What Didn't Happen Today

My grandmother did not die today. My husband made it home from work without getting into an accident. My children did not fall ill with some deadly disease. My sister's plane did not crash. My best friend's house didn't get broken into. Her brother in Iraq made it to another mess tent meal this afternoon. Change even one of these variables, and my whole world would be falling down around me right now. And, yet, how often do we stop to think about just exactly how lucky we really are? How come no on invests much time or energy into discussing the absence of these types of events, but only in their grim presence?

I'm sure you've heard it before - the thought-provoking (if perhaps untrue) story of the student arguing with his teacher about whether or not God exists... whether He wants to be an active part of our lives. The teacher says since there is evil in the world, it proves there is no God. The student uses the following scientific facts to refute him: Darkness isn't a measurable entity in and of itself, but merely the absence of light. Likewise, cold is the absence of heat. White is the absence of color. Evil is the absence of God in a situation. The mere fact that the world is not given entirely to evil serves to prove His existence.

Please understand - the parallel I am trying to make here is not one of theology. I am not even tempted to explore in a lowly blog the question of why bad things happen to people. Instead, I am fascinated by the scales we use to measure things. I want to know - is my everyday life another example of that which is measurable, or that which is not? Certainly, when accidents happen, they are real enough. They are measurable - in oh so many painful ways. They are tangible. They, therefore, are not just the absence of something else. It must be, then, that everyday life - the 'what didn't happen' that happens around us all the time -  can be only measurable as the absence of tragedy. It is what must not be real - must not be tangible.

Can that be right? I am beginning to see how philosophers get themselves painted into the proverbial corner. I have come to what must surely and logically be a truth, but this is a truth that I do not believe. My everyday life not real? Not tangible!? How is this for tangible: I can still smell my oldest daughter's breath the day she was born. It's so real it almost hurts. When I close my eyes I can feel the hugs that my five-year-old gives me each night at bedtime. I am actually physically warmed when I do so. The depth of my youngest daughter's dark eyes is permanently embedded in my soul, and it compels me to smile each time I recall it. I can hear the hush and the beating of my heart the moment I stepped into the sanctuary on my wedding day. The smell of my grandmother's closet, the twinkle in my grandfather's eyes, the feel of my daddy's hands, the sincerity of my mother's hugs... I cannot measure these things. I cannot prove them. I cannot explain them or duplicate them for anyone else, but they are real, and they are powerful.

Apparently, what we have here is a false either-or analogy. Tragedies, accidents, trauma, disease... these are real. They are measurable. They are terrible. They are unavoidable, but they are far from the only powerful reality in our lives. They are also not the scale by which we measure our lives. Daily life - the substance and heft of it, the deep and abiding joy that is the underbelly of all that we do - IS. It is profound. It is an entity in and of itself, but sometimes it takes a bit more work to notice it.

If tragedy is a thunderstorm, then life is the unseen water vapor in the clouds that brings the blessings of gentle showers and cool morning dew. Accidents may be a gale-force wind, but our daily comings and goings are the unnoticed air pressure that both holds us up and keeps us grounded. The unexpected changes may be a primal scream, but they can't deafen the contented hums, the satisfied sighs, the giggles, the whispers, the song that is the everyday. Today  I am choosing to measure my life by the smiles of my husband, the hugs of my children, the warmth of my relationships. My New Year's Resolution is to remember that the good stuff - not the tough stuff - is the most important stuff and the real measure of my success.

Beauty in the Beast

Warning - this post may be offensive or uncomfortable to some, as it deals in detail with the process of butchering animals. It may also lead you to question how firm my hold on reality is, which is ok with me. What's so great about reality, anyway?

Yesterday I helped butcher goats. Due to time, space, and material constraints, we were not able to do the whole process ourselves. Instead, we took them to a local Amish home, where two generations of experienced (and newly-certified) Amish men killed, gutted, skinned, and cut up the three goats that had been living in my pasture for the past 2 months or so. (If that last statement is too graphic or matter-of-fact, stop reading now. You won't like the rest).

These folks, like so many other Amish families (and like almost all families 100 years ago) still do their own meat processing. Seeing that quality butchering at a reasonable price was a need that was not being met, they started doing custom butchering for others as well. Because of their skill and efficiency, their reputation had grown. This summer they often handled upwards of 100 chickens, 30 goats and/or lambs, and other animals (including hogs and small beefs) each and every Saturday morning. The customers they served were usually immigrants from other nations who had been unable to find the type and cuts of meats they were accustomed to before they discovered the Miller farm. Saturday mornings there were like a combination of the U.N. and the original Jewish temple - with people and animals of all kinds milling about, chaos being kept in check only by a handful of calm and careful Amish men and women. These people had 50 years of experience, hundreds of satisfied customers, and were serving a need for an otherwise under-served population. It was a dream come true - a system that was working well for all involved - so the Government decided to step in.

In order to get certified, they had to spend hundreds of dollars modifying their slaughter house, close down for months (leaving people without a place to get quality, clean, custom meat), and jump through the usual red-tape covered hoops. Yesterday was their first day back in operation. They had to start by having the inspector there to teach them how to butcher animals. My heart went out to them. It's a good thing pride isn't encouraged in the Amish faith, because otherwise having an outsider come and tell you your business might have been too much to swallow.

