Menu Minimalism

Tonight we're having beef for dinner. Each afternoon around 4:00, I seem to know that much, and not much more. Despite four or so years of being a vegan, the hub for my meal planning still comes down to which animal gave its life in order for me to eat, at least for supper. (The rules for lunch, of course, are totally different.) Anyway, so I find myself with a cut of meat in hand (sometimes literally) and no other plans. Oh, I could go for the usual side dishes that I fix every other night of the week, but is that the kind of person I want to be - a mac and cheese user? A woman with a frozen vegetable habit? Is that how I want my children to remember me!?

I could go old school - meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. This suits my 1950's housewife fantasy nicely. (Funny thing, that fantasy. Never once has my house become magically cleaner, my children more polite, or the shows on my television more G-Rated just because I put on a frilly apron and high heels. Go figure. It has once induced my husband to ask for a mixed drink, however, upon returning home from work. ) Besides just the all-American appeal, the trifecta meal planning method also does make for some darn tasty eats. Alas, it also invariably requires me to rummage in cupboards, dig through the freezer, and uncover a bag of taties that's been sitting too close to the window (sprouting), or too long in the dark (moldy). Curses, foiled again.

Never one to do anything in moderation, I then swing back to my hippy-trippy days, seeking to recall what were once the superstars of my kitchen reportoire, but which will now just be side dishes for my slab-o-meat. This, I am sure, is exactly how ex-Country stars feel at having to follow up children's singing groups and local talent shows on County Fair stages across the nation. So, will it be black beans and rice? Rice and red beans? Spanish Rice and refried beans? (Perhaps I am beginning to see why I am no longer a vegan. Hmm....) A quick thumb through my tattered New Farm Cook Book doesn't yield any appealing solutions for tonight, though it does remind me that the people who think I'm crunchy-granola now just don't even have a clue about ol' Earth Momma Annie at the height of her broomstick skirts and Birkenstocks days.

All of my freezer-fumblings, fifties-fantasies, and Farm cookbook remembrances have cost me an hour, and yet I am nowhere closer to having a side dish in mind. Meat and....? Meat and.....? Let's face it, I'm going to rely on my same old standbys that I always do. It will be meat and canned corn, probably with tortilla chips, because that's how we roll around here, baby. Why? Because we always seem to have canned corn and tortilla chips around, and I know that my famiy will eat them. Sometimes I might throw in some cilantro, or serve some salsa up on the side, but when it comes to supper I've got my Fave Five (give or take) ingredients that see me through. They are my go-to items, and as long as they never let me down, how can I turn my back on them?

It's good to know that I can still whip up a pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy and broccoli with cheese sauce that would make the Beav's mom proud. Or, that my quinoa tabouleh recipe is still where I can find it should the need arise. (I can't help it - I'm chuckling here because I know good and well that at least three people reading this blog will not only mangle the pronounciation of that dish, but also spend several seconds wondering if perhaps I just made up some gibberish words to make myself look hippyfied. One of you might even Google it.)

Tonight, I will have beef and canned corn and tortilla chips. Tomorrow night I will have chicken with mac and cheese and a frozen vegetable. The night after that I will mix things up and have lamb with canned corn and mac and cheese (tricky,  no?). But - here's where the 1950's potluck mentality meets with my creative flower child - the next night, I shall have a casserole. And everyone knows, that it's no holds barred on casserole night...

Fishbowl

This morning I was greeted to the sight of 12 white legs and three curious noses outside my bathroom window. The goats had gotten out, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying my juniper bush. (If only they enjoyed the weeds in the pasture as much!) Our snug little school house is at the center of a blessed acre, and I have brought into our lives and onto this land just about every manner of animal I've had the chance to buy, beg, borrow, steal, or rescue. The goats, for example, are on loan from some friends, who are currently caring for our calves. They also got chickens from our neighbors at the same time we did. All of these creatures (plus cats, dogs, and a possum) have stared at me from outside the same juniper-shaded window. (Creatures here being the animals, I mean, not the friends. So far, I've not seen any of them peering in.)

For some reason, this animal activity has been a bother. Perhaps it is the fact that the favored viewing place is our bathroom window, which leaves us vulnerable to being observed in all stages of undress.Why we should care if the hens have seen us naked and dripping wet is beyond me. After all, who will they tell!? Nonetheless, it does give pause. My husband has taken to yelling (in a friendly sort of way, possibly as a simple greeting he believes to be suitable for their limited intellects), "CHICKENS!!!!" every time he sees them peering in at him. Whatever his reason for doing so, the hollered salutation doesn't seem to faze them. Perhaps it is just more fodder for the gossipy clucking at their weekly hen parties. ("Oh, I KNOW! Not only is she packing on weight, but he insists on yelling at us every time he sees us! Barbarians, aren't they? Pass the cracked corn, will you dear?")

The net result of all of this animal activity is that our trips to the bathroom have an awkward, strained quality. We're either shielding ourselves and hastily exiting the room post-shower to avoid being subject to a  beady gaze, yelling out the names of farm animals in a manner similar to an enthusiastic 18-month-old looking at a picture book, or glaring at the window, hands on our hips, with a quizzical, squinty stare. Any way you look at it, having animals has significantly changed our bathroom habits. Who knew? Potential farmers, be forewarned.

