You don't say!

(I guess I was supposed to do TEN things that make me smile for yesterday's assignment. YIKES! Count your lucky stars that I didn't get it correct...)

Today's assignment was to write about something someone told me about myself that I never forgot.
I spent my whole run this morning trying to come up with it. All I could remember was the negative because of course that's what we all hang on to, right?

One of the things that I've never forgotten wasn't said directly to me, but I remember hearing it a lot and taking it quite to heart.  It wasn't anything bad, but it sure shaped my self-perception.

When I was growing up, I was (and still am) very bookish. I loved reading, loved my horse, and loved drawing.  My sister was kind of a tomboy and rode bikes, played basketball, tumbled and did all sorts of physical things.  I remember when I was about 9 years old, I heard my mom tell someone that "Jen's athletic and Mary's artistic".  It struck me that if I was artistic, I couldn't possibly be athletic and besides, Mom should know.

It's very true that I'm not good at team sports. And I thought that's what athleticism WAS....playing basketball or volleyball.  I was fast at running in high school gym class, but when approached by the track coach to go out for the track team, I declined....because I knew I wasn't athletic.  In fact, I avoided any sort of sport or activity that would show the world my lack of ability.

When I was 21 or 22, my friend Kim (who challenged me to do these blog assignments) took me mountain biking and kayaking, and I loved it! At the end of a particularly challenging ride (for me) I told her that it was kind of cool that I made it because I wasn't athletic.
Well.
She schooled me on what athleticism REALLY was, right there at the end of the bike trail, sweaty and tired. And guess what? It turns out, I AM athletic! I am!  I'm just not athletic in organized sports.

I learned that it doesn't matter what people say about who I am.  It really just matters that I don't limit myself and that I continue to try new things, evolving into whoever it is I want.
(I will confess this, though. I accept that I'm really and truly not mechanical in any way. I can barely run a toaster. But I can run 5 miles, and that's cool.)

It's an assignment...

My friend Kim told me she wanted to start blogging again and wanted me to join her in a blog writing challenge.  I've written probably 30 posts in my head over the last month, but just haven't taken the time to actually sit down and type them out here!

We decided to break down a 30 day blog challenge into the 1-7th of each of the next few months so it didn't seem so overwhelming that we'd quit partway through.  So from now until August 7th, there will be a blog post a day, at least, on the Chronicles! And September. And October. And November.

Today's assignment was to write about five things that make me happy.
(Yes. I KNOW. The Sound of Music song, "Favorite Things" just started playing in your head.  I'm so, so sorry! But I promise you, there are no whiskers on kittens in this. Or warm woolen mittens.)

I think you all know that spending time with my family and friends, books, coffee, wine, and sunshine make me happy, so I'm not going to write about those dear things.  (I mean, really...don't they make EVERYONE happy?!?)

1. Correspondence in my actual, physical mailbox from friends and family makes me SO happy! I love to see the loved one's actual handwriting or hear their voice through a typed letter even.  There's something about holding the page, smelling the ink and paper, the surprise of the envelope in the pile of advertisements and bills....  Oh, it's the BEST!

2. Cows make me happy. I like them in pictures, I like to be around them in person, I like reading about them in James Herriot books or Wally Badgett cartoons. They have funny personalities, beautiful eyes, great topknot hair do-s.  They're smart and sneaky. And here's the truth, without malice or mean-spiritedness: they are just like women.  If you've ever spent time with junior high girls, you'll know about yearling heifers.  A two year old with her first calf is JUST like a young mother with her first baby. A group of cows will watch you approach like a bunch of old ladies at a coffee shop....they don't want to look like they care what you're doing, but they're intensely curious and suspicious. It's highly entertaining to watch them, and they do make my heart happy, even on the bad days.

3. My dog, Tessie. And before that, my dog Molly. No matter how rotten a day I'm having or how tired I am, Tessie can make me smile.

4. Cooking a special meal for someone appreciative is a special delight! I know...I cook all the time. Three squares a day. Year round.  It's a good gig if you can get it!  But cooking "special" things is great fun, and watching people enjoy it deeply is different.

 One time, a friend of mine who had lived in more urban areas for quite a while moved back to Jordan.  She and I were talking about life and locale when she mentioned that one of the things she missed most of all about leaving the city was the availability of Chinese food.  I commiserated, and driving home decided I'd make a Chinese meal as a surprise for her!  The next week, I invited her and a couple other friends over for a Chinese buffet that had grown out of control. It's no exaggeration...the thing was ridiculous; broccoli beef, cashew chicken, General Tso's chicken, fried rice, egg rolls, sweet and sour pork. I think there were 6 entrees and 4 sides, all made from scratch. And sherbet. It was a pile of work, but it was so worth it to see her eyes light up and a big smile on her face as she filled her plate!  I sometimes feel like I don't have a lot of talents or gifts to share, not like other people, but I can cook and it makes me happy to make people happy through that.

5. (Warning: this is terrible and superficial and silly.) When my sports teams win, I'm inordinately thrilled and I walk around feeling all grand. I cheer. I talk about it to no one who cares. I obsess over the highlights of the game. I wear the gear in public, hoping someone will mention the victory.
It's not something I'm proud of, and I really and truly try to be a better person and pray for world peace, the cure for cancer, and all those things but...
(Do you think it's because there's so much awful junk going on in the world that it's so nice to have something with rules that is settled on a green field cleanly and neatly? I don't know.)