The upside was that by yesterday afternoon the inspector trusted them enough to let them go it alone, albeit with the warning that she could and would be stopping by unannounced any time she cared to in order to ensure that they were doing things correctly. I'm sure they'll be careful to keep the Clorox use high, and the beard covers firmly in place. (Yep -  you read it right. Think of a hair net, only upside down. The string goes over their ears, I believe, with their long beards tucked neatly into a little facial hair snood. Kind of stylish, in a strange sort of way...)

Anyway, because of the new regulations that they have to follow, I couldn't even watch the meat being processed, let alone help. I was a bit disappointed to have not been able to participate in the slaughter itself. It's not that I delight in killing anything, but I have been responsible for these animals for a good part of their lives (I even helped bottle feed them when they were but a few days old). Since I took on the responsibility for these creatures, I like to be able to ensure that their end is as humane and dignified as the rest of their lives was. More than that, however, is the strange beauty to be found inside of each and every beast.

I know, it sounds gross, but you've never experienced the fullness of God's handiwork until you understand just how fearfully and wonderfully made His creation really is. I've reached inside chickens, stood before halved hogs, and watched as the insides of a lamb cooled in the chilly fall air. Each and every time I am in awe. Everything fits so precisely. Each piece has its own function, but also its own color and texture. There is a palette of colors unique to the inside of us that is even more fantastic that the ones we display each and every day on the outside. Have you ever seen the muscle of a gizzard? It is iridescent, like a subtle rainbow striated by white lines that radiate out from the center. As the gizzard cools, the shine reduces, until it fades almost to a dark wine color by the time you're done processing the animal.

The subtle beauty of a gizzard is in stark contrast to the surprisingly bright color of bile, found in the gall bladder of animals. It ranges from a vivid, kelly green in chickens, to a color and consistency reminiscent of pure green tempera paint in lambs,  to an almost glowing neon color in hogs. The fact that it's potent and bitter and nasty (and can contaminate entire carcasses with just a few drops spilled) is beside the point. When you see it, glistening inside the gall bladder or spilled out onto the ground, you can't deny how beautiful it is. Ever seen the bubblegum pink of a lung? The pale, ribbed lining of a stomach? The rich and deep burgundy of a liver, with its smooth, rubbery texture? The color-filled cones and rods behind the eye? The soft and irresistible grey of a brain? They compel you to look, to touch, to experience.

It's often said that children, like in the story of the Emperor's New Clothes, are the truth tellers of society. I know that my children have been influenced a bit differently than others. They delight in all aspects of raising animals, including butchering. My middle daughter clamors to see the spleen (her favorite part - both pulpy and dense at the same time, and an attractive, deep ruby color), but I am willing to bet that most children, removed from the stigma imposed by society, would find beauty inside animals. Heck, even grown ups who were taught to fear death and loathe butchering have found themselves strangely engrossed by the insides of a healthy animal when given the chance to experience butchering day at the Farrier Farm. The ones who used to come to have their animals slaughtered under the careful hand of the Miller clan in their breezy front yard all those Saturday mornings this summer found that to be true as well. Not only did they get to have their meat and eat it too - and in ways that upheld both their traditions and culinary desires - but they also got a lesson in  in life and in beauty.

Am I crazy? Beauty in butchering, in blood and bone, in death? Turns out, there is a strange irony in all of this (besides just the irony of Amish families having to wear beard covers. Is that a religious violation?  Hmm...). When push comes to shove - I've discovered that guts don't turn stomachs nearly as much as people think they will. The beauty, dignity, and flavor of an animal well raised and butchered isn't nearly as distasteful to the folks around here as the invasive monkey wrench of over-regulation that brought a well-oiled machine to a halt.

I know, I know - The powers that be may be trying to save us from the horror of death, the gore and mess of dismemberment, the risk of coming into contact with the reality of what it means to be a carnivore. But, the outcome of their actions really is that now there is yet one more barrier between folks who are interested in experiencing life on its most natural and simple level, and the beauty that is to be found in that lifestyle. In my neck of the woods we just traded beauty of the beasts for the beastly protection of oversight, and it wasn't a pretty process.

The Not-So-Noble Cat

Yesterday our youngest cat jumped up onto the coal stove. For the hundredth time. Just like he had been doing for months. Only this time, the coal stove was hot. I now believe in the power of levitation. I've only seen that move three times before. (Two of those times also involved cats jumping onto hot stoves. The third incident was an unhappy convergence of a man with a fear of snakes, and a snake with a fear of man who happened to be in the same time at the same place.) 

When he first hopped down, the cat gave the stove an angry glare, and immediately realized that something was wrong. He licked his foot once or twice, put it back down, and found that the discomfort had not subsided. Suspecting it was the floor involved in this trickery, he hopped up onto the sofa and settled down with a smug stare downward. He had gotten as far as squeezing his eyes shut in self-congratulation when he realized that his foot still wasn't quite feeling right, and he wasn't quite sure who to blame. The poor cat was in hell for the rest of the afternoon - not so much because of the pain, but because of the horror of having his whole house seem to turn against him. Shane now has a bit of a limp, though he wasn't seriously injured in the .00000000045 seconds that he spent on the stove top.  He has, however, been avoiding the entirety of the upstairs ever since.