I'm beginning to think it might just be a conspiracy. When we first got the hens they had a peculiar habit of tapping on the window in a manner that sounded just like someone faintly knocking on our door. I think I lost 5 pounds the first two weeks we owned hens because of constantly getting up to check for visitors. Once I figured it out, upon hearing the tap-tap-tap I started heading to the window in the bathroom, instead of the door,  to ... to...... Ok, I'm not sure why I did that. Was I hoping to catch them in the act? Scold them? Certainly I knew that yelling, "CHICKEN!!!!" at them wasn't going to do any good. Just what was it that I hoped to accomplish by hovering near the toilet and staring at my little flock? Whatever it was, I'm sure it made the hens snicker under their wings at us.

One time when I went to check on my prankster poultry, I finally it figured it out. We stare quizzically in at the fish in our fish tank (which just happens to be across the room from the bathroom window), and they stare out at us. The chickens (and goats, and cats, and calves, and possum) stare quizzically in at the funny people in the bathroom, and we stare out at them. And, here I am, inviting all of you to stare quizzically in the window of my world, onto my funny little acre and all the strange comings and goings on that happen here. Just be aware, we're probably staring back at you as well, and so it continues in the endless cycle of the observed and the observing.

Deconstructing Squash

I'm on a mission at my house... a mission to deconstruct squash. I want to debunk the stereotypes, remove the mystery, take away the stigma. My husband isn't going for it. He's not a squash guy. I must give him credit, however - at least he tried it at supper tonight. Whatever it is that he's got against it, at least I know it's not without reason.
I, on the other hand, love squash. I love its heft, its color, its potential. I love the fact that there are a million recipes out there for each bountiful, beautiful squash. Some of them are hearty and homey, like Baked Acorn Squash with Bacon, or Butternut Squash with Mustard Greens. These are the recipes that sustained humanity for centuries. You can't take a bite without sensing in your soul that someone, somewhere once made this in a squatty shelter while humming a song that had been passed down for generations.

Nowadays, of course, even the humblest of ingredients are being gussied up, brought blinkingly into the spotlight, and called chic.A quick search on the Food Network website will bring you all sorts of fancy recipes - Butternut Squash and Vanilla Risotto, Roasted Acorn Squash with Gorgonzola Pizza, Rigatoni with Squash and Prawns. It's like dressing up the local honky-tonk star and putting her onstage in Vegas. All the big-name chefs and TV personalities are doing it, and, frankly, I salute them for it. Whatever it takes to bring the lowly squash into its own is ok by me.

Consider this: Most winter squash have a low glycemic index, a high 'satiety factor' (they make you feel full),  almost all of the usual vitamins and minerals in sizeable and balanced quantities, are very low in fat, and contain all of the 9 amino acids (which, as we learned in high school, are the building blocks for a healthy body). Plus, they come in such oddly-named varieties as Crookneck, Turk's Turban, Pattypan, Delicata, Indian Bitter Melon, Eight Ball, Gooseneck, Curshaw, Cheese Wheels... the list goes on and on.

Clearly, I have done a little research for this blog entry. (While it's true that my head is filled with useless knowledge, this happened to be some that I wasn't previously lugging around.) I think I've finally found the one thing that will convince my husband to like squash: pumpkin pie. Turns out, most canned pumpkin pie filling that you buy isn't really 100% pumpkin after all. It's really a mixture of some pumpkin, and squash! (This really is a misnomer, since pumpkins are actually relatives of the squash.) Yep - all those folks at Thanksgiving who turn up their noses at the squash dishes brought by Aunt Herriot, but then turn around and enthusiastically go back for seconds on punkin pie are really showcasing their lack of knowledge and discernment in the pie-hole department.

Truth be told, I can hardly blame them for their low-class palate. Despite all my fancy talk and recipe searching, I almost always fall back on the same method of cooking up a mess of squash - bake it with a little butter and brown sugar. I suppose that this is much the same method that they make that faux pumpkin pie, albeit with a hint of sugar and a lot more pureeing.  I have never yet thought to get out the whipped cream for my mashed squash - perhaps I'll have to give it a try. I now have the facts to quote you about the health benefits of squash, and the recipes to showcase just what a sophisticated cook I am for knowing how to use such an 'in-style' ingredient, but the reason I love squash is much more simple. I connect with that woman in her squatty shelter. I, too, hum when I'm hacking, sing when I'm slicing, just like she did. (Ok - I tend to sing Folk ballads from the 60's, but the idea is the same.) There's something universal, sustaining, autumnal, and comforting about a good, old, reliable squash. That's what I'm into. That's what I'm about.

Next time - perhaps we'll deconstruct a Brussel Sprout. It's bound to be less educational, but much more entertaining...

Out of the Mouths (and Other Orifices) of Babes

The other night, while hurtling down the interstate at 70 miles per hour, I heard my precious toddler say to me from the back seat, "Here, mom." I knew her hand was groping forward in the darkness, with a special gift just for me. Sometimes in these situations I get stuffed animals to keep me company, pictures my adoring children have drawn for me, an offer just to hold my hand. Awww....

Of course, as much as I like to focus on the precious moments of parenting, I must admit that more often than not I am being handed trash, unwanted food, bits of miscellanea dug from the depths of a car seat, used Kleenexes, etc... But this time, it was even better. This time, the gift my two-year-old handed me was a booger. It took me a second to figure it out. I fumbled in the dark, trying to find the tiny little 'nugget' in her hand. Once I got it up front with me, I felt it carefully.  A lost tooth? Bit of food? Hmmm... round, smooth...Is this... is thisss.....? I couldn't help it. I found myself actually saying aloud, "Honey, is this a boogie?" To which she happily replied, "Yets, mommy." Hmmm... I thought so.

