A Few Animal Updates

1.   The llama was skunked last night. Or this morning. Or this afternoon. Or possibly all three, judging from his stench, which I caught on a stiff breeze while photographing him today. His pasture-mates are clean as whistles, though, so hopefully this means that Sir Romulus has finally accepted his role as varmint-dismisser. I absolutely swell with pride to imagine him scooping his long, noodly neck really low and trotting aggressively after a black-and-white intruder. Good boy, Romulus. Good, stinky, untouchable boy.

I can't even cope with how beautiful his eyes are.

2.   The chickens still have not provided me any more eggs. Well, I have collected exactly ONE EGG this week. If by some chance you have been watching my little egg counter on the sidebar over there and wondered if I have just forgotten to update it... No. Just no eggs. Do you know how embarrassing it is to buy a carton of  snow white eggs at the grocery store? I feel like such a fraud. Like everyone there knows. Watching me examine eggs as if I have a choice. Judging me. Calculating in their heads how much money I have wasted on chicken scratch this month. Anyway, the feathery ladies do not appear to be molting; they have plenty of sunshine and fresh water; and only two roosters are around to "bother" them. Hubba hubba. So I know in my calcium-deprived bones that a giant clutch of eggs is somewhere on these nine acres. Somewhere. Not in the barn or the coop, but somewhere I will find them. Eventually. Or I will find a little nursery school of fresh baby chicks, which are only slightly less delicious.

An old photo, from more productive days...

3.   But Mia's love is still going strong. I sat in the sunny front yard today and fed him and his downy compadres a bag of stale bread, and he cuddled and honked me properly. I happened to be listening to music via headphones at the time, though, and apparently he objected to this. He started pecking at my head and really zeroed in on my headphones, almost in perfect beat to Ice Ice Baby which is the song that was playing at the time. The thing is, Mia is simply too young to appreciate fake rap from that era.

Stop! Collaborate and Listen! Mia's back!

4.   My friend, neighbor, and fellow book clubber Seri surprised me today with a tray of made-from-scratch sweet potato biscuits! You guys, they are so good. So soft and pillowy and sweet, just the exact thing I needed for an afternoon pick-me-up. But I tore off a little corner and offered it to Chunk-Hi and he not very politely refused. He really likes crunchy treats, we should always try to remember. Oh well, more for me. Thanks Seri!

Crunchy stuff only, please, Momma.

5.   Our parrot, Bobby Pacino, is not only learning new words lately; he is also assembling his growing vocabulary in terrifying fascinating ways. I knew it was coming, because in the days leading up to a burst of new words and phrases, Pacino always sits quietly on his perch, eyes lowered, one claw massaging his throat. I really need to write down every single thing he can say, because it's pretty impressive. This week his new thing is "I don't appreciate it, OK?" We've heard worse from him, unfortunately, but for some reason this sentence just cracks me up. The thing is, he says it with such appropriate disgust. His inflection, you guys, is spot on.

Someone told me... If you have a parrot 

and you aren't teaching him to say

"Help! They changed me into a parrot!"

Then you're wasting your time.

Oblah-Di, Oblah-Dah!
xoxoxoxo
 

A Short, Happy Story for Ya

Our kitchen freezer has been dying a slow death since early June.

 Late last night it finally hemorrhaged melted vanilla ice cream all over the tile floor, 

forcing our thrifty hands into action.

We had to wait until this morning for either repair or replacement, 

so I emptied the salvageable frozen meats into the deep freezer in our garage.

Then it happened.

I rediscovered in our nearly empty kitchen freezer 

nineteen miniature Butterfinger candy bars, hidden in there, 

cold and perfect and immoral,

waiting for the moment when I would need them most.

Which is now.

The End.

Wishing You Cheap Appliance Repairs 

and a Perfect Chocolate Rediscovery Right When You Need it Most 

xoxoxoxo

New Orleans Style Pecan Pralines

   After any trip to an unusual place, but especially after every trip to New Orleans, I come home full of cravings and ideas and this insatiable desire to adapt those things to my own to my home. Or my home to that town, or whatever. The urge covers everything from recipes to decorating ideas and (of course) gardening. Once in a while I get lucky and discover some foreign treasure that both Handsome and I would like to enjoy again, as is the case with Pecan Pralines.

   Last week in New Orleans, while strolling somewhere between downtown and the French Quarter, we followed our noses past the raw sewage (an unfortunate fact of life in some parts) and into a heavenly cloud of butter and sugar and toasted pecans and other wonderful fragrances. We cruised a glass front case that had been stocked with every imaginable variation of praline possibly known to man. We watched someone making the pralines fresh. And then we sampled tiny little crumbs offered by a temptress in a cotton apron, both of us staidly acting as if we still might not actually buy anything.

L O L

   So anyway, ten minutes and eighteen dollars later we emerged from the store with a box full of various candies, sealed with a pretty little foil sticker. I may or may not have felt panicky over the long walk back to the hotel. Will they melt in the box? What if we get mugged? I feel faint, I think my blood sugar is low. We better stop and eat all of these right now, just in case of all that. I definitely said most of this out loud.


   I am fairly certain my husband took a deeper breath than he actually needed, and he purposefully did not make eye contact with me.


   We each ate one praline as we walked through the skinny, bricked streets lined with book stores and art galleries. None of the other pralines melted. We certainly did not get mugged. And my blood sugar has not been low once since that heavenly day. That is how powerfully sweet these things are.