Shane may not be our brightest cat in the bunch, but he's not alone in having thoroughly embarrassed himself in close enough proximity of his people to become the subject of a humorous story. Charles, who we've had the longest, has given us many such moments. Curiosity once got the better of him in regard to a scented candle. Did you know that whiskers curl when they're exposed to an open flame? He had a charming (if not slightly effeminate) look for about two weeks after the incident, and has forever distrusted the smell of lavender ever since. He also is our chronic hairball hacker, though he never seems to need to throw up unless he is surrounded by plush furnishings or electronics. He has managed to throw up on every blanket in the house, a video game system, three different baskets of clean and folded laundry, a VHS Disney movie, and our push-button telephone keypad. (Ok, now that I think about it, this is probably less a humorous story for me to tell than it is for him. I can just hear him around the old milk bowl, "Hey guys, you'll never guess what I puked on today! Heh, heh, heh...")

Our other two cats, Princess (who has also been known as Papa, Little, Kansas, Flower, Lucky, Candy...) and Nimrod (I'm not making it up - it means 'mighty hunter' in the Bible. Turned out to be more wishful thinking than prophetic insight..) have had their fair share of indignities as well. Princess is the only female cat in our house, and has all the typical traits of a girl. She's moody - one day rubbing against your ankles, the next hiding under the bed. She's also touchy, and gets her feelings hurt easily. Everyone in the house knows not to cross little Princess, and while the boy kitties vie to be with her, they also pay dearly for her attention. She has perfected the 'swipe and hiss' move, and wields it with a smile. Nimrod, on the other hand, is 100% enthusiastic little boy, and possesses no sophistication whatsoever. He burrows in the snow with utter abandon, achieves bath time poses that would make a yoga master jealous and a modest maiden blush, and will eat anything that doesn't eat him first. This is a cat that drinks from the toilet, sometimes even before my husband has finished using it. Not the smartest feline in the world, but good hearted at least, and never given to sullenness or fits of pouting.

Now comes the hard part - how do we continue to share our homes with these creatures, give them the respect they think they deserve, and not end up hurting their feelings by laughing openly at their misadventures? It's a delicate balance that must be found, my friends, but I think we can make it work. First off, it's important to try to cover your mirth as much as possible in the immediate aftermath of a cat catastrophe. Make them think you're having a coughing attack, or chuckling over something on the television, for example. Sometimes I have gone so far as to purposely re-enter a room, often while clearing my throat or shuffling loudly, to convince one of my cats that I wasn't present for his or her most recent descent into indignity. Also, never, repeat stories of their shortfalls in front of them. They  may look like they're not offended, but an unpleasant consequence will ensue.

Of course, that's not to say that cats don't also play their part in this balancing act. Our beloved pets join in the subtle subterfuge by adopting one of two attitudes after doing something stupid. First, there's denial, most often in the form of, "It wasn't me," but occasionally stretching so far as to claim, "It never happened." If outright denial is an impossibility, the second choice that cats have is to pretend like they were in control the whole time. Somehow they ask us to believe, through their body language and the very attitude they ooze, that they really and truly meant to fall off the TV, run into the patio door, incriminate themselves by getting their nails caught in the curtains, leap into the bathtub full of water, or otherwise look silly or act like a dog.

With all of our pretenses -  no matter how much we pretend to have not seen our cats behaving strangely, and no matter how much they claim that they meant to do it - there will still be the awkwardness of  knowledge hanging in the air. There is only one saving grace - the silent dialogue that has gone on between felines and people for centuries. We know that the expression 'curiosity killed the cat' has won more America's Funniest Home Video Prizes than even the classic and timeless groin shot. Let's face it - cats do funny stuff all the time, even if they never admit it, and we claim not to notice. Much as they try to convince us otherwise, we know that they're often clumsy and prone to making poor choices, and we forgive them for it so we may co-habitate peacefully.

More importantly in this dialogue, cats know in their heart of hearts that we are silly, ignorant creatures, widely given to exaggeration and even hallucination, probably to protect ourselves from the fact that their species is so superior to ours. They know, in their heart of hearts, that we are unreliable, unpredictable, and totally unable to discern the subtleties of advanced physics, nonverbal communication, reverse psychology, and balls of yarn, but they forgive us for it so we can co-habitate peacefully. It's a hard job, but someone's got to do.


(P.S. - before I could even finish this blog post, Shane took a flying jump at a shadow in the corner, and ended up falling into the narrow space between the wall and the couch, knocking over the lamp in the process. I sputtered to cover my laughter with a cough. He struggled out, licked his leg nonchalantly once or twice, and then swaggered off and is now alternating between eating the corner of my calendar and the telephone cord. Apparently my coughing fit wasn't convincing enough, and I must be made to suffer.)

The Noble Cat

We are a feline family - firmly in the cat camp in the age old 'dog vs cat' controversy, despite a rocky early start in our marriage. (We had a dog once. He now lives with my brother-in-law. Everyone is happier that way. I don't care to elaborate, thank you very much.) We have four indoor cats - everything from a stately (if slightly tattered) ten-year-old Siamese, to a fluffy, lovable stray that wandered into our home and our hearts this summer. (Isn't that how the expression goes? More accurately, he wandered into our home and started shedding immediately as he made a beeline for the food bowl, but we've learned to love the little freeloader nonetheless.)

One cat has a nervous vomit reflex. Another has the world's stinkiest poop (she's the only one who refuses to cover in the litter box, of course), and another simply cannot believe that the corner of my kitchen counter wasn't created as his bed. (You know how cats are - buy them an elaborate cat bed and they'll turn their nose up at it and promptly go lay on your freshly-washed sweater or open newspaper.) Anyway, we put up with the hair, and the surprise attacks to our ankles, and the midnight scurrying because we receive back all the love and attention we could ever ask for (or at least, the absolute minimum amount of  love and attention they think they can get away with giving to us and still get food and littler cleaning services on a regular basis).