There was a time (not that long ago, believe it or not) when the idea of being handed a booger would have been enough to dampen my spirits, to say the least. Truthfully, however, it hardly even blips my radar these days.  It's not that boogers aren't gross, but they don't even rank in the top three anymore of nasty stuff I've handled. Who am I kidding with the past tense there? Really, it's nasty stuff I handle almost every day.

Case in point - my youngest is working on potty training. Tonight she sat on the potty for 2 hours straight. I, of course, had to sit with her. (Those of you who aren't parents might think that I am complaining. Actually, I was overjoyed to have spent my evening perched on the edge of the tub. Each moment she sits on the toilet gets us one step farther away from diapers, which is where much of the yuckiness that I must touch originates.)

Anyway, we successfully made pee pee in the potty (yeah!), but it came at a price. In order to not fall in, she had to lean all of her weight on the heels of her hands, which she had rested on the toilet seat. Periodically (anywhere from every 2 to 5 minutes) I was asked to kiss her owie hands. Though I resisted as long as possible, it became clear that this was becoming a stumbling block to achieving our ultimate potty goals. So, I did it. I puckered up and kissed, essentially, the butt of every person in  my home. And you thought boogers were bad.

But how could any rational person do that? It's nasty. It's gross. It's unsanitary. Yep, it sure is. But, parenthood is all about taking risks to improve your odds. You don't survive this game without nerves of steel and an immune system to match. I've been in training for so long that I've got my game face on, and nothing is going to stop me this close to the goal. (Besides, since I do the housework I know the toilet got cleaned a mere 24 hours earlier, and I didn't really make contact with her hand. Jeesh...That would be disgusting.)

I am hoping that at some point in the future I will gradually stop having to handle such things as boogers and diapers and toilet seat hands. God willing, barring a career change into nursing or wastewater treatment, I will eventually stop having to deal with anyone's bodily functions but my own. Until then, I will continue to willingly reach back when someone says, "here, mom" from the back seat. Be it bottles or boogers, toys or trash, valentines or vomit (and I am sooooooo not making that last one up), I am always willing to lend a helping hand. After all, I've already kissed my pride good bye, and watched my overinflated sense of self importance be flushed down the toilet. What more could I possible have to fear?

Late Night TV

I'm up late (again) and watching a mindless show on Public Television. (Ever since the big switch to digital TV we get 3 PBS stations. One of them is a knock-off Home and Garden / DIY channel. I guess it's a fair trade - we gave up 6 fuzzy stations for 3 clear PBS channels and NOTHING ELSE. Digital really stinks in the country.) Anyway, this particular episode is one of those 'make your whole life and home and meals and family all better on less than $0.37 a day!' shows. I can't stand those.

Right now the suspciously perky hostess is showing me how to glue mismatched tea cups onto an old silver candelabra for a festive centerpiece. An assistant is in raptures over what a good idea this is. Problem is, you just KNOW tomorrow she'll be explaining how mismatched tea cups at a tea party are all the rage, especially if you have a tarnished candelabra with some funky candles in the middle of the table. Where will that leave me? I'll tell you where - with super glue fingers and an out-of-style centerpiece. DIY show projects invariably lead to regret. Just remember that next time you're tempted to rush out for spray paint, floral foam, and copper tubing at the urging of someone who wears a home made apron with a lady bug painted on it on national television.

Next comes a 'money saving' menu idea. Turns out, Kelly (or Katie, or Kathy... whatever her name is) has never actually used leftover hamburgers. With a giggle and a toss of her teased hair she lets slip the secret that she's been throwing away perfectly good grilled hamburgers at the end of her cook out parties. After all, they are a bit dry and unappealing, she tell us. Sure hope my children never catch on to that, since I have been a daily leftover user for years.Sometimes I have been known to use leftovers twice or even three times in one day. (Don't worry - I am in rehab now ever since my family planned and executed an intervention for me.) Anyway, apparently it is entirely possible, with the guidance of a seasoned television professional, to actually use these leftovers to create tasty meals. Who knew? Tonight's suggestion is for a taco. Seriously? All she did was break up the burger (which included a close up on her dazzling French manicure), sprinkle on some salsa and cheese, and throw it in a tortilla. For THIS she has her own show?

Now we're on to practical ideas for the home. Don't you just hate it when you burn your table with a hot pan? Well, Kendra is going to show us how to turn old wine corks and heavy gauge wire into hot pads!! From underneath the work bench the hostess produces an enormous tin bucket full of corks. (I think I'm beginning to understand her frantic perkiness a bit better...) Doesn't anyone wonder about this woman? She can afford hundreds of bottles of wine, but not a few hot pads? Poor money management, a drinking problem, and she's been throwing out perfectly good hamburgers for years? Who hires the hosts for these shows, anyway!?

On the one hand, they're suggesting craft ideas suitable for pre-schools and/or in-patient mental institutions. But, don't be fooled! The moment you let your guard down you will find them instructing you on how to knit, their fingers and cryptic terminology flying left and right. I once tried to follow along on a 'simple' beading project and ended up with a sprained pinkey, a piece of beading wire embedded in my left thigh, and a squint that has only recently left. My poor husband came home to find me crying softly, saying over and over again, "but what if I DIDN'T end up with a third string? What should I do then....?"

Forget about it. I've had it with this little-miss-homey! Until someone contacts me to host "The Andrea Farrier Style of Living" I'm done forever with this insanity. Rest assured, dear readers, my show would ROCK and be full of genuinely practical tips. Things like:

• The definitive guide to knowing when food has gone bad (even cottage cheese!)
• Masking all your home odors the easy and effective way
• Dust Art
• 37 things to do with a chicken (and only the last 10 are for after they've been butchered)
• Decorating the creative way with clutter
• Knit your own sweater from the hair your pet has left on the furniture
  
• 128 uses for instant mashed potatoes
  
• The proper care and feeding of dust bunnies
• Making food your children will love to eat (OR - how to make your children eat the food you make)
• Make a handy organizer for all your favorite take-out phone numbers
• How to do ... well... EVERYTHING at the last minute
  
• 10 ways to reuse dryer lint.