Of course this is by no means the end of the things that bring me joy, but it's a pretty good start.

Happy August!

The Proper Way to Eat Steak

...is with toast.

It was an unspoken, unwritten rule when I was growing up that toast must be served with steak. (Or maybe I just thought that, but it was a good rule anyway.) It's my rule, now, and I'm very happy to share it with you.

If you slightly lift a chunk of steak that has been correctly cooked or grilled, you'll find a warm puddle of the most incredible juice you can imagine under it. To my taste, it should be dark and slightly greasy; if it's bright red, the steak is too rare (read: raw) and if it's NOT there, good luck to you because the steak will be dry. As you cut and eat your steak, the puddle should grow a bit larger from the juices released from the center.

Let it grow.
Don't let your potato or salad slop over into the puddle...it'll waste precious drops and you'll have regrets.
Trust me.

When the meat and salad and potato have all been consumed, you should have a lovely puddle of steak juice left on your plate. I personally don't use steak sauce, but if you do, it will not have spoiled the experience. (I've been blessed to grow up and then live where the best tasting beef in the world is raised. I like to taste the beef. That's why I don't mess around with steak sauce.)

Now is the time to take half a slice of buttered toast and soak it in the still warm steak juice. Don't get in a hurry, let it really absorb the goody. (If you've been lucky enough to have more juice than one half-slice will handle, the other half can do clean up.)
My favorite sopping toast is white Texas toast. I don't know why, but it's the perfect carrier for all the flavors. We now healthily make whole grain toast and it's okay, but all those crunchy seeds and grains sort of get in the way of the pure experience.

Pick the now saturated toast up and eat the best part of your steak dinner.
Really.
It'll be rich and beefy, soft and crunchy at the same time. Salty enough to make you crave more. Your fingers will smell like steak and toast, and you'll have to stop yourself from licking them happily. The next minute you may find yourself looking at your dining partner's plate, calculating whether or not they know the proper way to eat steak and if not, how completely inappropriate it would be to sop up their juice, too.
You won't even consider dessert.
You won't HAVE to!
Steak juice and buttered toast is the most perfect way to end the meal.

Happy Hunting

 Hiding Easter eggs in Cohagen is tricky. Prairie grass...if there IS any....is short and sparse. There are no bushes, shrubs, trees, or big rocks to tuck the treasures in, either.  This causes the eggs to look as though they were broadcast in a big general scatter...

Granted, these were hidden for the little-littles, but still...

 Three on an ant hill. 

Here they come!

The littles were released first, and they took no time at all in scooping up plastic eggs.

The big kids were given the option to help hide eggs this year, and help the little-littles find some. This was a great plan and they all had such fun! (Two of the more enthusiastic Easter bunnies, here.)

It looks much colder than it actually was; I think it was 42 degrees and no wind as we were hunting eggs. Barely cold enough to have to wear a coat, but they humored the adults anyway.

  Do they come any cuter than this?!?!

I love the Montana prairie stretching out behind these kids...

Big boy bunnies...(the skull and crossbones cap helps the swagger)

These two have been the best of pals for 3 or 4 years! Hannah calls Maggie "Iggie" and they seek each other out at every Cohagen event.

Iggie and Hannie

Okay, THESE two are so dear that I almost can't stand it.

They cheerfully opened some eggs so I could get a picture of the loot. 

Counting eggs to make sure they were within legal limits. (Before the hunt began, they were told they could only....ONLY....gather 23 eggs. Can you imagine?! ONLY 23. My head hurts at the thought of that much candy in a child.

The hat.  That hat is KILLING me. He wore it like that the whole time, and managed to gather up quite a clutch of plastic eggs. (Maybe it kept him from being distracted by other things, I don't know.)

I think we ended up with something like 30 kids, counting infants and preschoolers. Such a good bunch for our little school!

Confessions of a School Party Mom Flunkie

There are a lot of things about parenting that no one tells you at the baby shower. All those sweet little index cards that experienced mothers and well-meaning aunties write out full of helpful parenting hints contain things like "You can't spoil babies; kiss them more than you think is healthy!" and "Always carry a diaper in the glove box of your car. Trust me on this one." are all good and fine, but most of them deal with "baby" or "toddler" situations.  Almost no one (including the good Dr. James Dobson) writes about perplexing issues involving grade school age (5-12) children.

I'm not talking about what to do if they contract chicken pox or how to handle "The Talk".  There ARE books about that. What really kills some of us are things like school parties and sports events.

Now, I'm certain there are Very Organized and Creative Mothers who look forward to such things. It gives them an opportunity to showcase their talents. They're the ones who actually have real Easter baskets for their kids to put the plastic eggs in, instead of plastic grocery bags hastily borrowed from the teacher. Their party treats bring to mind a Martha Stewart magazine cover, with olives minutely sliced into spider legs on top of perfectly peeled deviled eggs. They show up at basketball games with personalized, superbly FAN-tastic ensembles and pull out little handlettered banners with all their kids' teammates names and numbers on there in gold.

If this is you, bless your heart, you'd probably better just stop reading the Chronicles here and go amuse yourself on the Pinterest website.



I THOUGHT I could be one of those mothers. (In retrospect, I have no idea why because nothing in my past would suggest or even hint at this sort of tendency...)

And I probably could try a little harder.