Cats complete our households. They snuggle and purr. They comfort us when we're sad. They give us something to tell stories about (not that we would ever, EVER let them know that we abuse their dignity in this way. Seriously - please don't tell my cats I wrote this post. I would be finding kitty fluids of all types in strange places for months to come, and I would never walk out of the house in a hair-free outfit ever again). Despite how hectic things have been, cats have been the one constant in my whole life. (Hmm.... maybe it should be more like, "because cats have been the one constant in my whole life...") Even as I write, there is a cat curled up beside me, and another trying to get onto the keybaslkfjasldfjlasdofuwerouoard. (Shane says hello.)
 
I'm often asked by the dog crowd why it is that I love cats. Their affinity for Fido is as much a mystery to me as my appreciation of Princess is to them. Sure, dogs don't ignore you, but cats don't demand your attention either. A cat may leave you alone for three whole days, but you can return the favor and all you'll end up with is a little extra hair on the counter and a rug that's been slid across the room. Leave a dog alone in your home for three days and you'll have to invest in a steam cleaner, drywall repair, new carpeting, and two years of doggy psychiatry. Cats don't run to greet you, tongue wagging, when you return home from the office (or from stepping outside to get the mail). But, let's not fool ourselves here. A dog is saying, "please take me outside so I can pee on your tire and poop somewhere you're likely to step in the next few days" as much as he's saying, "Gee, I love you and I'm glad you're home."

To me, that's the crux of it all - what makes cats so very cool. They may need you, but they'll never admit it. They are positive that what they give in the relationship far exceeds what they receive, which makes them feel they've earned that extra eighteen inches of your pillow and the chip on their shoulder. Their self esteem is solid, and by golly you're lucky to know them. Let's face it - cats are the big-wigs of the animal world. Got a cat with crossed eyes who shorts every jump and lands back on the floor with a quizzical stare? What about it? Einstein didn't talk until he was three and was fired from menial jobs for years. Stinky gas? Bad litter box aim? Chronic hairball hacker? You're still lucky to know 'em!

Cats have never forgotten that they were once revered and worshipped as Gods at the height of ancient Egypt's reign as the world's main superpower. Next time your cat is staring off in space, oblivious to your presence, rest assured that he's recalling a time in his breed's distant past when you would have been bowing at his feet. A time when families shaved their eyebrows in mourning for a sick cat. A time when he was surrounded by an adoring public, the choicest of foods, and a litter box that ran all the way to the Nile Delta. It's no wonder that Mr. Squeakymouse and the  Krunchy Kitty Kibble that we offer them today doesn't exactly inspire them to mew lovingly and gaze into our eyes with adoration. Perhaps they're right - even with all their shennanigans and shedding we are lucky to have them around. One thing's for sure - at least sharing your home with a cat is better than owning a dog!

Sirius Arguments

My marriage has dodged a major bullet. See, our trial subscription to Sirius Satellite Radio just expired, and I couldn't be more pleased. Don't get me wrong - I totally loved having hundreds of stations, knowing that my every musical whim could be satisfied at the touch of a button, being able to rock out to music that youngsters have been rocking out to for the past eighty years or so. But, all the shoobie doos and sha la las, all the twanging and head banging, and even all the cheesy love songs in the world is just not worth my marriage.

You see, my husband and I are sort of a classic case of opposites that attracted. I am the positive to his negative, the yin to his yang, the Yoko to his John Lennon. So far our marriage has survived his love of baseball (and my apathy to it), my political drive and involvement (and his apathy to that), and even the struggles in our earliest years between a dog person and a cat person. (I'm gald to say he's now a fervent convert, and we have four indoor cats.) Having worked those things out, I really thought our marriage could survive anything. Then, along came a free three-month trial to Sirius Satellite Radio that came with my new car. It almost broke us.

Mark is an 80's guy. He loves the funky rhythms, the hair bands, the insistent guitar riffs, and even the fashions associated. I, on the other hand, am a honkey tonk and bluegrass girl. He may have played blocks to the sounds of Madonna and Duran Duran, but I drifted off to sleep to Ronnie Milsap and Crystal Gayle. When Merle Haggard sang I'm Proud to Be an Okie From Muskogee he was literally singing my song. That's me - born in Muskogee General Hospital in Muskogee, Oklahoma. It's more than a birthplace - it's a heritage.
Little did I know that even though Opposites Attract (Paula Abdul, 1989), our musical differences were threatening to cause a D-I-V-O-R-C-E (Tammy Wynette, 1968).

Car trips, of course, were the hardest. We have a rule that whoever drives gets to pick the station. These past few months we've been arguing over who gets to drive rather than who has to. Even quick stops at a gas station were opportunities for the listener/passenger to pull a quick switcheroo. Upon arriving back to the car from the pump or restroom, someone was bound to be motioned from the driver's side to the passenger's side and a conversation something like this would ensue:

Delighted New Driver: Gee, honey, I thought you looked tired and might like it if I took a turn at the wheel... for your sake, of course. [big grin]
Disgruntled New Passenger: [indistinct grumbles] Alright, but I'm warning you - one of the girls is probably going to need to stop in about 30  miles for a potty break, you know!