   I was shocked and delighted that Handsome liked this delicacy enough to want more. So when we got home I suggested he look up some recipes, and within a few minutes we had agreed on the first one to try. You can find it by clicking on this link.  It is perfect. PERFECT. I do not need to try any more.

   

   If you own a candy thermometer; if you can gather six basic pantry supplies; and if you have half an hour to spend in the kitchen then another half an hour to let these firm up, then you too can have New Orleans style Pecan Pralines. I pinky promise you this. I am not really known for my candy making skills, but I must say that this was super easy. It was even easier than making cookies, and much faster. Go figure, since it hails from the Big Easy, right?

   The photo above was taken immediately after I spooned the hot mixture onto waxed paper. The pralines look extra dark, almost like chocolate no-bake cookies, but that changes.

   A couple of hours later they were sturdy, flat bottomed, and that believable golden pecan color that makes me miss my Grandma Stubbs.

   As I write this, the time is 2:46 p.m. I have already eaten two pralines since lunchtime, and my blood sugar levels would probably give a hummingbird the shakes. That weird but wonderful sensation is the only thing ensuring that my husband will have pralines to eat when he gets home from the Commish. It also means I will never be making this recipe while he is out of town, because basically I don't trust myself.

   More Nawlins stories and inspiration to come, I just had to share this with you guys real quick.

Eat dessert first.

xoxoxo

The Forest Incident: an Epilogue in Photos

   Yesterday I posted a rather lengthy tale about getting lost in the forest with M Half. I chose not to illustrate it partly because neither of us took a camera that day and also because that post was so blessedly long already.  Wowsa! Sharing that much was cathartic and a little exhausting, but it could have been an even longer story, you guys. A lot happened that day. Trust me.

   Now I need to tell you that a couple of weeks after that traumatic life event, M Half was here at the farm again and we took another trip into the forest, this time with a camera. This second trip was only about a third as deep as the first. We came out this time not only emotionally unscathed but also carrying a glorious souvenir! Here's a shorter, happier tale for you this fine Tuesday evening.

This is the people view of most of the Pine Forest. 

Tall, straight tree trunks thrusting confidently into the open sky.

We enjoy a limited population of child-eating cows in this area.

This is the place we casually dubbed Yoga Meadow. 

It's a small but private clearing on the north edge of the forest. 

On a a recent trip there by myself I discovered 

lots of new spring flowers and budding trees.

So beautiful...

Okay. This is called the Murder Sheyed.

I feel like I don't want to explain that. Okay?

***************

What I will tell you guys is that

sometimes when I visit the forest

that creaky looking door is open, like it is in this photo.

Other times, with no interference from us,

it is not only closed but LOCKED.

No one lives on this property, you guys.

No one except, perhaps... Sasquatch.

This tree takes my breath away.

Look at how smoothly it genuflects toward the earth.

Here is the climbing tree we've been talking about.

Don't you agree it is perfectly designed? 

The branches are arranged in a spiral staircase around the trunk.

It's almost too easy.

Here is a little drop off and deer track tattooed by shadows.

I love that thick carpet of pine needles...

Bouncy, muffled, slightly crunchy...

When I was little I remember wishing I could nap in places like this.

When my girls were little they would ask for bedtime stories

about the Pine Forest of MY childhood, 

a big beautiful one in southeastern Oklahoma.

And here is the rusty blue treasure 

that tempted us back into the forest

despite our recent trauma.

We saw it near a trash heap and wondered at the way

it was perched so uprightly in those trees. 

Like someone had just finished riding it 

and had set it on its kickstand for a while.

The bike was so well buried in the forest and surrounded by thicket

that actually laying hands on it

required some patience and George Bush-style strategerie.

So worth it!

Oh, look. I am a huge dork.

This is how we show things on the farm. 

We pretend to be Vanna.

We call it Vanna-ing.

After wrestling the bike from its forest embrace,

M Half and I spent a little time busting the immovable chain 

and tearing the rotted rubber away from the wheels

in hopes of the whole thing rolling smoothly back to the farm.

Well, it never "rolled" exactly, but we did gain a little mobility.

And we did feel pretty invincible after the demolition.

And we did need hot, soapy showers after the exertion. Gross.

   So there you have it. The forest doesn't always chew us up and spit us out; sometimes it offers little gifts. Right now the bike sits at our front door with some pansies and metal artwork from New Orleans. I have high hopes of eventually securing it to the brick wall above our kitchen door and using it to grow morning glory vines, like a cool rusted trellis. Again, if we are friends, you will not warn my husband of this plan. He is more worried about vines above doorways than I am about bloodthirsty cows.

Be Brave. 

xoxoxo

Disturbance in the Force

   This morning I was minding my own business, pacing energetically through the normal list of Monday morning jobs, staying effortlessly positive and upbeat about stuff in general, and even whistling. Well, sort of whistling, the best I can at least. I managed to actually pray this morning instead of just worry and hope. The farm was happy and in the sleepy process of hunkering down for the predicted rain. My husband had made it to the office mostly rejuvenated and healthy after a really nice weekend. All was well in Denmark, as they say. Or so it seemed.