(Confession time - I do really have a great tip for reusing dryer lint, and the chicken thing is totally true also. The rest, I might have to study up a bit on.) Anyway, must run... Even though it's late I'm going to go work on my manicure. I'm just POSITIVE the network will call tomorrow, and I want to be ready for my closeup.

Community Theater!

I just got back from seeing the Washington Community Theater's Frankenstein. Very well done. Very artfully executed. Very chilling. Very community.

I know there is a certain element out there who would like to think of us in 'fly over country' as incapable of achieving the depths of either artistic expression or appreciation that big-city, coastal folks enjoy. After all, in a town like New York City or Los Angeles, isn't the idea of local, amateur community theater a misnomer? Isn't everyone who auditions there a semi-professional (or at least a professional wannabe)? Sure, such a pool of talent might make for a more polished performance, but what they make up in skill, they lack in another critical area of community theater - the community. And, know this, City Folks - when it comes to THAT area, we've got a corner on the market.

Take, for example, one of the leads in this play - Frankenstein's 'Monster'. (By the way, the preferred term these days is 'Creature'. I believe the ACLU assisted a group of Zombies - sorry, persons who are partially deceased - and their associates in a lawsuit, thus changing the acceptable terminology for most creatures of the nether realms.) Anyway, The Creature was played by the local band director. A veteran of the pit band, this was his first time on stage. Though it was challenging to see a beloved figure in the community 'kill' innocent characters, there wasn't even a hint of awkwardness to it. We felt compelled by our emotions, carried away by the scene, and not even remotely amused by the juxtaposition. It's hard for even veteran actors to pull of drama, and our band leader should be proud of himself.

Don't take me wrong - it's not that the performance was so commanding that we were able to forget who he was. It never escaped audience members that we were watching a bio-diesel plant employee, a proud new daddy, an insurance salesman, a pre-med student. In fact, in many ways that is what strengthened the illusion - made the ride all the more exciting. It is nothing phenomenal to have a professional or semi-professional actor be able to sweep us away into another land. That is no more spectacular of a feat than when my local propane truck driver fills my tank or when my mechanic fixes my car. In all of these cases, we rightfully expect a job well done by someone trained well trained and suited for the task at hand. This afternoon, however, we were truly treated to a show, not a performance. Those men and woman exhibited magic, not just skill. Now THAT'S community.

Tomorrow, they will go back to their daily lives. Frau Mueller (who was wonderful, by the way) will once again be swabbing and wiping, holding and fetching, saving lives and watching them fade as an O.R. nurse. Doctor Frankenstein's little brother, who was played by two different boys on different nights, (and Sunday night's William did a startlingly convincing death scene, by the way) will return to their respective elementary classrooms - perhaps as a bit of an outcast from the popular crowd, who probably won't fully appreciate the work they did or the emotions they evoked. The director will lay his script aside and instead lay a new retaining wall. The grave robber will hold the hand of someone's frightened grandmother at the local nursing home.

The sets have been struck. The party is over. The theater will be silent for another season. Our community has been made proud by our local celebrities, no matter what others with a less nuanced understanding of real skill might have thought. The standing ovation at the end of this afternoon's show was as genuine as the people who filled the theater - both on stage and in the audience.

And the Creature? Well, the leather lift boots are long gone, but I believe he walks taller than he did before. He has also shed his scary makeup, but will forever be viewed differently nonetheless. Well, with both a sincere love for his day job and an eye toward the June performance, he will ensure that the band plays on.

It's No Wonder I'm Tired

I slept for approxmiately 13 hours last night. It was wonderful, but I am still finding myself yawning and stretching, longing for a siesta. I have often said that if there was an Olympic napping team, I would be the first to sign up. In fact, I am already engaging in seroius training as often as possible, and sincerely believe I could make our nation proud should the competitive opportunity ever present itself. I'll keep you posted on that one.

Until I am a national hero, however, my sleep addiction is more of  a source of secret shame than pride, and it has a way of getting in the way of my everyday life. My mother assures me that I never slept as an infant or toddler. I have come to believe her, only because my oldest daughter has inherited the same condition. (Well, I also believe her because she is my mother, but that's not really a humorous enough reason to merit being included in a blog, so let's move on.) If I never slept as a child, that must surely explain why I crave sleep all of the time now.

I can only wonder how my mother survived it all, but when you consider that I spent my first five years practically sans snoozing, it becomes no wonder that I am tired. Wow - five years! I might have to go take a nap before I can even finish this sentence! On top of that, what happens when we factor in my many, many all-nighters in college? (Goodness knows I elevated procrastination to an art form - my first attempt at entry into the Olympics, truth be told I think I might have been even better in that sport than in sleeping.) How many hours of sleep did I miss there?

It boggles the mind. Of course, you can't dig around, searching for the real source of chronic sleeplessness, without eventually finding the 'mother lode.' (Pun intended. By the way, most puns I make are intentional. If they're not, I'll still claim them, especially if they are amusing.) When it comes down to it, one must certainly consider what effect parenting has had on my depleted sleep bank account. Prenatal sleeplessness? Diapering?  Breastfeeding? Lullybying? Kissing owies? Scaring boogey monsters away? (Thank goodness we've not yet gotten to waiting up for a daughter to come home from her first date!) Of course, there is the coup de grace - the fact that Mark and I often find ourselves sharing our double bed (yes, I said double... not even a queen) with a sleep-talking two year old, a perpetually hot, cover-kicking five year old, and anywhere from two to four very obstinate cats). Depleted sleep bank account? That's practically armed sleep bank robbery!