Our record was fourteen stops in 100 miles. Our children were confused, but happy, since each game of  'musical drivers' generally resulted in the purchase of some type of snack or beverage. I gained 3 pounds, but got to listen to all the fiddles, banjos, and steel guitars that I could ever want. Mark, likewise, drank four Dr. Peppers and rocked out to no less than seven Cyndi Lauper songs, and a late Eagles hit that even I enjoyed. Thankfully, however, those days have come to an end. The subscription price to continue getting satelite radio coverage may only be $12.95 a month, but I hear that divorce lawyers are pretty pricey. Even if it never came to that, I don't think we can continue to afford the snacks. There's only one thing left to do - go back to disagreeing on talk radio. At least it's free!

The Year of the Pack Rat

Always be prepared. Isn't that the Boy Scout motto? (I wouldn't know, of course, having never been a Boy Scout, but you do pick up these sorts of catchphrases now and again.) From my limited knowledge and nonexesitent personal experience, it appears that the way the scouts stay prepared is by getting together monthly to practice tying and untying knots, and selling popcorn door to door. Better than the Girl Scouts, I suppose - at least nutritionally speaking - but it still doesn't prepare them to do anything more than handle a hostage situation at a movie theater concession stand. ("Jimmy - you untie those knots while Bobby and I sell popcorn. I knew those monthly den meetings would pay off someday!")

No, in my world, rope tricks and carbohydrates don't count as preparation. I'm a saver. A keeper. A hoarder of goods. Saucepan with a broken lid? You never know when you might need that. Half a yard of fuscia muslin? Might come in handy someday. Dresser wtih the broken drawer? It'll make a good fixer-upper project. It's not that I want to keep stuff, you understand, so much as I feel that I must. You see, I inherited collectivitus, though the trait runs more in my father's side of the the family than my mother's. I am hoping there is some sort of genetic treatment - something intricate and expensive, no doubt, that involves radioactive dyes and spliced and modified DNA - that will enable my children to live a normal life. In fact, I'm sure I've read an article about it in one of the magazines I have stacked in my garage somewhere.... Come on medical science - don't let me down!

The worst part about it is the stigma that comes when people who misunderstand the disorder start in with the name calling. It was one thing when I was a wee little pack-ratling and my parents shielded me from the taunts. Now, however, I see the raised eyebrows when I buy my fifth "dollar box" at the local auction house, and hear the bemused checkout person ask, "what in the world is she going to do with all of THOSE?" after I've grab my bags to leave a store. Why can't they recognize that this is a disorder? Why can't they be more undertstanding? Why can't they see that my habit represents my optimism about life? My upbeat attitude about all things? My ability to find the good in even the everyday bits that others might think of as trash? The world needs more of that. Humanity needs more of that. After all, I may be unable to throw away a worn-out flashlight , but I am also never going to throw away a worn-out friend.

My grandmother lived through the Great Depression. She saves styrofoam meat trays and twist ties. They may pile up from time to time, but I never lacked for art supplies and Fairy Boats during the long summer hours I spent at her house when I was a kid. My dad is a tinkerer, and has whole buildings full of treasures. The wind howled around the eaves and the doors gaped widely, but my daddy always had the right sized wheel or wingnut, blade or barn board, pane or pliers for the projects we did together. Now, my children are building meat tray doll houses and cobbled contraptions. I may wince at the thought of having genetically doomed my daughters to a life of collecting (well, that and large feet - sorry girls), but  I'm going to keep my focus on the inherit creativity and preparation that comes with the territory.

After all, I'm pretty sure the Chinese Zodiac has a whole year devoted to the Pack Rat. Beady eyes and nasty tails aside, there must be traits of the rat that are worth celebrating if they have a whole year devoted to them, right!? Yes, I think I remember something about rats being crafty and clever, and ... um.... hang on a  minute, let me go get that placement I saved from the Peking Buffet dinner last  May. I know it's around here somewhere...

Tennis Shoes

Something's gotta give. I conned my friends and family into joining a little weight loss club I created. If you lose at least 1/2 pound, you don't have to pay. If you stay the same, you only have to pay $1. If you gain weight (even a tenth of a pound) you have to pay $5. We weigh in once a week. This past eight weeks, everyone else has lost weight. All I've lost is $21. Like I said.... something's gotta give. 

The problem is that I already know what I have to do. It's no mystery, really, how to lose weight. Despite all the legitimate variables like metabolic rate, BMI, glycemic index, thyroid function, resting heart rate, muscle confusion, etc..., it really does just come down to eating better and moving more. Sounds so simple. That's what makes it all the more frustrating that I can't seem to get in gear and get the pounds off.

After each of my babies was born, the nurses assured me that the weight would drop right off, especially since I was breastfeeding. They lied. I also heard that once I stopped breast feeding, the weight would disappear. It didn't. These same people swore that chasing after active toddlers is a sure-fire weight-loss exercise. It isn't. I suppose I should be thankful that they were at least trying to be encouraging, but, seriously - it's just not very nice to lie to a new mom, even if you have good intentions.