   I leaned over to retrieve some clean silverware from the bottom shelf of the dishwasher, caught a whiff of both bleach and vanilla on the way down, then started feeling weird. I was physically uncomfortable, out of the blue, but I had no idea why. My jeans felt strange, my red sweater was definitely getting on my nerves, and my sunglasses which had been perched meaninglessly on my head (it's super cloudy today, no sun, no need for shades, but gosh I like 'em) crashed down on my nose. Rudely. Everything was suddenly wrong.

   I looked around the kitchen cautiously, wondering what the heck was going on. I had an urgent need to escape something, but I didn't know what, so I listened in perfect stillness for any animal alerts. Usually if an earthquake is coming or a stranger has pulled through the front gate, the geese and guineas will let me and everyone else on our road know about it. Loudly.

   But there was almost perfect silence. And this elusive feeling of discomfort was changing over into a needling pain in several places all over my body, so I investigated.

   What I discovered was maddening and relieving all at once. I had hay. In my bra. And in my jeans. And in everything. And it was itchy.

   I had raked and distributed hay to the four leggeds like half an hour earlier, and that's the only time it could have found its way into my not loose clothing and undergarments. Plus I had been wearing a coat. So why I was just then noticing it while tidying up the kitchen is a true mystery. But removing it suddenly became the most important thing in my life.  I became very goal oriented in that moment, working to remove the hay pronto, because no  matter how soft and sticker-free it might seem for eating and carrying, it is just not comfortable as skivvies.

   So the hay got removed, right there in the kitchen, and I silently added sweep the floor again to my Monday list.

   Now the disturbance in the force has been soothed and Denmark is once again a peaceful nation. Woohoo! I am kind of glad the bleach and vanilla fragrances had nothing to do with this.

Hay is for Horses, not Bras, Please
xoxoxo

   

Raised Beds: Foundation Day

   A scientist is in Heaven. He walks up to God and claims to have cracked the code for creating life, that he knows how to manipulate small amounts of common soil to become a living, breathing organism.

   The Lord smiled patiently and said, "Okay."

   "I'm serious."

   "I can see that, my child, so let's go to My Laboratory and you can show me what you can do." So God leads the scientist to His Laboratory and welcomes him inside.

   "Okay," says the scientist eagerly, "all I need is some dirt."

   "Uh-uh, sorry," the Lord replies laughingly, "get your own dirt."

********************

   So I'm making my own dirt. Not to blasphemously create life, just to grow some delicious fruits and veggies. Today Mia the Gander helped me fill the first three beds. It was a luscious way to spend another unseasonably warm January afternoon, with photos to prove it this time. I am feeling really optimistic about the garden this year, you guys. 

First, we have some scrap cardboard cut to lay flat on the ground.

This is eventually decompose, but in the mean time 

it should block the worst weeds.

Yay for no plastic!!

The whole cardboard cutting event was highly fascinating to Mia.

Can you blame him?

Then I layered on a few inches of dried leaves.

Just for fun, take note of the X shaped shadow up on the wall.

Over the dried leaves went a lot of manure.

A little manure scooping advice:

Whenever possible, scoop uphill

Let gravity be your friend.

Oh, and speaking of fascinated animals, as I scooped manure

our two geldings could not be more enrapt.

At one point Dusty nosed my very full wheelbarrow

and I had to urge him NOT to eat it.

He asked me why, pointing out the obvious fact 

that his manure is little more than compressed grass, hay, and excess grain.

Which is exactly his daily diet.

He had a legitimate question: at what point does food cease to be food?

That raised questions of cannibalism, etc, for which I had precious few answers.

Things got very philosophical in the middle field today.

The last ingredient was slightly moist, matted together shred.

Hey, did you notice the X shadow move? 

The sun was receding as I worked.

But Mia never left my side.

He nibbled winter greens 

and supervised my activities tirelessly.

He is the world's most faithful, 

most affectionate, most curious gander.

Amend Your Soil!

Get a Head Start!

xoxoxo

   

Karma Has a Mic and it's Switched On

   This morning we had a pared down Christmas service at church. Lots of family circumstances are different this year, and not just in our little corner of the world. Seems like every household is enduring something difficult that, collectively, has changed the landscape of our church. Without quite enough people to put on our traditional Nativity production, we gathered today for preaching, cookies and juice, and singing. Lots and lots of singing.

   We sang so many songs.

   At the top o' the mornin' my husband was called up to the pulpit to sing some traditional tear-jerkers with his Uncle David, a fellow preacher. This duo was intended to, well, elicit those much anticipated holiday blubberings.  You know, hearing the old songs in reverent, baritone voices,  feeling those decades-old holiday memories swirl around us, and getting all caught up in the salt water magic. Help us purge the pain by candlelight.

   But guess who was not ready to cry Christmas tears? Who was, instead, ready to break it down Elvis style?

   My Handsome. 

   He sauntered up to the microphone and openly referred to his mother, our organist and Pastor's wife, as "Little Lady." He shimmied his voice and curled his upper lip at every opportunity. He cheerfully complained about every key in which she played said organ, completely interrupting the flow of the service. But somehow this festive anarchy drummed up smiles instead of sneers. Tendrils of laughter began to smoke up from the congregation, everyone relaxed, and pretty soon my guy was in full on Christmas Elvis mode.

   For the record, lots of people were laughing. 

Let’s establish that early on.

   But an old friend, Beatrice, who was seated with her fiancee behind me was laughing a lot. Way more than me, just so you know, although I was laughing too.