It would help if I could ever nail down the date and times of events.
I DO try!
I read the school emails and newsletters and Facebook posts with my planner open, pen in hand, writing down everything important as soon as I encounter it. But I always miss the hidden clues that the other mothers glean from the same documents....things like, "And all the kids will wear pajamas that day" or "Please send one ingredient for Earth Day tacos."  I end up writing down the right date/wrong time, or vice-versa.  Or they change the date on something and I miss that in the subsequent email.

I honestly have stood in front of the cupboard and thought these things, folks:

"I suppose I can't stuff plastic eggs with Vienna sausages, cocktail onions, or plain old marshmallows..."

"I probably can't take any of those for school treats, either..."

"What is the world record time for Jello set up?"

"Game....I'm responsible for a GAME?!?!?!  Like, Sort the Lucky Charms...that might work."
"But not for Halloween."
"Dang."


I'm telling you.
It's BRUTAL.

The older the kids get the less pressure there is on the school front, thank goodness, but the sports mom thing kicks in then. They have practices at specific times in specific places and need important things like real honest-to-goodness basketball shoes. It turns out, most sports also require sports physicals from genuine doctors, not just notes from the parent saying "She's up to date on her shots and hasn't had anything contagious for a couple weeks now."

At games, the parents wear team colors and have cash for concessions.
SERIOUSLY!
They don't just show up showered, with their last check in their pocket (because they forgot to order new ones two weeks ago).  And they show up at the right gymnasium or field. They show up on the appointed day to take their turn selling concessions. In team colors. WITH CASH.
Apparently, this is no biggie for most people of the world...


Today is the school Easter egg hunt.
We miraculously had both plastic eggs and candy, so my cherubs boarded the bus somewhat prepared. But now I have to come up with treats of some sort, and it's not looking promising.

Frozen corn...
Two not-too-brown bananas...
Coffee beans...

*sigh*

No Horses on the Place

Dear Sara Hagedorn C.,

(And all readers of the Chronicles, but Sara's the one who scolded...)

When I married the Farmer, it was made abundantly and emphatically clear that there would be NO HORSES ON THE PLACE.  It was a big point, because I grew up riding and my dad still uses horses every day on his place, and the family I married into were not horse-y at all. In fact, horses were looked on as a waste of time, feed, and an endless moneypit; four wheelers were much more efficient and besides, they don't scare the cows. I do respect that. Our pastures here at Lang's Fork are very large and easily covered on a four wheeler. Where I grew up, wheelers would be pointless as the country is much tougher, the hills not easy but mean, rough gumbo.  There's a place for everything.

And then we had Maggie. 

Now, I'm not overstating the thing when I say that little girls are born with a horse-compass. Early in their lives, almost all of them are drawn to horses.  They read horse books (thank you Marguerite Henry for so many). Their walls are covered with pictures from calendars and magazines of horses. One will find My Little Pony growing into Breyer toy horses as they grow. But at some point will come the inevitable question....

You know what it is, don't you?

"Can I have a horse?"

In our case, I'm happy to say it was because she spent happy times horseback at Cowboy PopPop's, from the time she was three months old, really. My dad and Grammy Karen have made a point of taking the time to get all their grandkids on horses as early and often as possible. So besides the "nature" of genetic horse-love, there was also the "nurture". 

When Maggie asked us, we told her that if she wanted a horse she'd have to earn the money and buy it herself. This was going to take some time and a lot of work on her part. By the time she had earned enough for a horse, perhaps PopPops Vern would have retired to a nice little house in Miles City and wouldn't have heart palpitations over the whole deal. 

What we did NOT take into consideration, however, was how very determined and focused our daughter would be in this endeavor. 

From that point on, all her birthday and Christmas money went in a bright yellow Whitman's chocolate box decorated with horses in her drawer. When she won premium money at the county fair, into the box it went. She rode for a week to help her Cowboy PopPops and her wages were proudly deposited in the Horse Fund. Any spare bit of change, any quarters found on the street....into the box for her horse. She raised a bum calf, bought a heifer from the sale of it, sold the heifer when she was dry on the third year and had money from that for a horse.

Maggie would watch her brother spending his birthday money on LEGOs and candy and whatever else caught his fancy, but held tight to her purse strings with this goal of having her own horse someday. I'm getting a little teary as I type this because as I watched this for three years, I hope hope hoped it would not be in vain, that her persistent belief and work would not go unrewarded. 

So many dreams DO crash, you know.

So many things in life turn out to be disappointments and empty promises. 

I'm so very happy to write to you and tell you that her efforts did not go unrewarded. 

It turns out that my godson married a dear girl (okay, she's in her twenties but that's a girl to old people like me, right?) who is deeply involved in horses. She's a farrier and barrel-racer for goodness sake, and rode up the aisle in her wedding on her horse Boyfriend. 

We love her. 

She works for a woman who does hippotherapy which is NOT a rehab for chemically dependent hippos (you laugh, the world is a weird place nowadays, my friend) but a therapy with horses for those who are handicapped, veterans, traumatically injured in some way, children in struggling homes/settings. And through this work, she learned of a little 10 year old roan horse who needed a girl to love and care for. 

She knew we had just such a girl.

The owner had had CC from a colt, that she was green-broke but completely gentle, had never bucked in her life, and was in good shape except....

(There's always an "except", isn't there?)