So, here  I am, staring 30 in the eyes and heavier than ever. I'm out over 20 bucks, rummaging in the closet for my biggest 'big' clothes, and I don't even have any more babies or breast feeding in my future to "help" me along in my quest. Guess it's time to face reality and get serious. Time to make a plan, get in gear, put on my game face. The good news is that I have a secret weapon - tennis shoes. Slipping on a good pair of tennies is the antidote for slothfulness, and can turn even a flabby momma like me into a virtual... um.... virtual..... Babe Ruth? (Sorry. My lack of appropriate sports analogies and inspiring athletic personalities comes from the fact that I have no interest in or knowledge of sports. Maybe that has something to do with my weight too...)

Anyway, back to tennis shoes. Two days ago I put on a pair of slacks and a nice shirt and ended up lounging on the couch for the better part of the afternoon. Yesterday I wore jeans and a T-shirt and was sedentary except for trips to the leftover Halloween candy bowl to get Tootsie Rolls. Today, I put on exercise pants and tennis shoes, and I ended up taking a 30 minute walk, choosing an apple over a chocolate bar for snack, and using the word 'fit' three times during the day. I guess the expression, "the clothes make the man" just might be true.

So, now I've got a choice to make - do I just start saving now so I can pay for the rest of the weight-loss challenge weeks, put on a mu-mu, and forever resign myself to being a big girl? (Perhaps even take to collecting Garfield figurines which feature the feisty feline saying, "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy"?) Maybe I should go ahead and purchase long term care and life insurance, along with stock in Dunkin' Donuts and Tootsie Rolls, just to make sure I've got a 'balanced' portfolio that will see to all my future needs. Is that the kind of person I want to be? Am I really ready to throw in the bath sheet? (Those are jumbo towels, for those of you who are still able to wrap a standard-towel around your whole selves.)

I guess I can't guarantee where I will end up in the future and better than those well-intentioned, lying nurses in the labor and delivery ward, but I can tell you that I'm slipping on my socks and tennis shoes right now. Perhaps I'll find some answers about tomorrow on a long walk this afternoon. I'll let you know what I find.

Rondo Meets Bambi

Last night my husband hit a deer. That's life in the fast lane in Iowa. It was bound to happen eventually, of course, but I didn't particularly care for the timing of it all. Not only was I in the hospital staying with a friend for the night, but Mark had all three girls with him, and he was driving my BRAND NEW CAR (a 2009 Denim Blue Kia Rondo) - the first brand new vehicle I've ever owned. Needless to say, the convergence of circumstance could have been better, but no one was hurt, which is all that really matters in the end. Well, that's not exactly true. I know for a fact that the deer was scared poopless, since the evidence of it was all over the driver's side door, but I'm guessing that she sustained other injuries as well. I'm still waiting for a call from her insurance company since she fled the scene

Or, perhaps she didn't flee the scene... Here's where the personality difference comes in. After ascertaining that everyone was fine, my first thought was to ask my husband to track down the deer. I can't help it. I am a scavenger by nature, and though I've never actually brought road kill home for supper, that's only because I couldn't verify that it was fresh enough. Mark, on the other hand, doesn't even care for the fact that he has to see the animals that he eats while still on the hoof (so to speak). He prefers his meat to come pre-cooked and wrapped in cellophane or a burger box. Thankfully, we've been married long enough that I've learned when to think out loud, and when to keep my mouth shut. The mental image of him on the side of the road, staring at our damaged car, checking the girls over, and clutching his cell phone to his ear, waiting for reassurance from his loving wife, helped me do the right thing. No amount of deer burger is worth my husband's sanity.

Had it been me, though, I know things would have gone differently. I would have waded through the ditch, field dressed the deer with my fingernail file kit, drug the carcass onto the roof rack (isn't that what they make roof racks for, after all?), and had the girls help me cut it, wrap it, and get it into the freezer before putting them to bed. After all - if psychiatrists say you can overcome your fears by facing the thing you've got a problem with, then butchering Bambi seems like the ideal way to get over the emotional trauma of having hit a deer, doesn't it? Sounds right to me.

In the end, I can see that I chose correctly when I kept my hunter-gatherer instincts to myself. I really don't have time to process a deer right now, and don't need to be jumping in over my head on yet another project with a pressing deadline. A few deer roast would have been nice, but a hassle-free weekend with my family sounds even better. Since my girls didn't get the chance to have some 'do-it-yourself' therapy, perhaps it's best if we don't have any reminders of the incident hanging around. Besides, I drove by this morning and checked the ditch. Bambi was gone, and so my roadkill record remains clean (for now).

Hospitals

Sorry, dear and faithful readers, to have been absent so long. During the past week or so I have also neglected laundry, dishes, sweeping, and even advanced personal hygiene. You can see that at least you were not alone. The reason for this absence (though in future I don't always promise to have a reason, just so we're clear) is that a beloved friend of mine has been in the hospital. Though I've had opportunities this past few days to write meaningful, thought-provoking, poignant, or even downright deep blogs, this is the first chance I've had to come up for air and take a deep belly full of humor. Thought I'd share it with you.

I know that the easy path here (which is ALWAYS good for a laugh) is to make fun of hospital food. Of course, I would never stoop to something so pedantic. Or, perhaps more accurately, since my friend hasn't been able to eat during the entirety of her stay, I couldn't even make comments about the food even if I wanted to. So, that topic is off the table. (Feel free, however, to think of all the previous funny jokes you've ever heard about hospital food if you want - to sort of prime the pump, if you will.You may even attribute them to me in your head, but only if they're truly amusing and wouldn't make me blush.) The good new is, the food is far from the only funny thing about hospitals, so the blog might be redeemable after all.