   Eventually we were kind of laughing with inappropriate volume and energy for a church service. A Christmas church service. A Christmas church service that was supposed to be sad, or at least somber. It was wrong, but I could not stop.

   And you know how a good belly laugh takes on a life of its own? Well, that definitely happened, and on top of that, Handsome’s inner comic totally fed off of our unbridled goofiness. My friend Beatrice and I may or may not have crossed the line from “entertained” to just plain “rude,” but let’s not judge.

   The point is that about halfway through the singing, the Little Lady called Beatrice and me up to the microphone.

   To sing.

   Neither of us is a singer by nature, so we froze like startled fainting goats. We even let out those pitiful little terrified moans before our stiff little goat legs sprang up into the air.

   Unwilling to suffer the consequences of not only interrupting service but then rebelling against the sense of singing teamwork, Beatrice and I righted our goat selves from shock and tiptoed reluctantly to the pulpit. 

   Handsome, the guilty instigator but crowd-approved victim of heckling, was way too happy to thrust microphones into our mortified faces. And he was still Elvissing! S-E-R-I-O-U-S-L-Y.

   My giggling came to a screeching halt and my face was hot like lava. Hot like Elvis. Hot like not heaven. We proceeded to fake like we were singing until we realized nobody else was singing with us, just watching. We were busted lip syncing to nothing, relying on the guys to smooth out our nonexistent tones. 

   Let me just say that if I am wrong here 

and Beatrice was in fact singing, 

she was as quiet as a butterfly. 

A scared, mute, sleeping butterfly.

   We were on the hook for way more than one song and the microphones were not leaving, so verse by verse I tried to muster up a Christmas groove. I probably sounded like a donkey going through prepubescent voice changes, but I pressed out every word. Beatrice gradually sang too but physically retreated inch by inch away from the mic.

   Her backwards scooting became so pronounced that eventually Uncle David exclaimed on it loud and clear, "If you push us back anymore we'll be off the platform!" Laughter exploded at this point, and that might have been the final song. Our punishment was evidently fulfilled.

   I am not sure if there is a clear lesson to be learned here, but the anatomy of karma cannot be overlooked. I will say that the mood was lightened and brightened far past our gloomy expectations for today.

   And for me it was worth it.

Wishing you some MERRY for your Christmas...

And cheers to living with no regrets.

xoxoxo

Right Central Incisor # 8

   Earlier this week, another front tooth bit the dust. If my memory is correct, then this makes Dental Event Number Nine in my thirty-seven twenty-five years on earth. It's a little bit exhausting. It's a lot expensive.

   I would so like to tell you that I lost this tooth white water rafting, that the waves crashed me up against a mossy boulder and bloodied my nose, but that I am such a good swimmer I dove down and retrieved my tooth from the fish-laden river before helping reclaim the floating oars.

   I would like to say that I lost this tooth while doing yet another P-E-R-F-E-C-T back-handspring with a round off when an earthquake hit the farm and I had no choice but to crumble to the ground, face first.

   I would like to say that I was wrestling our little buffalo, holding him sternly by the horns, when a hay truck drove past the front gate and distracted us both, resulting in a sudden mouth injury from his massive horns.

   I would also like to say that I am kidding, that I did not spend half of my week at the dentist and that we are not lining my mouth with paycheck after paycheck. But none of these things is true. I just felt the tooth (it's actually a crown, per the previous injuries) fall off into my hand as I was about to take a sip of coffee. Simple as that. Quiet. No blood. No pain. No drama. Also no pity. 

   It seems that aside from adjacent frustration, losing one's tooth in no spectacular way begs precious little comforting. Anyway, I am so over this. I am thankful, however, to have the crown reattached now, delaying the pricier and far more painful and time consuming implant process. 

   This is a first-world problem, as my friend Julia likes to say, so I really should stop with the complaining. I am grateful to go to the dentist and to have a dentist I like so much. I am grateful I wasn't white water rafting, because being a good swimmer is irrelevant if you are afraid of fish. I am grateful that I wasn't doing back handsprings when an earthquake hit, because I can just imagine how many stickers I would be tweezing out of my hands. And the idea of me wrestling our little buff is silly. He's a lover, not a fighter.

Happy weekend everybody! Brush your teeth and kiss them goodnight.

xoxoxo

Pretty Average/ Awesome Day at the Lazy W

   Today was pretty average in routine but was extraordinary in depth.

Today was luxurious in its normalcy.  I groove days like today.  

I had no frantic errands to run, no emergencies to tend, no unrealistic goals.

And the thin, delicate veil of emotion I always wear 

was strong enough today to hold reality in plain view 

and sheer enough today to help me really feel and understand everything.

Interested?

6:00 a.m.  We snooze.  Multiple times.  We cuddle and re-cuddle and cuddle again.  We spoon like professionals.  The bed is warm, and the air coming in through the open windows is cold and fresh.  The skies are so dark it could be midnight.  I snooze even through the aroma of really fresh, strong coffee wafting up through the vents.  Until the geese wake up.  They are waaaaaay louder than roosters.

6:40 a.m.  Making breakfast for Handsome, skillet grilled club steak with fried eggs, toast, coffee, and grape juice.  Just coffee for me.  Pack his lunch.  Resist a plate of homemade chocolate chip-oatmeal cookies from last night.  Thinking heavily of the girls, wondering what they'll be doing today, remembering a vivid dream I had last night.  This one was happy though, almost too happy to believe.  I hope it's a sign of things to come, but it's probably just a sign of my hope.  That's okay; it's a lot better than more nightmares.