Gosh, I think I'm starting to get a new perspecitive on things. While all of this examination should be cause for distress, I believe I have never been more grateful than I am at this moment. It's a wonder I am even alive! I had no idea how close I came to dying from fatigue through all of my misadventures. Had I become a partier in college, I would most certainly not be here today.

All of this reflection has, well... made me tired. I do believe I have some lost years to make up for, and how can I possibly represent the great U.S. of A. in good form without taking my sport seriously? Off for a nap. It might just turn out to be a lifesaver!

Balance

I've befriended a city kid. I recognize, of course, that in even saying that I am exposing that I've gotten a bit big for my britches, since I am hardly a born-and-bred farm girl myself. However, I've done picked up just enough farm-lore and genuine farm friends to be a demography snob - like a reformed alcoholic, turned teetotaler. I now preach the benefits of rural life to anyone who will listen. This time I've found a receptive, appreciative, and willing audience. I'm in heaven.

It all started at the sale barn. (Don't most farm stories?) I noticed someone taking photos of the cattle being rushed through with the same focus and determination that a photographer snaps pics at a Milan fashion show. I'm not sure, but it's possible that I even heard an appreciative 'ooh' slip out at one point. I was intrigued. Sure, the cattle were nice, but not necessarily that engrossing. Was this guy a serious cattle buyer? A PETA spy? New type of USDA inspector? A little twisted in the bedroom department?

Being Annie, I couldn't resist, and decided to ask him what kind of crazy person would take pictures at a sale barn. I was, perhaps, a bit more smooth than that, but that was the gyst.  (Gist? I'm never sure how to spell that word...) Anyway, turns out he's a photography student from the University of Iowa, from a suburb of a big city, and that was the closest he's ever been to a farm animal before. (Cancel the last of my suspicions about him from above, at least.) He has chosen a farm life theme for his final project.

How could I possibly let anyone get the impression that a sale barn is the best way to learn about farm life!? The next week he was at my house - gathering eggs, petting sheep, meeting the calves, helping to butcher a feisty rooster, getting to know the neighbors, touring a milking parlor, getting a driving tour of the area. I'm hoping to have him elbow-deep in goat guts as soon as possible, and we've already arranged for him to see how they make sausage. (If he survives all that, we'll have him over for a home cooked dinner.)

I can't say what he has learned from all of this, and I certainly wonder what his classmates and friends think! However, the experience has had a profound effect on me. Yesterday as we stood in my neighbors' machine shed, surrounded by sturdy wooden boxes, watching them sort apples (1sts to eat or sell, 2nds to make sauce and cider), I felt good. City Kid snapped picture after picture, in awe of every part of the process. The neighbors assumed their usual 'aww-shucks' attitude, a bit embarrassed that a simple, yearly ritual could cause such excitement in anyone. I found myself somewhere in the middle.

I guess I've dealt with enough apples (picking, washing, sorting, cooking, freezing, canning, saucing, etc...) that I can't quite muster the excitement that my photog friend had, but I also recognize the earthy, autumnal magic inherent in apple harvest time. For that matter, I suppose that's why I am such a rural life convert. I am not faced with the daily drudgery of having to milk cows, but I also am not so far removed from the process that I don't deeply appreciate my neighbors for their hard work as I drink a glass of cold, fresh milk. I even say a hearty 'Thank you, ladies," to the cows out my window when no one is around. (Guess the secret is out now!)

I have done just enough of the grunt work (pulling weeds, pruning trees, hauling feed, mucking, plucking, degutting) to know what it's about - to know why the food I make tastes better than any food I can buy. But, because I am a convert (or because I only have a tiny acreage to care for) I am aware that the grunt work in which I engage is minimal, so I don't lose the novelty and simple joy of the tasks themselves.

Perhaps, like so many other things, this experience and the people who are partaking of it are a part of a pendulum-swing. City Kid is now finding himself swinging toward a thoughtfulness about the food he eats and the hard work that goes into producing it. My neighbors are probably not yet ready to wax poetic about apples, but perhaps are at least a bit more in awe of themselves and each other for the deep-seated skills that they have long taken for granted. And me?  Well, like always, I am striving to find and hold onto a happy medium ground - balance, if you will.

Urgent Public Health Update

 There is an epidemic out there, people, and it's starting to get serious! In the interest of public health (since I have access to so many thousands of followers) I feel it is my responsibility to share some vital information about the syptoms and prevention of this highly-contagious disease.

NOTE- You will not see reference to H1N1, swines, Tamaflu medication, or any other medical hogwash (pun intended) here, since I do believe that the 'swine flu' epidemic is nearly as much of a threat as the accompanying panic, misinformation, rushed-to-market vaccines, and medi over-hype about them are.

Instead, I'd like to talk about a disease that I feel strongly about preventing but that doesn't receive nearly the attention by the medical community or the media as it should : Homesickness. (My mother, right at this moment, is suffering from an acute case, which is why I am doing a rare double-blog-day.)

So, here is the critical information about Homesickness, as confirmed by the CDC, WHO, UNICEF, NFL, AFLCIO, and SNL (that last one is Saturday Night Live, for those of you who don't know):

Homesickness is a serious disorder that affects nearly 100% of children at some point between 18 months and 10 years of age. Further, incidents of homesickness in adults is widely under reported, but estimates range from 30% to 75% of adults experiencing at least a minor case of the disease each year.