One thing that gets to me is the amount of legal documents you really should have in place when you're in the hospital. You know - 'just in case.' A will, a living will, decisions about executors, power of attorney - the list goes on and on. Forget about all these - even the DNR order. If I have to go to the hospital, the only document I want is a DND - a Do Not Disturb sign. How on earth is anyone supposed to heal if they can't even get a decent nap? (You all know how strongly I feel about napping...)

All night long we had people in and out at intervals ranging from 5 to 30 minutes. If the distractions were evenly timed it would have at least helped create a sleeping rhythm - you know, snore, blood pressure. Snore, air in line. Snore, check your oxygen, etc... But. the pure randomness of both the timing and the procedures leaves one presenting arms, pulling on tubes, and indiscriminately saying things like, "no gas yet" all night long. Plus, just to keep you off guard, they'll send in 3 people in a row within ten minutes, but then wait 45 minutes to respond to the call button - leaving you hanging over the edge of the bed extravagantly leaking some foul fluid or futilely tugging on a gown to try to make it cover both your dignity and your behind.

Then, of course, there is the fact that it's not just the same person interrupting you, but a whole slew of folks. I am beginning to think that they bring people in off the streets, give them a white coat, and offer to let them have a stab (sometimes literally) at their favorite area of medicine - or their favorite area of anatomy. Either one will do. It's nearly impossible to keep track of everyone, and the problem is only exacerbated by the fact that they all trickle in, one group after another, all day. Listen people - if a bunch of women going out on the town for the night can get it together enough to know exactly when to go to the bathroom at the same time in a tidy and well-timed group, why can't residents, pain management people, nurses, technicians, etc... do the same? Perhaps that's the answer - only  allow women in health care, and then tell them their rounds are really a potty break. That way, they're bound to both stick together AND be expedient.

So, you spend all the time you should be sleeping being jabbed and dabbed, prodded at and nodded at, and all the time you should be awake trying to get cell phone reception. Why, in the one place in the world that you really need your cell phone to work, do you find yourself unable to use it without standing on your head or holding statue-still in order to not lose your signal? I've actually come to the conclusion that the only places you can get reception are right next to the signs prohibiting you from using your cell phone. These, of course, are everywhere. There are enough police officers and hospital guards that I don't really want to be caught using my phone while leaning on one of these signs, but it's tempting nonetheless. The only way that I have found to reliably be able to make or receive calls is to lean my head and phone against a window. I must look either depressed or frustrated to the 3,478 onlookers who make their way into the room. Either way, I caught signt of my reflection and noticed that this posture gives the impression that I am relaying secret information that I am trying to conceal, but I'm not very good at it. This is akin to how my three year old will shut herself in the room, then peek her head out and say, "Don't come in here." Somehow the delivery style just isn't meshing with the intent.

Jeesh - hospitals. We put up with beds that can practically get you to the moon, but a guest chair that won't lock to save your life, leaving you careening into the hallway each time you try to lean back. The only source of entertainment when the patient is sleeping is the TV, which always turns on at a volume that would rival most theater sounds systems. They're always too hot, too cold, too noisy, too quiet, too stuffy, too breezy, and ALWAYS too expensive. But, I can tell you this - when we walk out of here, there will be one thing that I will forever feel toward this hospital - gratitude. It's easy enough to dish out insults, but when push comes to shove, I'm grateful for the interruptions. It means there are capable, talented people who are willing and able to come to our aid. I'm grateful for the fact that they will miss out on sleep and not see their friends and families so that I can have more time with mine. I'm grateful for the fact that I have slept in the chair, learned to unhook hoses, pushed the IV cart. It means I've been in the valley of the shadow of death with a loved one, and know more assuredly than ever that I will fear no evil.

Of course, I might still fear eating hospital food, but I guess I promised not to go there, didn't I?

Reprieve

Well, the lambs and goats in my pasture have gotten a stay of execution. They were scheduled to be butchered yesterday, but got a temporary reprieve since my dad ws sick and unable to come help butcher them. "What's that you say? Butcher them!? Surely you mean drive them to a processing plant, don't you?"

Nope. See, we do all our own killin' and guttin' and skinnin' and cuttin' up around here, thank you kindly. When people find that out, the responses range from skeptical but impressed, to ready to call Child Protective Services. One man even called me Laura Ingalls Wilder, saying my survival skills are such that after a nuclear WW III it will just be me and the cockroaches left. (Don't know what I'd have left to butcher if that were the case, but whatever...)

I will admit, that I was not always the 'do-it-yourself' kind of gal that I am now. Contrary to what people might think, I did not grow up raising or butchering animals. In fact, the first thing I actually participated in killing and dismembering (so to speak) was a chicken on my parents' farm about 5 years ago. Funny how far I've come since then!

No, it wasn't that I was cleaning gizzards from the time I was in diapers that brought me to this place. Instead, it's that I am fortunate enough to only have been one generation from people who were cleaning gizzards in diapers. Thankfully, my parents grew up in the time-honored, family-farm tradition of small-town Iowa, and they never forgot their roots. My mom and dad worked their whole adult lives so they could end up literally where they started - cleaning out the barn, baling hay, fixing fences, bottle feeding calves - all on the farm my dad grew up on. They paid their dues so they could earn back their independence.