7:00 a.m.  Celebrate the upcoming weather forecast of rain!  Our drought has been exhausting, and one really drenching weekend could make a big difference in hay production.  Start mentally planning a bonfire party with friends.  Chat with Handsome about everything on his mind.  Morning is usually when he wants to talk, and this was, as noted, a charmed morning.  Fell in love with him all over again.

7:25 a.m.  Handsome risks life, limb, and dry cleaning expenses to release the chickens and geese while dressed for the office.  We part ways for the day.

7:30 a.m.  Make the bed, start a load of laundry, fill the dishwasher, drink another cup of coffee.  Then find a sweater and some boots to go feed and water everybody.  While flaking off a round bale in the barn, I notice the hay is coming off in thin, compressed, spiraling sheets, like a cinnamon roll.  Makes me think of a friend who makes Pioneer Woman's cinnamon rolls expertly, so I text her.  (My friend, not PW.)  This chick is going through a lot in life but is strong and beautiful and such a happy addition to our life, I am wishing her dreams fulfilled in a BIG way.

7:55 a.m.  Back in the kitchen, one cat and one hen begging at the window.  Together.  How can I not find them treats in the fridge?  They get my intended lunch.  We all know I'm just gonna cave and have those cookies anyway.  Then back outside to water gardens, tidy up, etc.  EGAD!  We have tiny green tomatoes! In October!  

8:45 a.m  Last cup of coffee.  Lots of wonderful, loving messages today, not unrelated to the day's specialness.  I can't lie, I am a sucker for this many warm fuzzies.  But I nearly get derailed by the internet!!  Whoa, sister...  Whew!

9:05 a.m.  Write for a really fun writer's workshop prompt limiting us to 100 words.  That is not very many words, you guys.  It is rad.  The other writers are crazy inspirational.  Moving along the laundry extravaganza.

9:45 a.m.  Prepping an apple shortbread tart for a friend in Handsome's office.  Y-U-M that smells good.  Have you made it yet?  Finish filling dishwasher then start it.  Feed Pacino again (he has a hollow yellow leg these days) and deliver kitchen scraps to the chickens.  Collect just two eggs today, a lot less than normal.  Noting repairs suddenly needed in coop, I cannot imagine what happened in there.  Super happy pups today, Shao-Lin's allergies are much better.  Geese are screaming about something, apparently just the need to be fed at the pond, not with the "common" birds.  I comply of course.  They have me so well trained.    

10:30 a.m.  Finish laundry and catch up on emails.  Discover the geese back up at the house, napping in the shade.  Ate a thick peanut butter sandwich and drank too much orange juice.  It was perfect.

11:00 a.m.  Up in the sewing room, working on apron orders and some imaginative fabric combinations.  No music today, neither any tormenting thoughts.  No tears.  Just lots of memories of family life, lots of prayers for the future, lots of strong hope and pulsing gratefulness for today.   Roosters are crowing peacefully.  Horses are ruffling and sighing at the window.  Sew Sew Sew!!!

1:20 p.m.  I sew for a long time, post some apron pics, and then read for an even longer time.  Herein lies the luxury:  Life hasn't always afforded me this kind of disposable time, and it may not for much longer.  So for now and for as long as it is a benefit to us, I shall enjoy it.

2:40 p.m.  Read, read, read, sing with Pacino, read, dance with Pacino, read, write, write write, smile big.  Try to imagine what the girls are doing today.  Decide to throw in one last load of towels.  

3:20 p.m.  Exercise time.  In my sewing room.  As my skin heated up and the endorphins started flowing, so did the fabric ideas.  I kept stopping to position swatches and scraps together with trims and ruffles.  Dreaming big Green Goose dreams.  Remembering why we called it Green Goose in the first place.  More thoughts of the kids.  Decide to attend yoga class tomorrow.  Tell my friend and get invited to guest post on her blog!

4:00 p.m.  Shower time.  You're welcome, everyone downwind of The Lazy W.  Then a fresh pot of coffee, a rare afternoon treat.  But my mind is loose and nimble, my typing fingers itchy.  For some reason, shampooed hair, perfume, and coffee are just my natural accompaniments for writing.  Handsome headed home now, my heart flutters.  Continued drafting a Proverbs 31 piece.  

6:15 p.m.  We both hear our stomachs growling at the same time, despite a stolen cookie.  Or three.  So I make us some grilled chicken wraps with red grapes and potato chips, and  we continued in our luxuriation.  I received a very happy phone call from our niece, a bride-soon-to-be.  I get to be in her wedding in a couple of weeks, and I am mucho excited about that.  Counting blessings, which are many.  Wondering what the girls had for dinner, but still happy, still no tears.  Just this overwhelming sense of appropriateness or something.  No, it's calm.  Peace.  That feeling that no matter what, love trumps.

7:05 p.m.  Finishing Proverbs piece for today while Handsome does some surfing and shows me every funny thing he finds.  Pacino serenades us.  Doing some delicious blog hopping and am amazed to watch the evolution of some of my stand-by faves.

8:20 p.m.  UH-OH!!  Almost forget to lock up the geese.  I make it outside with a flashlight and find all five of them nestled up in the front yard but desperate to be put to bed.  They follow me to the coop without delay, and I am pleased to see Clark the turkey is already there too.  In the water tonight, not trapped behind the tiny coop doors.  Good luck, sir.  Good luck.

