My first stab at growing something was a black feed tub with petunias planted in it. My puppy, Molly, dug it up and I cried. The next try was to plant sunflowers in a circle around a birdbath, sitting by the house on prairie ground....which, as I write about it, probably looked pretty funny! Only two sunflowers grew, and not even big enough to flower. One day, when the guys were here building the fence, my father-in-law handed me one of the sad, sad little sunflower stalks and told me that he'd gotten the weed out of the yard. I didn't cry, but I wanted to. He felt bad, when I explained the situation, but there was no fixing it! I can't blame him, because in his yard, it WOULD have been a weed!

We ordered trees from the Conservation District. We ordered 120 trees, to plant in a windbreak. One day, my husband called me at the school I was subbing at and told me to pick up the trees on the way home. I was driving a Geo Prism at the time, and I informed him there was no way to get that many trees! I'd go back with the pickup. He assured me it was entirely possible. I pulled up at the fair building to get my 120 trees and loaded a black garbage bag of soggy sticks. I'm telling you, when I ordered trees, I thought I was going to get TREES! It all made sense, then, how they could sell us trees for $.98 each. I thought that was a bit much to pay for soggy sticks. The next day, we made 120 holes, planted 120 sticks, and today a strong 89 of them live. And look like trees. (I'm STILL a little in shock, over this phenomenon!)

When I put in my first flower bed, I had it all graphed, proportionately, and had spent the winter researching my perennial options. I went to the nursery, and could afford about 4 of the 50 plants that were planned. So I spent the extra $5.00 at the grocery store and bought about 5 packets of annual seeds. Little did I know that those little packets would fuel a gardening disease for which there is no cure!

My mother-in-law, sensing some desperation on my part, offered me portions of her plants. Things like iris, hardy geranium, daisies, and, because I begged, johnny-jump-ups and yarrow. Looking back, I can't believe she could keep a straight face when donating those last two, but she graciously sent them with me. My friends know, now, that yarrow is an evil plant sent from Satan, and that the only reason the johnny's are tolerated is because theirs are the first bright little faces I see in the spring and the last bright little faces I see in the fall.

Now, I garden because it's balm for my heart, and it's constantly surprising and new, and comfortingly the same. I have old friends, like the daisies and irises, and new friends, sedum and lime basil. I long ago scrapped the graph, and now plant lettuce in with the annuals, and beans with the zinnias, because I like their funny shapes and contrasts. And I like grazing as I weed. My beds are messy, and that's distressing sometimes. I forget how topsy-turvey things can get, and promise that I will, next year, more clearly define the territories. I grow sunflowers every year, in remembrance of the ones that perished at the birdbath. I grow scarlet runner beans because they are beautiful and the one annual hummingbird that flies through adores them. I grow hollyhocks from seeds I took from the Texas Tech botanic garden AND from those growing behind the old hospital.

So, do you garden? How did you get started? Why do you do it?

Balance

The friend that challenged me to define myself with one word claimed the word he wished defined him, was "balanced". At the time, I really couldn't see the charm in that, because I took great pleasure in being unbalanced. To me, living with the bubble in the middle seemed a bit normal, ordinary, boring, mundane, etc. What I hadn't really thought through, however, was that a person could be strange and balanced all at the same time. And if you knew my friend, you'd wonder why that hadn't occured to me earlier in the game. (He's reading this, I'm sure, and nodding his head at the rubber candy-butt chicken on his desk....)

This week, I'd give my sister's left arm to have a little balance.

I got to go to church, last Sunday, for the first time in about 6 weeks! We've been sick, had storms, freezing calves, sick again, etc., but finally, I just threw the kids in the car and took off. (We didn't see another car for 65 miles, on the 83 mile trip. And because the kid were fighting, I made them listen to Josh Groban warble Italian arias all the way...) During the songs, I cried, because I was just so glad to be there!

This week, I have CUPS, bookclub, Easter and a school board meeting coming up. I feel the bubble sliding to one end!

I need to get my lettuce and peas planted, and all the dead sunflowers and sundry plants cleaned up, and the broken toys burned, surrepticiously. There goes the bubble, to the other end!

I'm 15 weeks behind, in a 12 week Beth Moore Bible study. Now, how does THAT happen? Oops! Watch the bubble shift....

I don't know where MY rubber candy-butt chicken is....well, I guess the bubble has to stop somewhere.

The lesson I'm slowly learning is that sometimes strange people should work more on being balanced, rather than scoff those who do it well. And God desires that I have a good balance in my life, I know that from reading His word. My mission this week is to take each day, as it rises fresh from the calm night, and look to see how I can do my best, without beating myself or anyone else up in the process. My focus will be less on individualism and more on teamwork. And I'll look in the playbook and listen to the Coach.

Do you struggle with balance?

Easter in Cohagen

Every year, our family goes to the sunrise service on the big butte, west of Cohagen. In fact, Wayland and I went when we were dating! (It was the acid test....if he was willing to get up at 5:30 AM to go to church on a hill, he was a keeper. ) Here's the information, if anyone is interested in going. It's really beautiful, but really cold! The breakfast is just magnificent, and it's fun to visit with everyone.