Three years ago, she started seizing up when she was ridden more than five miles. Her muscles would grow tight and she was unable to get back home. This was quite inconvenient on a working ranch, as you might imagine, so she was turned out to pasture because the owner (bless her heart) had a toddler and a baby, a job in town, a ranching husband, and no time to baby a horse along even though she loved her dearly. She didn't want to send the mare to the canners but she couldn't sell her to anyone who would work her hard. And her price was $400. 

Maggie's calf money was in the bank, but her birthday/wages/premium money was in the Whitman's chocolate box. In three years she'd taken only $20 out of that box and her ready cash was $360. 

$360 of saving and working and sacrifice for her dream. 

Money in the back to support it.

It gives me GREAT pleasure and pride to introduce to you Maggie's horse CC's Apache Pride. (Yes, she's a papered quarterhorse.) Maggie calls her Pepper.

(This is before Maggie and my godson's wife went over her with brushes, combs and such, so she looks a little tough. Not a high maintenance girl at all.)

Pepper is a very calm, good-natured horse when she's around people, but apparently quite overbearing and bossy with other horses. Think "oldest sister who has to have it her way all the time". Maggie and I SO get that. We're not proud of it, but we get it.  

We are keeping her at Destanie and Jason's house (my godson and his wife) for a couple months until we get a good place fenced off next to our house for her, so essentially she's NOT on the place.  We haven't really broken any rules yet. Destanie and Maggie work with her together and D has been working with her when we aren't there to try to get her into shape.  

We think Pepper has a condition called Polysaccharide Storage Myopathy, which is basically a genetic thing that runs through quarterhorses and draft horses which makes them sensitive to starch and sugars in their diets and requires daily exercise to keep them limber, as well as very clean diets and vitamin supplements. We're working on figuring out how best to feed and work her, but other than that she's a darling horse who craves human company.

I haven't gotten many pictures of Maggie and Pepper because I babysit my (perfect) grand god-son the little Toot while Maggie and Destanie work with her. I'll put some of the pictures I DO have here in the post.

I've been hesitant to write this post, even though it's a joyous event in OUR house, because I didn't want it to seem as though we were rubbing it in, flaunting the breaking of the cardinal rule. It is SO not that way.

I'm sharing this story because one of my best friends is so excited about this life step for Maggie.

So, Sara, this is for you.

I know you've been checking and are beside yourself with happy anticipation for this post.

Thank you for waiting and nudging when you couldn't help yourself any more!

Now, more Pepper!

This is the first moment they met.

I want to tell you that it took about 30 hours for Maggie to come to the realization that Pepper was HER HORSE.

She didn't have to give her back, share her with 10 cousins, not see her for months....this precious horse was the fruition of her efforts and hard work, this horse was HERS. (You'll note the halter. We realized we didn't have ANY tack when the Farmer went to town to pick Pepper up, so he said he'd buy one. Maggie immediately said, "The cheapest one, Dad. Don't buy anything expensive.")

They look like sisters, don't they?
Pepper was so calm for being in a new place.  Destanie checked all her feet and looked at her teeth without any objection from Pepper. This was very good, considering Pepper had been out to pasture for three years.

Here you go, girlfriend; here's your horse!

They're pretty together, aren't they?

My two favorite boys in all the world, Angus and little Toot! They were very good sports about the whole deal.

A little action while the silly girls made goo-goo eyes at a HORSE....

So there it is.

The story of how a little girl earned her horse, how prayers were answered, how lives change as we grow and have children of our own.

(Cowboy PopPops is VERY happy about the whole mess, PopPops Vern much less so. But you know what? That's alright. This IS life. Even if Maggie only has her horse for a couple years, the lesson of working hard and saving for what you want will stay with her. The memory and story of buying her first horse will be the foundation for her parenting wisdom for her OWN children. It's not just about getting Pepper. There are bigger, more lasting "morals" that come from this. And THAT'S what I'm really happy about.)

(Although, I have to tell you....it's so good to smell horse on our clothes and hands, to have the luxury of one of our own.)

With sincere apologies for the delay of the story, Sara,

The Farmer's Wife

Spread The Love

Do you remember my frienemy Willa McGillicuddy? 

She's been going through a challenging time lately so I mailed her a little package containing an extra copy of War and Peace that I had mistakenly bought and a bottle of Montana wine, among other things. (Because, you know....nothing says "Cheer up, syrup!" like War and Peace.)

Before I sealed and posted it, there was a liberal sprinkling of teeny foil hearts that I keep on hand for such occasions. 

WELL.

The package made it to its destination in record time and from the moment she opened it, itty-bitty little hearts started planting themselves like dandelion seeds everywhere. As Willa finds them, she takes a photo and sends it to me.  So far, they've been recorded in bed sheets, on the bottom of a foot, on her shoulder at work,  and in the DRIVEWAY for goodness sake! She may be finding them elsewhere but these are the recordable sightings. 

Both of us are delighted! And who wouldn't be?! There's a reminder of being dearly loved that pops up at unexpected times and shines as hard as it possibly can! Willa knows she's loved and I know she knows she's loved. How beautiful...

This brings me to the deep meaningful portion of the post.

Come ON. 

You saw it coming.

Even so....keep reading....

In the dark, cold days of winter it's pretty easy to isolate oneself, to begin thinking dark thoughts, to ferment the ugly ideas that one is not significant or worth being loved. The frigid weather seems to freeze the spirit, too. Blessings are lost as well as perspective. 