8:25 p.m.  Finished mixing up sweet iced tea and serve Handsome some of that apple tart.  Yes, it was baked for someone else, but I'm not crazy.  There are certain marital indiscretions not at all worth the price, and making this recipe without serving at least part of it to him... is on that list.  Say hello to a couple of friends, text my first born, bid the world good night. 

Again, the circumstances of today are not unusual.

It's probably a pretty boring read to outsiders.

But I am happy to document this shift in deep peace.

I reflected all day, in relative quiet, on the roads we're traveling.

I railed a bit against some of the injustice I see,

against some of the obvious pain and worry,

but then laughter overtook my heart and spilled out in the form of true peace.

Feeling so thankful for illogical happiness.

For unconditional trust in Love.

I hope you had a good Tuesday too.

xoxoxo

Advice for Removing Sunflowers

   Allergies are raging right now at the farm.  Parrot dander, horse hair, hay dust from the barn, wildflowers, ragweed, you name it.  And Handsome is the chief sufferer. Since permanent or even seasonal relocation to the desert or a salty beach is not at present in our cards, we have some changes to make.  

   Yesterday I started by yanking out of the dry, cracked earth a trash bin full of ragweed to donate to the landfill and then an equally full pile of sunflowers for the chickens to eat.  I learned a few things while doing this yesterday.  So today I have some unsolicited advice for you, just in case this is a chore on your list anytime soon..

   I L-O-V-E unsolicited advice, don't you?

   So you are welcome.

   A Few Tips for Removing Sunflower Groves:

   1.  Before tackling the stalks, cut back as many of the flowers stems as possible. This will reduce the ferocity of the bee swarms that are likely to attack your face while yanking at the tree trunk-thick middles.  

These tiny pumpkins are the fruit of volunteer vines 

that sprang up from last year's carving party 

with my youngest daughter and her step brother.

xoxoxo

    I am enjoying one final summer bouquet with some of the cut flowers, mixed with a few stems of purple Rose of Sharon.  Pretty, eh?  But also deathly to allergy sufferers like Handsome.  One of the cruel jokes of a happy marriage.

   2.  Be brave agaisnt the swarming bees.  They will buzz your ears and hum in your face and try to intimidate you, but stay the course.  You are on a mission.   A mission of love.  And yes, it's true that you are destroying the bees' habitat, but humans rule the world, right?

    3.  Run a water hose at the base of the flowering grove while you work on flower cutting or hauling, or while you run screaming from the bees.  Pretty soon the roots will relax enough to be heaved free of the vise like grip of the earth.  

(Photo Source) But seriously, have you seen the videos yet?

   While the water soaks is also a good time 

to text honey badger jokes to people.

   4.  When the time finally comes for pulling loose the remaining naked stalks, use your legs.  Bend your knees and pull with your legs, not your back.  Removing sunflowers is not the same thing as cutting roses or zinnias, folks.  It is not even the same thing as pulling crabgrass.  It is a tug of war with Mother Nature herself.

Exactly one sunflower bud remains in the south garden.  

So tightly wrapped up in itself, so hopeful as its baby face follows the sun,

so doomed for loneliness and certain death.

Apparently this sunflower is out of Nair.  

Better I just put her out of her Velcro misery.

   Keep in mind that sunflowers are among the few plants that have survived the 2011 Oklahoma drought and heat wave, so Mother Nature is going to be understandably protective over this sturdy  treasure.  Pull smart and pull hard.  If you fall backwards when the battle is finally won, don't worry.  Just hope you don't land on a bee.  Then spring up like the ninja that you are and get back to work.

   5.  Wear gloves.  Not the pretty little cotton gloves they sell to women at the dollar store; REAL GLOVES  Work gloves   Boy gloves.  Seriously, I am soooo done buying women's "gardening" gloves for working outside, no matter how much I like the red calico print or lime green stretchy wrist band and no matter how cheap they are.  $8 for one pair of men's thick, suede-like gloves that LASTS is a lot cheaper than forty pairs of women's cotton gloves from the $1 bin, gloves that are quickly reduced to thin, pathetic shreds AND that attract all manner of stickers and thorns in the mean time.  Disposable.  I don't know about you, but my gardening money is not disposable.

Sorry, Babe.  This glove, along with so many T-shirts, is now mine.

   Back to the original story.

   6.  Do not make eye contact with the monarch butterflies as you remove the sunflowers.  I cried real tears for a moment yesterday as a beautiful winged creature hovered in front of me.  Her little insect chin quivered.  She seemed to be asking me, "But what will my children eat tonight?"  If you don't look at them, they're not really there, right?  Gulp.  Stay focused and cold hearted.

Here we have "Speckle" the hen.  I know, it's a cryptic name.

On day one of the grove removal, she and her feathery cohorts 
were inexplicably terrified of the sunflower carnage.

Day two found her pecking, tromping, and clucking her way through the dried up stuff.

I can only hope that she found lots of fresh, juicy bugs to eat.

Wait, I can only hope that the butterflies and bees and squash bugs and caterpillars escaped.

Wait, who are we rooting for again?