Their decision to pack it all up, move back to the farm, and start anew (or, perhaps more accurately, 'a-old') was a big turning point in my life. I had already made the decision long before then to live concientiously, but was only walking it out in the shallowest of terms. I knew commerical meat production was dirty business, so I became a vegan. I wanted to do right by the earth, so I only ate organic. I wanted to save fossil fuels and support my local farmers, so I bought at farm stands in our area. I had tried to stop doing the 'wrong' things, and I was doing some of the 'right' things, but I wasn't really doing the best things - not for my body, for the earth, for my community, or for my soul.

Ok, ok... Andrea's gone off the deep end again, equating digging in the dirt with a religous experience. I guess what I'm trying to say is that just doing your best to not live against your principles is a whole different animal than living your principles out each day to the fullest. I believe, at least for me, that true personal satisfaction (that deep-down, in-your-belly, lasting kind of satisfaction) only comes from the latter. 

So, these days I try to do better. I do right by the earth by doing the most I can with MY earth - my garden, my compost pile, my pasture. I support local farmers by visiting the farm stands, but also by getting to know my neighbors, helping them when their cows get out, peeling apples in the shop with them during apple cider season. That is a far more meaningful way to support local farmers than buying a bag of green beans every Saturday. And, I do right by my body by giving it the workout of hauling feed and water, pulling weeds, cleaning out the chicken house. I also choose to give it clean, healthy protein from the animals I raise and butcher.

In doing all of these things, I have found a simple prayerfulness and worship before the Lord that I never before had, a connection to my community I have sought for years, a rhythm for my family that brings us balance, and a connection with my past that grounds me and reminds me of who I am. I have found the expresesion of my desire for concientious living that I sought when I was younger. I have found a way to honor my parents' sacrifice by acknowledging that I, too, will do whatever it takes to continue the tradition and heritage that I received from them and from the generations before them. In short, I received a reprieve from the ordinary, and it sure has been a life saver for me...

Nuked

We finally gave in and got a microwave a week or so ago. I don't know what was the final straw that broke this camel's back. Perhaps it was the fact that my husband switched from the occasional broad hint to a direct, daily inquiry about when we could go appliance shopping. Or, maybe it was the sad look my children had while pleading for the forbidden fruit of microwave popcorn. (Or the even sadder look that people gave to me while listening to the children plead, assuming that surely we must live in abject poverty if we do not have a microwave in our home.)

Truth be told, I had been mulling the idea around for about a week already before I finally gave in, but it was a tough thing for me to do. I liked holding on to some of my crunchy, quirky, all-natural self-righteousne... uh, I mean ideals. It reminded me of who I had been, who I assumed I still was deep down inside (and who my friends and family hope I will never, ever become again). I suppose that trading in the toaster oven for the microwave is the same as trading in broomstick skirts and veganism for a decent professional wardrobe (my "goin' to Des Moines clothes") and a more balanced approach to healthy eating. I am still an Earthmomma, darnit, but I'm a little softer around the edges. (Now that we have a microwave, I'll probably glow around the edges too!)

So, it was with great trepidation that I welcomed our newest addition into the family. I must admit, despite my misgivings, that it is a good fit. It has this funny little habit where the door doesn't close all the way, which triggers the safety switch and doesn't allow you to press the start button. It's got personality. I like that in a machine. Plus, it does make a mean plate of nachos, and can warm up leftovers better than even my beloved cast-iron skillet.  It's quiet. It's sleek. It's neat. It's clean. It has a flat surface on top to stack things on, and it gave us a much-needed west-facing clock that we can see from the front door. In short, I'm in love with the thing. But, I'm not always thrilled with the company it chooses to hang out with.

See, microwaves do not attract health food. They're not made for health food. What they're made for is pre-packaged, 'cheeze' covered, cellophane wrapped preservatives, molded into an approximate shape and size and color of food, and then sprayed with a food-like scent. Trust me, I am something of an expert on this, having just moments ago eaten a Chicken and Cheese Chimichunga that came in a shiny green wrapper.

I did my best to treat this frozen hunk of faux-TexMex like food - putting it on a real plate, covering it with salsa, adding a bit of shredded cheese to the top... In the end, what I had was still appalling and awful. The texture was all wrong. The flavor was all wrong. The guilt I felt was all wrong. The only redeeming qualities that chimichunga had was that it was cheap, it was hot, and it was NOW.

Then again.... I've already swallowed my pride by signing a peace treaty with my arch-nemesis (which has  nuclear capabilities, no less!) and invited it into my home. I've given up all my other long-held ideals about food. Maybe being cheap, hot, and NOW aren't such bad qualities. (Ask many 19-year-olds, and they will think these are the ONLY qualities worth having...) Maybe it is a sign of maturity, of becoming more at peace with the world around me, of finally giving up all my self-righteous attitudes. Yes, I believe it must surely be a good thing that I can eat a TV dinner now and again, wait happily for that reassuring 'ding' when warming up leftovers, and allow my girls to eat microwave popcorn occasionally.

Of course, that's only if it's Newman's Organic, because those others use fake butter that will give you cancer. And, mind you, I care far too much about my internal organs to subject them to radiation by actually standing in front of the thing while it's blasting my food with its Geiger-alerting rays. And, the leftovers would certainly have to be from my home-grown, good-quality, grass-fed, free-range, all-natural, cruelty-and-cage-free, omega-enriched, biosustainable, home-canned, happy animals, and.....

(Ok, maybe the microwave hasn't totally nuked all of my self-righteousness yet... I'll keep you posted.)

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.