Homesickness can strike any person. The most vulnerable populations are those with strong family relationships and stable, loving homes, though socioeconomic status does not seem to be an indicator in the likelihood of getting the disease. Those with pets also seem more prone to this disease.

Though research on this disease is limted, experts believe it to be seasonal, as most cases in adults occur in November and December, with peaks around the third week (particularly Thursday) of November and the last two weeks of December. Occasional bouts in the summer time also occur in adults.

In children, the greatest chance of coming down with homesickness occurs during the school year (with most cases beginning on Fridays), and for a few weeks in the summer. It is believed that children spread home sickness during summer camps, so parents are advised to use extreme caution before sending their children away from home for an extended period of time. In children, the onset generally occurs between 9:00 and 11:00 p.m., with many cases peaking later in the night, often necessitating a parent to come and get the child in order to lessen the chance of spreading it to others.

Homesickness can sometimes be confused with whiny-child syndrome, profound insecurity, generalized separation anxiety, a crash after a sugar-high, or insomnia. However, a closer examination of symptoms usually makes it easy to differentiate this disorder from the others.

Although there is no known vaccination, there are steps that can be taken to prevent the disease, as well as treatment options to ease symptoms.

PREVENTION:

Wash Your Hands Often: Though the actual pathogen that causes this disease has never been successfully cultured and isolated, doctors believe that frequent hand washing will help stop the spread of the disease. Researchers theorize that bathrooms are the least likely room to trigger an outbreak of homesickness, and therefore the more time spent in a bathroom, the less time you will be engaging in other activities that put you at risk for catching the disease.


Drink Plenty of Water: Adequate hydration is a good preventative measure, and becomes increasingly important should you actually catch homesicknesses. One of the most serious side effects of the disease is dehydration due to fluid loss through tears. Additionally, those who drink plenty of water will be less likely to be drinking alcoholic beverages. There has been a link in certain studies between the intake of alcohol and sudden-onset (or "blubbering") homesickness.

Get Enough Sleep Each Night: Rest is essential for building a strong immune system. Most cases of homesickness occur in those who have not gotten enough sleep, though it's unclear whether the lack of sleep causes the disease or is a symptom of the disease. Doctor Familia Casa-Amor, a leading homesickness researcher from Mayo Clinic, has determined that the more hours a person spends sleeping, the less likely the are to have a typical case of homesickness, though a rarer form which exhibits intense dreams and sleep walking or weeping does sometimes occur in the overnight hours.

Avoid Unnecessary Contact With Strangers: Since this disease is highly contagious, care should be taken to avoid those who you suspect might have the disease. The incubation period of homesickness is long - sometimes up to 10 years - which means that people are often capable of spreading the disease before they exhibit symptoms. It is believed that people who are difficult, unpleasant, unintelligent, belligerent,  dull, or lacking in personal hygeine are most likely to cause outbreaks. Scientists are not clear whether this is because these patients have qualities that make one long for loved ones and home, or because they remind people of loved ones and home.

WHAT TO DO IF YOU CATCH HOMESICKNESS

There are generally two schools of thought on appropriate treatment methods.

Some doctors opt for a treatment plan that isolates and quarantines patients, so as to lessen the spread to others. In this case, doctors will typically advise patients to avoid thoughts of loved ones, long-distance phone calls, familiar (or "comfort") foods, photograph albums, online networking sites, and certain types of movies (most notably those that are classified as "chick flicks") Patients who have used such treatment show an initial decrease in symptoms, but show frequently relapses in the weeks and months following the initial onset. These relapses are often more severe than the original outbreak, often leading to erratic eating habits (including consumption of mass quantities of chocolate), weight gain, moodiness, inability to concentrate, and frequent re-playing of certain songs. This treatment plan is rapidly losing favor among health care professionals, and generally considered ineffective and even unsafe.

More standard and accepted current practice for the treatment of homesickness involves a rigorous regimine involving visits with family (typically by phone or other technology firist, and then in person). Though doctors initially worried about spreading the disease through contact, it has been found that family members are usually immune to homesickness from others who are related biologically or by marriage or long-term friendship. Doctors should be careful to warn patients that symptoms may recur for a brief period after the contact (both in the person originally affected and in others who were exposed), though the outbreak is generally mild in nature and clears up within a day or two. This mirrors the type of reaction that is common after a vaccination and should not be cause for worry.

The most important thing to remember if you or someone you love has a case of homesickness is that time is of the essence. Do not wait to begin your treatment plan, or serious and lasting side effects could occur. Someday doctors hope to erradicate this disease permanently, but until then, take good care of yourself, hug your babies as often as possilbe, tell your parents that you love them, visit friends whenever you can, and enjoy each moment of each day.

(Note - this blog is not intended to diagnose, treat, prevent, or cure homesickness, swine flu, scruffula, severe dandruff, golfer's elbow, or any other disease or disorder.)

Official!

Wow! Look at me - I now have followers! I am a blogger. (A bloggist? A bloggette?) Amazing how one can feel so self important with so little actual skill through the use of modern technology. Now I know why those quizzes on Facebook are such gibberish (in both content and syntax). It's because the internet and some snazzy, free software allows us all to feel like giants in our own minds, and puts or dribblings into a tidy-looking package that we can share with others. I used to think this only happened in Hollywood. (Hint to Los Angeles residents: just because you think you can sing / act / dance / look pretty doesn't necessarily mean that you can or should also write books, start a foundation, pretend to be an official representative for the United States, give life-changing advice, or otherwise misinterpret and misuse the popularity and following you only marginally deserve.)