Does it not feel as though it will be January forever? That June is a figment of your imagination? 

My frienemy, Willa, lives in Florida so she doesn't really get the cold, dark, lonely thing but she DOES get a winter of the spirit. We all do, whether we wish to admit it or not. And it's then that we need to look for the little foil hearts, the wee shining manifestations of love that are with us always, whether we know it or not.  

Love is not the big showy spectacle that society and media flashes in our faces.

It's the little shiny things we step on and don't notice, that we sweep off our days and never think twice about. 

How much love are we missing? 

Daily!

Minute to minute, really.

Willa can't help but think about it. It keep sparkling in her life, on her very being, and in her path when she goes to get the mail or on her desk when she works.

I'm thinking more about it too.

I do love Willa and I pray for her daily, but I didn't realize the impact for both of us. 

Kenny Chesney sings a Jamaican style song that says this in the lyrics:

"We've got to spread the love, spread the love, all over the world...

All God's people got to spread the love, spread the love, all over the world..."

Let's do that.

Even if it's little foil hearts.

The Whole Turkey

I'm reading an oddly wonderful children's book called The Doldrums which really and truly defies any description other than to say if you're feeling a bit trapped by circumstance or bogged down with routine, this book will give you hope and whimsical inspiration.

Yesterday morning I read a really good piece of writing in it that I wanted to put someplace I wouldn't lose it. (This is a library book and as nice as the MC librarians are to me, they still have a hard time when I turn down corners on pages or underline in pencil and comment in the margin on the things that strike me. Now you know why I own so many books...they ALL strike me, and I can't afford library binding prices to replace the ones I borrow.)

The Chronicles are as good a place as any to put this passage and besides, now I can share this funny odd thought.

"If someone tells you they love turkey smothered with cranberry sauce, that they love it more than anything else in the world; you might spend the day roasting that someone a turkey and smothering it with cranberry sauce. If that same someone then takes on little bite and says, "That'll be all, thank you," you'll likely go red in the face and hurl both these turkeys out the nearest window because clearly, this person never loved turkey smothered with cranberry sauce in the first place.

Little bites are never enough when you love something. When you love something, you want it all.  That's how it works. And that's how it was for Archer. Archer didn't want a little taste of adventure with a side of leftover discoveries. Archer wanted the whole turkey and he wanted it stuffed with enough salts and spices to turn his taste buds into sparklers. Needless to say, it was a tall order for a boy who wore a size-small blazer."

Little bites are never enough.

There's a section a few pages later about dreamers and doers, and I'm half tempted to share THAT with you too, but part of me wants you to hustle around, find the book at your library, and discover these little treasures for yourself.

If you DO, ask the librarians for The Doldrums by Nicholas Gannon. Even if you just get it and look at the pictures, it will be worth your time.
But don't be surprised to see eraser marks under the good parts...

Here's the cover:

Little Files

This morning I found myself cutting a Lipton tea box into neat rectangular pieces that would fit nicely in a shirt pocket or clip to a pickup truck visor. I almost always cut them up, because if I were to just throw the boxes away, my Gramps would probably smite me from heaven for wasting such beautiful note board.

Gramps would cut up any good, light piece of cardboard...from tea boxes (which I best remember) or gift boxes or boxes parts came in....because it held up better than paper for all the notes and numbers he kept in his pocket.  I think all ranchers must, even now when we can type notes into our cell phones. I haven't done this but I'm fairly certain that in Cohagen you could walk up to almost any rancher, ask what was in his shirt pocket (an informal, nonscientific survey) and around 85% would have among other things a chunk of light cardboard with numbers or notes on it. The other 15% would be on their way to town, had to change shirts, and now that you pointed it out, their essential pocket files would be in their work shirt at home.....curses!

When you need a list of cow numbers for sorting certain ones out of the bunch (we use the word "bunch" not "herd"), it's perfect; no ripping or going to pieces when it gets wet.  In the pickup, it keeps calf numbers, feed schedules, bale counts, parts needed, windmill notes, salt'n'minral trough placement and also, maybe, the phone number they need for the hay grinder guy that they always MEAN to put in their phone's memory but never really have the time to do so.

They're usually tucked in the pocket near the little book the banker or insurance person gives them which holds the entire intelligence of the operation in manure and oil spotted pages.  In the house will be a filing cabinet with "official" papers but if you want to know about the blood and gears of the place, it's in the rancher's pocket.

Every once in a while I go through my work coat pockets and find these little cardboard files, too; usually from when we sorted cows or I helped put out pairs. Often there will be an extra 5/8 inch needle with it...just in case the other needle breaks when I'm giving shots. It always makes me smile. I think about my kids in the age of technology...will they break with tradition, or will they too cut up tea and parts boxes?
I hope so.
Gramps is watching.

:)

Yee-haw!

My sister is going to a George Strait concert in Las Vegas in April.
(For those who might not understand what a big deal this is to some people, it's like going to see the Pope of Country Music. REAL country music, not that Luke Bryant sh...tuff.)

A true girl to the core, she's already obsessing over what to wear.
(Of course, she obsesses over everything which is one of the things I love about her. The price of eggs, who was the old lady with cat eye glasses in the VFW kitchen 30 years ago, why God allows suffering....these all get equal obsessing time.  I've decided it's a very nice balance to my "Who knows? Or cares?" approach to life.)