   7.  Should you indeed find yourself trapped by a confused monarch butterfly or bumblebee, do your best to offer assurances that the sunflowers are just being relocated, not removed entirely.  Promise them that their pollen and nourishment is being walked around the corner to the chicken yard, just a short flight away.  Do not tell them how hungry the chickens and geese are and that now they, the juiciest poultry food source, will be much closer to ground level while collecting pollen.  It could be the insects' last meal, after all, so why ruin it?  Lie.  Lie like broccoli.

   

   So there you have it.  Seven steps to successful sunflower removal.  Glad I could help.

Potatoes A La Pinterest

   I was admittedly in a baked potato rut.  Since disovering the microwave method, seriously, there is nothing easier.  It's nutritious, delicious, and easy.  And fast.

   But like I said, rut.  Then I was browsing my fave new eye candy site and discovered a brand new possibility.



   The visual got me first, becuase all things neatly fanned and buttered are on my culinary bucket list.  What about you?  Then the method convinced me to try it, and I am soooooo doing it again.  Here's a proper online recipe, because I don't groove writing such things.

   Personal advice:  In lieu of using the called-for butter pats and garlic cloves, I melted a whole stick of butter and seasoned that with some stuff I like (garlic salt, black pepper, and crushed red pepper).  I poured the melted, seasoned butter over the prepped potatoes and had PLENTY left over to use on some yellow squash that needed some yummy lovin and was destined for the grill.

   Almost Failed:  Accustomed to quicker (lazier) techniques, I did not budget quite enough time to achieve the advertised crispy outside-tender inside just using the oven.  So I had to zap the still too firm spuds in the microwave just as our steaks were finishing on the grill.

   Handsome's Verdict:  He liked it.  I don't think he loved it, but he liked it, and he is no longer in the business of bluffing me out on recipes to keep from hurting my feelings.  This means we'll have it again, but not necessarily on extremely special days.

When my Grandpa Dunaway was alive,

he used to talk about growing potatoes.

He said the harvest it was so exciting. 

Sometimes they would be quarter-sized,

sometimes nickle-sized spuds. 

The rest were just small potatoes.

Now my Dad repeats this family legend,

and I crack up every time I think of it.

Love you Dad. 

xoxoxo

   I haven't written much this week because I cut my ankle shaving.  I cut it deep.  Blood was gushing out, thin and hot, mixing into the sudsy shower water and draining in a downward spiral like I was Janet Leigh in Psycho or something.  It was the kind of cut you don't even feel for another five minutes, or until a minuscule drop of soap falls onto the open wound.  I may or may not have been using a hunting knife instead of a disposable razor, and I may or may not have had the lights out to conserve electricity because I showered during peak time. 

   Long story short, I developed a ferocious staph infection and had to be hospitalized three states away from here, where they have excellent doctors.  More excellent than ours, they say.  But they don't have Internet there, or coffee, so I could do no writing.  None whatsoever.

   Instead, I sat there and pondered the universe while my slashed-open ankle healed.  You know how at hospitals they never leave you alone?  Every few hours, here comes another nurse to change my band-aid and refill my little plastic yellow mug with diluted sweet iced tea.  And every time, I was reminded of all the incredible, insightful, significant things other people were reading and writing, all the ideas and truths that were being passed around without me.  Sigh.

   So in the middle of the night I crept out of the blue and white hospital room, wrapped in a papery gown and shod in those rubber-flecked booties.  So comfy.  I stole exactly two extra band-aids for my journey home (just in case) and guzzled one last throat full of weak, diluted sweet tea that was sitting at the empty nurse's station. 

   I walked home without delay.  It was no biggie since I was all tanked up on great writing ideas, all motivated to rejoin the conversations.  My staph infection had burned out purely from literary frustration, and my ankle was almost fully healed too.  The only real obstacle that night was not getting skunked on the dark roads after exiting the Interstate.

   So here I am, brimming with incomplete sentences and anxious to read what has been written during my historic grooming incident-slash- recovery.

   What didn't kill me has made me, well, sillier. 

Naked at the Dentist

   What was I thinking when I scheduled a dentist appointment just a couple of days after vacation and quite early in the morning?  There is no excuse for it.  I should know myself and my tendencies better than this by now.  This combination of circumstances always leads to personal disaster.

   I did at least remember the appointment, thanks in part to a friendly office call ahead of time, but that is about where the good news stops.

   A wonderfully romantic evening the night before led to Handsome and me crashing downstairs then sleeping a bit late, so there you have strike one.  By the time I had scrambled to send him off with food and smooches for his day of toil at the office, I was already way behind my self imposed schedule. 
  
   The day before, I had planned to rise before dawn to do all of my normal outside chores PLUS about seven other good, worthwhile things and at least one load of laundry.  Then I wanted to drink some hot, perfect coffee while blogging, maybe grab a quick workout, and take a shower.
   Not just any shower, the full blown, head-to-toe kind.  Some people call this the Hollywood shower; I call it remodeling.  It takes longer than ninety seconds.

   What actually happened is this:  I worriedly kissed my good lookin' guy in the face then dashed around drinking only half a mug of now lukewarm coffee.  I did NOT start a load of laundry but instead silently cursed myself, knowing that I would be returning home too late to run these electricity-consuming monsters before Peak Time, which that day started at 2 p.m.

   I threw on Handsome's cast off gray t-shirt from last night, stabbed my feet into some mismatched flip flops, and bolted outside to do the Feed & Water circuit as quickly as humanly possible.