Guess I'd better slow it down, there, huh? Someday (soon, very soon, I hope) when I am rich and famous beyond my wildest dreams I will be humbled by some other lowly bloggina (or bloggino, as the case may be) pointing out my flaws and insisting that I should have stuck with cooking, cleaning, and diapering  and not branched out into new and unfamiliar realms. Let it be noted here that at least I didn't name names. Surely that buys me a bit more lattitude, right? Also, in my defense, a B.A. in English from the venerable University of Iowa ought to give me the skills and qualifications to not only change diapers and wash dishes, but to also occasionally write down some observations for my friends and family to see, shouldn't it? Perhaps even that is debatable...

At any rate, I will keep pressing on blindly (much like Brittany and Jamie Lynn Spears' parents in their quest to write a book on parenting) in my blog entries until I am either asked to quit or so shamed by my own conduct that the blogspot.com pulls my access and denies ever having worked with me. (Incidentally, the latter is essentially what happened to the book deal between the Spears family and their publishing company, which is why you've never heard of that particular would-be best seller.) Must run - I'm off to write my acceptance speech for when I win the big award for my fine bloggability. I believe they call it the Bloggoni?

New Panties!

My 2 3/4 year old is finally acquiescing to my request that she start potty training. In the past several months we have had constant conversations that went something like this:

Me: When will you be ready to go potty in the potty?
Sarah: I'm not big enough.
Me: When will you be big enough?
Sarah: Where is my cat?

Clearly, this was an issue of pressing concern to her. Finally today, in perhaps what was a mere slip of the tongue, she agreed that she was now 'big enough,' so off to Walmart we went. The result - new princess panties. They were even the real Disney type. (Truth be told, I figured she could have accidents for the next three weeks just as well into knock-off princess panties that costs half the price, but she disagreed. I was desperate enough to be swayed.)

Perhaps it worked - when we were at the bathroom in the mall Sarah gladly sat a big potty for the very first time, even asking me to let go of her so she could sit there alone. So, I went into the adjoining stall and watched her little red shoes swing and listened to her personal potty song. It's a good sign - she's got all the makings of a successful pottier.

This evening she practiced putting on, taking off, pulling up, and otherwise playing with her new panties. (We've already tried on two of the seven pairs, and it's only been an hour.) The good news, however, is that there have been no accidents as of yet. She is currently lying in my bed, watching a movie with her sister. At least she's on her dad's side...

Because she is my last one, I can tell that there is a hint of skepticism (perhaps more accurately called 'reserve') in my tone. In truth, I think it's about the fact that I have no more ego invested in this process. Today...tomorrow...next week... It'll happen. She won't go off to college in diapers, so the rest is just details. What a difference from when Rachel was working through the process. Each of us in the household literally agonized over each potty experience. (And you KNOW how bad it is to stress and strain when it comes to elimination!)

This time, I'm determined to enjoy the experience. (Ok, maybe not the accident clean up, extra laundry, mad dashes to find a public restroom, etc...) However, may God help me to forever remember her little face - lit up with joy - as she sat on her potty and declared, "Look - Look - I'm doing it!" I want to be able to recall, as an old, old woman, that swagger in her walk as she came off the potty today at the mall. I want to always carry the vision of those little cheeks disappearing behind a pair of big-girl panties for the very first time. Someone please remind me of this in a week, would you?

What We Remember, What We Forget

Tonight we had fireworks at our house. I don't mean the metaphorical kind - neither in fighting or in loving - but the noisy, brilliant, just-dangerous-enough-to-be-fun kind. And, these were no sparklers and Roman Candles. They lit up the night sky and shook the farms around us mightily. (My father-in-law is a long-time expert in fireworks. I am also a certified pyrotechnician, as were the few friends who came out to help us shoot.) Even though my children are somewhat spoiled when it comes to fireworks, they haven't yet lost the excitement for the spectacle. I know they will close their eyes at 40 and remember the feeling of being wrapped up and warm, watching the stars fade and reappear behind the colorful, rhythmic strobes that their mother was sending into the sky.

You see, these are the things that we remember out of our meaningless, insignificant, chaotic evenings of fun.Children don't remember the faces of the people hovering above the forest of legs around them. We don't remember which food went with which event at which place. We don't EVER remember why we were able to have those golden moments. Instead, we remember the poignant details - the tiny things, like how hot the cider was tonight as I dipped it out of its pan on the coal stove, how the sheep got out when the first boom of the fireworks exploded, how the crisp air smelled, how the warm bread tasted... the beautiful, timeless, meaningless details.

After everyone else went home, I stayed up late, curled up on the couch, soaking in the stories my wonderful mother-in-law had to share. Her eyes lit up as she described meeting my father-in-law for the first time. Her voice and countenance dropped as she recalled a difficult miscarriage. Her anger was palpable when speaking of wrongs her children had suffered. Here I was - a young wife, listening to the stories of young wife grown older - and I marveled that there were no details.

She couldn't remember how she felt, what she said, things she did, thoughts she had. She couldn't recall the very details that I agonize over - the things I am sure I would benefit from having wise counsel about. Don't you remember feeling...? Didn't you ever wonder...? Don't you wish you had...? Did you ever notice that...?  For a moment, I doubt myself, thinking that surely this woman must always have been so self assured, so self aware, so self composed. Surely it is only ME who suffers from chronic 'what if,' 'why me,' 'what next' syndrome.