Anyway.
The tricky thing about a "country" concert is how western to go with the ensemble.  Boots are a given, no-brainer, moving on to bigger stuff sort of component so that was easy.  But what else? We decided to go to Pinterest, the idea hole of the internet, and take a look at options.

Well, let me tell you, "western wear" is...
WHO WEARS THIS STUFF???

Certainly not women in the west! First of all, we'd have to sell 3 cows at last year's record market high price to be able to afford one stinkin' outfit. Who ARE these women and where are they getting their money?? Are they selling drugs and wearing these clothes as a costume to evade the law? Have they won the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes?

Another thing I feel absolutely compelled to point out is the sincere ridiculousness of the cut and embellishment. If one lives in Eastern Montana, say, it's necessary for your physical survival (not fashion, but true survival) that there is more than 12 square inches of fabric in your skirt or shorts. Same for your top. OR inversely, you will also die if you wear that much fringe because the wind will whip it around your body, tangling you up to the point of "Well, she's just gonna have to be tube fed and we don't have time for that...".  All the stuff is dry clean only and my dears, in the true west, most of us live a conservative 100 miles away from the nearest dry cleaner.  It's not gonna happen. Especially when you can get manure on your clothes walking carefully from the car to your house.
I'm not even going to address the "cowboy hats". You'll just have to go look for yourself.

I understand this sort of western fashion is for dress-up occasions and that sort of thing, but my concern is this: is the rest of the world looking at this and thinking we Montana women artfully drape our turquoise/silver/leather/silk be-robed selves over rustic fenceposts, looking dreamily off into the great wild western sky?

(We saw a few things that might be good ideas, but still have several months to work out the details. I'll keep you posted.)

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!)

Time to Engage!

Have you heard of the "new" motivational trend that encourages people to choose a meaningful word, just one word, for the whole year? The idea behind it is that if you focus on one word and get your life centered around that rather than a bunch of goals, the goals will naturally fall into place and you'll end up more like that word.

Or something.



I've had my "word of the year" for quite a few years, well before the idea became popular.  It's not that I'm innovative or cutting edge or ahead of the trend or anything, it's just that one word every year seemed to be popping up all over the place in my life so I'd embrace it and live it. One year it was "joy", another year "focus" (that was a toughie), last year it was "clean"....to clean up my brain, my life, my house, etc.  (Yes. I'm aware that it didn't work as splendidly as I'd hoped last year...*sigh*)



This year's word is ENGAGE.

Part of the inspiration for my choice was in the video I just shared with you. How many of us just get through the day, dealing with things, doing our tasks, but are not really, thoughtfully engaged with the people around us or what we're doing?  In the video, I wish I was Helen Parr, the mom, but I fear that most of the time I'm Bob, the dad.



"Engage" is a verb.

And verbs mean action.



This year, I want to really be engaged with the kids when they're telling me stories or ideas they have instead of just half listening, thinking of other things besides, say, how many LEGO clones died in the battle with the LEGO syths. (This is HARD. Have you ever listened to a nine year old tell a 20 minute story about LEGOs? And pay attention the whole way through?)

This year, I want to appreciate the feel of the dough I'm kneading instead of just trying to get the bread made and in the pan.

This year I want to spend more time with dirty hands, grass stained knees, and bug spray cologne.

This year I want to shut the cell phone off when my family gets home and not turn it back on until they're on the bus or out the door for work.



It's time to engage!

Resolutions

The new year is fresh and full of promise, isn't it? Pages and pages of calendar, waiting to be filled.

Everyone is broke, so they go on strict budgets in the name of "my financial resolution".

Everyone is chubby from Christmas cookies and prime rib for 20 days, so they go on strict diet and exercise programs in the name of "my fitness resolution".

Everyone has new stuff that doesn't fit where the old stuff already is, so they go through closets and drawers in the name of "my organizational resolution". 

I'd like to think I've got unique goals for 2016 but when I really get down to it, I'm "everyone".  

The first week of January....

man, I'm a MUCH better version of myself. 

For example:

I'm trying to be more efficient with the groceries I have and use everything down to the last crumb. Innovative leftovers. 

Interesting combinations of pieces and parts of the ghost of meals past.

"We don't need to go to the grocery store! Why, I have carrots, and red-beans-n-rice, and some cotto salami lunchmeat right here.  It'll be a CASSEROLE."

(I remember my mom doing this sort of thing. We knew that if dinner was a casserole, it was probably going to be composed of previously "used" food, and we'd frantically do a mental rundown of what all we'd been served for meals the prior two days.) Casseroles are suspect dishes...

Yesterday I saw three pears and half a bag of cranberries languishing in my refrigerator, looking like they might get beyond the point of use-ability, so I thought, "Pear sauce! It'll be like apple sauce!" 

Very efficient.

Waste not, want not.

And I felt quite smart and resourceful.

So, I whipped around, got the breakfast dishes put away, the kids' lunches made, a load of laundry in, and peeled those pears right up to boil with their pals the cranberries. (This all happened before 7:30 a.m. because as you know, in the first week of January anything is possible, even energetic housekeeping at ungodly hours.) 

They bubbled and burbled along in their apple juice bath until the cranberries started popping, indicating the proper amount of "done-ness". 

Now, here's where things got a little ugly.