Easter Sunrise Service

6:00 AM, April 12, 2009

On top of the rocky hill, four miles west of Cohagen on the West Little Dry Road

A potluck breakfast will be held at the Cohagen gym, following the service.

For more information, email me at chuteboss@hotmail.com or leave a comment here, and I'll get back to you!

Scotcheroos

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things to eat in the whole wide world was my Aunt Arlene's Scotcheroos. My mom made rice krispie bars, but Aunt Arlene's rice krispie bars had peanut butter and chocolate! How decadent! And when I was pregnant, I craved Scotcheroos like you wouldn't believe. When I make them, I can't stay away from them, so I quickly package them up and ship them to far off destinations, like the shop. One of my friends just requested the recipe, so I thought I'd post it. If you are inclined to wallow in anything chocolate and peanut butter, here is fair warning: these will be the death of you!

Without further ado,

Scotcheroo!

Spray 9x13 pan with non-stick spray.

In a large saucepan, combine 1 cup granulated sugar and 1 cup white corn syrup;

bring barely to a boil, stirring constantly over medium heat.

Remove from heat; add 1 1/4 cup creamy peanut butter and stir until smooth.

To the peanut butter mixture, stir in 6 cups rice krispies until well-combined,

then pat into the prepared 9x13 pan.

(There will be residual peanut butter mixture left in your saucepan. Take the time to thoroughly scrape this out with a table spoon and dispose of properly, trying not to drool noticably...)

In a large microwavable glass bowl, combine 1 package dark chocolate chips & 1 package butterscotch chips.Microwave 30 seconds at a time, stirring in between times until smooth and combined.Spread THIS mixture like frosting over your peanut butter krispies,and refrigerate the whole works for about 1 hour, until the topping is set up.

These will be quite firm, to cut, so take them out of the fridge about 15 minutes before you want to cut them into bars. These don't have to be refrigerated, after you cut them, but you want to keep them cool-ish, or the chocolate gets quite soft.

Enjoy!

Bummer

I'm starting my herd!

Today, the majority of the Board of Directors of Lang's Fork, Inc. had an unofficial meeting by the corrals to discuss the future of Daisy, the sorta-bum calf that we've had in the barn for about 5 days. The unspoken rule of the ranch is this: We Don't Mess With Bums. (And I'm assuming that just applies to calves, but we've never actually put it to the test.) Usually, if there's a bum calf, the President calls a neighbor; she's my ranching heroine, and I believe she may be reading this, so I'll call her Montana Calamity. She raises them, tenderly, and adds them to her herd.

I've been jealously watching this for a couple of years, coveting the calves. "How," I ask myself, " am I to start my own herd when the only opportunity keeps getting shipped out from under me?" And I have a brand and everything. I've had it since I was 4 years old. It hasn't touched the hide of many animals. Not that I'm bitter...

Anyway, Daisy is a unique bum in that her mother is still alive, but too ill to parent. She has an undetermined illness that is mystifying the President and Senior V.P. They've given her all sorts of shots, to try to get her going, but so far, nothing is working. I suggested that it might be a case of Bovine Post-Partum Depression. (Well, it seemed possible...she's listless, not interested in eating, lays around all the time, uninterested in her calf....See? She's disillusioned with this whole calf notion and her hormones are out of whack.) This idea was met with polite snorts, so I guess they aren't going with that diagnosis. Pity. I think it has merit.

So, in an unprecedented decision, Daisy was bestowed on the Junior V.P.! As soon as we can get a shelter and pen, here, she's moving to the South Fork of Lang's Fork Inc. (I'm not sure that's geographically correct, but it sounds impressive.) I need to call Montana Calamity and interview her as to her feeding regimen, if she's not too upset at the loss of the bum. The kids are excited, I'm excited...the Senior V.P. is less than excited, but resigned to the idea.

Now, to find that branding iron....

On Monday, after the flurry of calf gathering and warming was over, the glamorous job of cleaning the corrals and calving pens was on the agenda. The guys got busy with the tractor and Bobcat, cleaning the corrals and moving snow, so the barn work fell to me.

In true management style, my husband, the Senior Vice-President of Lang's Fork Inc, gave me a 25 lb. pitchfork, told me to get the "big" piles of poop and all the afterbirth, and where I was to toss it. It was pretty complicated. (I'm the Junior Vice-President, and it was transparently clear THAT title is for paperwork purposes only.)

I got busy and after about 3 trips to the dump pile, I started feeling like the maid at the Bovine Inn. Because, you know, the cows are put in a pen, have their calf, stay for about 6 hours, then leave. Kind of like an overnight stay at a motel. They leave the beds unmade, the towels on the floor and trash everywhere. And let me tell you, when I got done cleaning the pen, I didn't leave a mint on the pillow.

It's snowing here, again, this morning. Big, fat, sloppy, gloppy, wet flakes are hitting the window and the ground is completely white. The calendar says April, but spring sure seems a long time coming this year.

Trusty 4 wheelers...in lieu of horses, we have another type of horsepower. MUCH to Maggie's dismay.

Vern feeding the "late" cows chopped hay and cake pellets.

This is a decal on our bale handler, and for some reason, I like how the red, white and blue stand out under all the grime of the ranch.