But then it occurs to me - the goodness of the Lord in how He orders our memories. How could I ever look back with joy - unhesitant, immersing, healing  joy - if the meaningless details of my childhood weren't burned so deeply into my memory? My childhood is a carousel ride of colors and sounds, feelings and people. If I knew the full and total truth, I am sure, it would gum the gears, warp the works - stop the ride.  

Likewise, how could I look forward with hope - abiding, gut-deep, fear-killing hope - if my wisest cousel was mired in the same fuzzy haze of doubt that I struggle with each day? It is enough for me to know that my greatest difficulties today will not even be a cerebral skid mark when I am old enough to share my stories with my children. (And my children's children, God willing...)

When I am an old woman, I want to take my joyful carousel ride daily, bathing myself in the sounds and senses of my youth, barely aware of having forgotten the troubling details that I live with each moment now. To be able to smile at the future, truly, is all in about what we remember, and what we forget.

Cold....

Well, the short-term predictions won out over our long-held expectations. It snowed - just like the weather men said, but despite the fact that it is only the 10th day of October. How can something be both right and wrong at the same time? Expected and unheard of? Believalbe but intolerable?

My girls danced in their bare feet on the porch, and later surveyed the scene from each window (all 16!) upstairs, as if they were afraid each window might bring to focus a snowless reality and wake them from their dream world. I, on the other hand, wept silently.

Ok, it wasn't really that bad, but I am not a fan of the cold. Or the snow. Or the ice. I think it stems from having had glasses growing up. You just can't get into the rhythm of a good snowball fight while ducking to clean your glasses after each defensive move. Plus, every winter I lived in a two-minute haze upon entering any building from the great outdoors from the time I was 8 until today. Fogged up glasses do tend to take the joy out of even the most Burle-Ives-esque winter day.

Still, it wasn't all bad. The jaunty blanket did bring the usual crisp, clean look to the landscape. (There's something downright smile-inducing about a Holstein cow contentedly chewing her cud with her black spots more obscured than usual and gleaming whiter all over.) Also, is there a joy more innocent and pure than that of a child dancing over the first snow of the year? If they could bottle that it would surely end even the most acrid of rivalries - with world leaders pushing away from the heretofore fruitless negotiating tables as they joined hands to frolic in the winter splendor around them. The snow didn't make my day, but the smiles of my children sure did.

Another bonus (while I'm in the mood to look on the bright side) was the opportunity to light my first fire in the stove this evening. The air inside was just cool enough to make me want to haul in wood, spend whole minutes crouched with my neck craned to see inside the grate, and fill the house with smoke as I peered into the hopper for a progress report. Glad to know I've still go the touch.

I suppose I should be thankful for the snow - how it reminds me to slow down and enjoy the scenery, see things from a different perspective. How it brightens the days of my children - bringing them to feel a joy I cannot give them through any other means. How it brings me a season of rest and reflection. (With perpetual summer, I am sure I would wear myself out in a few more years.) How it gives me the opportunity to do the most basic of things (make food, clothe my children, make a way to keep them warm) and be cognizant of what a deep and powerful accomplishment those things are.

So, YES - I am glad the snow came. I am grateful in this moment for both the tangible and the esoteric benefits it brought to my home, my perspective, my family, my heart... Most of all, however, I'm thankful that IT STOPPED!

Day One

I have a blog! I suppose this makes me like the thousands and thousands of others who have crept into the digital age- some reluctantly (testing with their big toes first), and others headlong and with a joyous 'whoop.' I think I fit somewhere in the middle. I will eventually dunk my head beneath the surface and fully commit, but for now I'm not far from my towel.

I harvested the last of my garden's abundance today. It's bittersweet, to be honest. I don't like walking past the sunken and nodding heads of the plants I nursed from infancy, but it's also hard to finally pull them up and commit them to the ground again. Ashes to ashes, compost to compost. Plus, as much as I love the produce (prepare for misplaced whining) I do not really have time to wash, cut, freeze, dehydrate, store, label, and otherwise fuss with anything else right now. I often wonder how many thousands of dollars in prime produce I have let go to waste for lack of gumption. Do I make up for all that when I boil chicken carcasses, literally getting all the good (right down to the marrow!) from each one? At least THERE I am not wasteful...

Anyway, my chickens got most of the good stuff out of the garden this year. In case you weren't aware, a dozen hens will jump a knee-high garden fence and devour tomatoes like they were some exotic delicacy. Then again, I guess compared to commercial chicken feed, they are. I am banking on tomato-flavored chicken meat come butchering time - think 'pre-marinating.' Should this method prove successful, I will plant mint in the pasture with the lambs first thing in the Spring.

We are expecting our first hard frost tonight, with possible snow in the forecast this week. The moon is waning, but still huge in the sky. I believe it is brighter on those nights when I can see my breath. The stars shine best in the cold, too, as if having to suffer a bit to stand and enjoy them makes them all the more enjoyable.

I am almost ready to go to bed. There is a part of me that wants to fret over having to turn on the heat so soon in the season. It wants to worry over the cost of coal and which of the girls will need a new winter coat. It wants to review all the things left to do before the cold sets in in earnest.

I think the real part of me (the best of me), knows, however, that my table full of freshly-picked produce means something far more significant than any worry I might have. It means that I truly don't have to fear for my household... Clothed in scarlet (or hand-me-down coats), we will be safe. We will be fed. We will be warmed. We will have love.

Plus, how can I worry over winter woes, when I am at least knee-deep in this new adventure? Who says we can't find our own ways to hold on to summer, even if only metaphorically?