I thought about pushing them through a strainer to eliminate the cranberry skins but I'm sure I'd just read where the skins of all fruits and vegetables are where the most nutrients are. (Because it's January and I have "healthy resolutions", I'm reading those sorts of articles. I'm sure you are too.) I virtuously decided that we were going to get all the vitamins we could out of this efficient use of aging fruit, so I pulled out the blender. 

(Some of you know how this is going to end. Don't spoil it for the rest of the readers...)

Now, we're getting down to the wire on bus time, but I'm determined to get this project wrapped up so I can do the dishes up from it so I can go on with my list of goals (including reading War and Peace, and taking 20 minutes of French daily). (I'm NOT KIDDING.)

Rather than do a ladle-ful of the boiling hot mixture, I poured the whole dang thing into the glass container, replaced the lid, put it on the base and hit the little "SLOW" button. 

I'm the one who needs a "SLOW" label. (SLOW DOWN. THINK ABOUT IT.)

The blender exploded.

Not the motor, but the steam from the boiling hot pear-berries blew the lid sky high and there was sticky red, grainy fruit slop everywhere. 

You know how there's a point in every project where you say to yourself, "You really should just give this one up, dearie.  Just walk away and call it a day..." 

I think about that point much later in time, wishing I had the courage and intelligence to listen to myself, but no...I never do.

This would have been that point.

But I'm no quitter.

I took the glass container, poured most of the almost boiling fruit back in the saucepan, then started the blending process again.  Except THIS time, just as I hit "SLOW", the Farmer put his head in the door and asked a Very Important and Timely Question which (and this is not his fault...he had no idea of the drama and devastation unfolding in the kitchen) distracted me.  My grip on the top of the lid wasn't tight enough and it blew up again. 

You might think the saga ends here, and oh, how I wish it did...

Now the pears and berries are languishing in my refrigerator in a much needed Tupperware container. It's WORSE than if I'd just let them rot in peace, because I'm double cleaning the sticky which is taking valuable time away from my War and Peace goal, AND we're still not eating the nutrients.

Today I have to take lunch over for the men because they're working cows at a vague time, so I have a ham in the crockpot, twice baked potatoes ready to go in the fridge, a green salad, and....pear berry sauce!

The problem being that the reason we haven't yet eaten the pear berry sauce is because it's too runny. What would make a runny sauce thicker?

Hmmm.....

CORN STARCH. 

Nine a.m. found me again with my saucepan of bubbling, burbling pears and cranberries, trying to salvage the whole mess.  

I added corn syrup and a little salt in addition to the cornstarch.  It needed....something. 

As I stirred, I ran through flavors in my brain. What did it need? What could I add?

Lime zest!

As I was grating the lime zest into the rapidly thickening pear berry sauce, I realized there was no possible way I could explain this dish to my father-in-law who likes his food traditional and straightforward. No surprises. I could just see him getting the bowl of ambiguous pink sauce, frowning a little while trying to figure out what it might be, tasting it and not recognizing any of the flavors as things that normally go together. 

Much like we did with Mom's casseroles.

Now, as much as I'd love to continue with this blog post, I have lunch to deliver and I'm running behind on my French course, so it's "au revoir" for now.  

Happy 2016!

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Food}

Ah, the food...

Bonaire can grow nothing, save goats and iguanas (both of which are edible...), so all the food on the island is imported. 

And imported = expensive. 

Especially when an island is importing the vast majority of their food products from the Netherlands. A lot of the produce comes from South and Central America, which saves a few miles, but other than that, the Netherlands.  

I kind of knew this, but I didn't KNOW this...does that make sense? 

I had read about the grocery stores and markets, even watched a couple videos taken by a tourist who was shopping in Van Den Tweel's in Kralendijk, but it didn't occur to me that the labels would all be in Dutch. I was more focused on staying within my grocery budget and still feeding everyone enough so that we weren't forced to kill and butcher a goat, say...

Since I don't really know any Dutch, this made grocery shopping quite slow.  I looked at the labels, thought about what the English equivilant of that word might be, examined the picture or product quite carefully once again, and put it in the cart.  Sometimes I hit it, sometimes I didn't.  

I wanted half & half for my coffee but all I could comprehend was "melk"...obviously "milk".  But the rest of the cartons gave me no clue as to their contents. And the smiling cows on them seemed to mock my ignorance...

I bought karnemelk. 

Who knows?! Karnemelk might be part milk with the other part being cream...oh, I hope, I hope...

NO.

Karnemelk is buttermilk. 

A terrible lesson in Dutch at 6 a.m. in my coffee. 

(I used it later in seafood fritters and it worked out neatly, so no waste.)

There was also a section of what appeared to be shelf-stable coffee creamers with happy Dutch people sipping hot beverages on the label. (And the label did NOT say karnemelk anywhere on it, so I thought "Who knows?! It might be creamer...oh, I hope, I hope")  

NO

The happy Dutch citizens had evaporated milk in their coffee. Not even sweetened condensed milk, but just plain old evaporated "melk".  Why were they so ecstatic about THAT? 

The fruit was amazing. 

It was tricky, though.  It LOOKED green, especially the pineapple and mangos.  It FELT green. It didn't smell like ripe fruit generally smells. But when I'd cut into it, it was perfectly ripe...if I let it sit on the counter for more than a day it would begin to be TOO ripe very quickly.  

Cheese....oh, God bless the Dutch and their happy cows who make happy cheese.