   The gray t-shirt was just long enough.  Just.  But we live in the country and passersby are usually moving at a pretty good clip, so I take liberty now and then in the interest of either time or laziness.

   Have you ever seen an expression of true bewilderment on a buffalo's face because someone is trying to run fast who doesn't have good running form?  In flip flops, not boots?  Or have you ever sprinted through a flock of already nervous chickens or fed horses with a long, skinny line of grain rather than neat and tidy, affectionate little piles?  Uncoordinated speed and extreme panic are effective paralyzers for large animals and definite scatterers for small ones.

   So my adrenaline-based chores routine ended up substituting (poorly) for a cardio session.   And thanks to the ongoing heat wave in Oklahoma, doing this even as early as 7:30 a.m. led to copious amounts of salty, pouring sweat.  I was ripe.  This necessitated a shower, but if you are paying attention you may have already predicted that I did not get the remodel that day.  Strike two.

   Here is what happened next.

   I flew back through the house, terrifying poor Pacino, and again cursed myself for wasting good coffee (now burning in the carafe) and not starting the automatic bread machine, laundry, Scentsy, you name it.  If it was automatic, electronic, and time consuming, I hated myself for not using it that morning.

   I landed in our upstairs bedroom and glanced in horror at the clock.  And then I glanced in even greater horror at the mirror.  With seven and a half minutes to go before time to leave the farm and make it to the dentist on time (not even early), I had some important decisions to make.

   Let's just say I left eighteen minutes later, and most of that time was spent sanitizing my mouth as if the future of the human race depending on it.  Strike three.  Out!  I maybe should have rescheduled at this point.

   Somehow, without speeding on the side roads and without having a nervous breakdown, I made it to the dentist's office only four minutes past my appointment time.  Fortunately, the folks there are so chill and so great that it was not an issue.  In fact the dentist is usually up to twenty minutes late himself, so it was zero problemo mon.  He has longish hair with french braids and feather extensions.  Yeah, I know. 

   You might think this is the happy end of my story.  Except that once I was seated in that weird vinyl chair-bed, all the evidence of my chaotic life started to unravel and betray me.

   I was wearing denim Capri pants, cuffed mid-shin.  This makes the bottom halves of my lower legs visible, and I hadn't shaved since the night before last, meaning about 40 hours ago.  They say that a good suntan covers a multitude of sins, but crossing my ankles together, attempting ladylike behavior when none could be had, felt like I was attaching myself to myself using Velcro, and I felt a little sick to my stomach.

   Then, while I sat-slash-lay there waiting for someone to attend to my unfortunate mouth, I caught a glimpse of my feet.  Ten days ago I had made them presentable for vacation.  Then we went on said vacation which consisted of four days of walking in flip flops at the beach, swimming in salt water, being nibbled by borderline dangerous fish, and finally walking approximately a thousand miles in New Orleans.  My feet were embarrassed of themselves.

   As I stared at them I had the sensation of the wicked witch when Dorothy's house landed on her and her striped-stocking feet shriveled and curled up and away from view.

   Then my empty stomach started growling, LOUDLY.  Nice. 

   Silently, I scripted excuses and apologies for my overall appearance, as if anyone would actually say anything aloud.  As if anyone in the world noticed or cared but me.  And of course the dental assistants always look perfect and gorgeous.  Must be nice to wear closed toe shoes and take care of yourself and eat a reasonable breakfast and not run late!  Just for extra fun, that day some visiting students were there, including a guy who made me feel even more awkward, if that's possible.  I think he was actually, umm, not really into girls, but for difficult to explain reasons this made me cringe even more.  I felt soooooo juuuuuuudged.

   It got so, so much worse.

   After about thirty more minutes of waiting, during which time I made some delicious progress on my Stieg Larsson book, the dentist appeared behind me.  My chaise-lounge type chair was facing away from the open hallway, so I only saw him peripherally. 

   He sat on one side of me while the gorgeous assistant stood on the other.  Someone switched on an exam light that seemed unnecessarily bright and aggressive.  I have been to the dentist millions of times in my life, but this was the first visit when I felt like I had been abducted by aliens and placed under the scrutiny of  a lamp with the power of the sun.  It was just plain rude.  My feelings were hurt.

   The upside to the next part of this sad tale is that suddenly my stubbly shins and unpainted, unrefined feet were the last thing on any one's mind.  Then, and for the next two hours, all that really existed was the lower half of my face.  And even after they numbed my gums and filled my blood with Nitrous oxide, my thoughts were as crisp and paranoid as ever.  This is the feeling of being naked.

   So I laid as still as possible, worried as much about my sunburned bottom lip, the zit on my upper lip, the conspicuous absence of makeup, and other unwaxed, unmentionable things, as I was about the drill whirring dangerously close to my right ear.  Oh, and my stomach was still growling.

  

   The only thing that made me feel better was hearing the dentist say in his surfer speech to his in-training assistant, "See?  This is how gums are supposed to heal.  This is a best-case scenario."

   At least I did one thing right that morning.  I may have slept late, skipped both exercise and nourishment, and done almost nothing to groom myself, but by-golly I know how to heal my own gums!  And so for the rest of the day I floated around running errands in town, wildly unkempt but with the confidence that can only come from a healthy mouth.

  

   I forgot to tell you that before leaving the dentist's office, I scheduled my next surgical appointment.  For a Monday.  First thing in the morning.