I have no idea what kinds I bought, but they were all good. (This is not surprising, since cheese is one of my favorite food groups.) 

I stayed within budget very well, so Thursday Ivan gave me extra cash and told me to get shrimp and steak for supper that night. I'd been shopping all week at three different supermarkets and knew the pickings were slim in the beef department and the shrimp looked a little old...what to do?  Warehouse Grocery (which was not a "warehouse grocery" like we're used to; Costco and Sam's Club...it was a regular old supermarket) had good steaks that day, but I was not paying for anything with a bone. With careful picking, I ended up with 3 loin cuts that ran $47/lb.  At Van Den Tweel's, I found some not so gross shrimp that was pre-garlic-ed for $34/lb and several pork skewers (at least I THINK they were pork skewers...or goat, but we're not going to split hairs now) for $30/lb.  When I returned with my haul and brought it into the villa, Ivan said, "You didn't get enough!" to which I pointed out the prices on the receipt and we agreed that everyone would have to fill in the gaps with rice and salad...

Merrill, the owner of the villa, had told me where I could go for fresh fish....catch of the day!....so I was determined to get my hands on some of that.  It was a rather strange connection as I had to call the front desk of a hotel, they'd put me in touch with the kitchen, we'd wrangle out a deal and I'd go home with whatever they caught that day. 

I called the Sand Dollar and sure enough, they said they had fish and to stop by the office to make the deal. 

Hmmm...

Well, it took me a little while to find the office because it was tucked way in the back of the resort, far from the entrance and parking lot. When I finally found it, I was hot and flustered and frankly, not in the mood to haggle over any old fish.  The front desk clerk listened to my story, picked up the phone and negotiated a deal with the kitchen for tuna steaks (enough for six) for $22.  When did I want to pick them up? Um....in an hour, maybe? No worries, the fish would be there in an hour. 

But, in true Bonairian spirit, the desk clerk (Mercedes- pronounced mar-SHAY-deez) said I could get it whenever...she was there all day, even over lunch when the sign said they were closed, and just swing by when I was finished marketing. I wanted to hug her. 

When I got the tuna back to the villa, I carefully unwrapped the newspaper and then the plastic wrap.

There were the most beautiful, huge pink chunks of tuna I'd ever seen....about an inch thick, mostly. It was almost intimidating, thinking of grilling such perfection! 

But I managed it...salt, pepper, lime juice...it grilled like a dream, and paired nicely with the fresh mango salsa I made that afternoon. 

I really wish my group had liked fish better, because I'd have been at the Sand Dollar every morning, chatting it up with Mercedes, picking up barracuda or what have you.  

Here's the supermarket I used most often. (I'm not ashamed to tell you...it's because as I went out the door, there were insanely yummy, fresh smoothies made of just blended fruit...no yogurt or anything. $2 bought a go cup of heaven.) 

The thing about ALL the supermarkets on Bonaire is that you had to bring your own bags to carry your groceries out with. (Presumably because they were eco-sensitive and couldn't handle the amount of trash the other plastic/paper bags would add to the island.) (All the trash has to be hauled OFF Bonaire and away, so the residents use everything up and recycle as much as they can.)

At Van Den Tweel, you also had to rent a shopping cart. All the carts were chained together outside. In order to take one to use, you had to push a quarter in a little slot which released the chain from the handle. When you returned the cart, you pushed the chain back in the handle slot and out popped your quarter.  Neat, huh?! I kept a cart quarter in Bonnie's cupholder so I wouldn't have to dig around in my pocket or purse each time I went. 

STROOPWAFELS!!!

My favorite Dutch thang. 

These were my breakfast every morning after this purchase...along with koffe, sans karnemelk.

(See the shopping bag? You can't believe how many groceries those hold! It's the lugging them up the stairs to the kitchen that's the trick...)

Australian house wine, which was mostly chardonnay as the label indicates, but packaged with Dutch labeling...

I loved that the Oreos (black and whites) had the description in Dutch, French, and Italian!

With a name like "Smaakt", it has to be good! (I think chickpeas in a tomato sauce, I'm not certain.)

Cornstarch was allesbinder. The baking soda was found among the cleaning products. And I had to go to two other groceries to find baking powder for my fritters. (No one bakes, there! It's too hot, and the air conditioning is room by room if you can possibly afford it, so all the baked goods are bought in the markets. And there are precious few ingredients to use if you want to do it yourself.)

I spent quite a lot of the grocery budget on fruit juice, which really was quite good and that Jaspers consumed in vast quantities. (I don't blame them a bit. Toward the end of the stay, I was drinking more of it, too, and I'm not a juice drinker!) The juice came in boxes like you'd buy chicken stock in here, and the only way I could guess at what juice was in the box was by the pictures. If I didn't recognize the fruit, I didn't buy the box.  

One of the things I started doing later in the week was to watch other people's grocery carts if I heard them speaking Papiamentu or Dutch. They knew the good products and produce! The best time to shop if you wanted to avoid crowds was in the afternoon before everyone got off work and the other folks were laying low trying to stay cool. It was wonderfully air conditioned in the supermarkets and I took my time doing the Dutch Label Lottery game. Sunday morning was craziness...I think everyone got out of church, then zipped by the stores to get something for lunch.  

I haven't even touched on the food in the restaurants!

YIKES!

There'll be a second food post, I'm afraid...