Help Me, Please

Hi, my name is Laura, and I'm a shoe-aholic.

I've got it bad, reeeeal bad. I can't stop buying shoes.

I try... I really do.

I try to enter a store on the opposite end from the shoe department, but it beckons. It calls. "C'mon Laura... you can just try some on... there's no harm in that...." like a slick dealer offering me a free fix...

I try to resist. I do some deep breathing. I tie my laces in hundreds of knots so they can't be easily removed. I cover my ears with my hands and whine "no no NO" at the shoe-devil voices inside my head. I throw myself to the ground and cling to the nearest clothing rack, fighting the shoe department's gravitational pull.

It doesn't work.

I've got shoes everywhere. In the van. In the garage. In boxes in the back of my closet, in the laundry room, on the stairs, and near every entry.

There are lots of conversations with my kids that go something like this:

Brady: Don't you have, like, a couple pair of black shoes already?

Me: Yea, but not exactly like this pair.

Brady: (rolls eyes, shakes head) Mom, I don't get you....

My addiction gets all creepy and co-dependent when I mask the craving with a good deed. Like taking my nieces shoe shopping. Rob actually praised me for shoe shopping that day. That's when I knew I was on to something, and asked my nieces if they'd like to shop for shoes, say, every Tuesday and Thursday. (They've stopped taking my calls.)

I'll even buy used shoes. And that's pretty crazy, considering I don't like other people's feet. I've always had an aversion to feet, even though I sometimes have to stare at them in that can't-help-it sort of way. You know, the way you can't take your eyes off a boil on someone's neck, or Aunt Penelope's nose hair, or the roofer's *ss-crack as he's hanging shingles on your front porch.

I'm the Imelda Marcos of the cornfields. I'm the Carrie Bradshaw of Cornfield Country.

This is my closet this morning, after sorting through my closet shoe pile, dusting them off, sorting them by color and style, and having a shoe fashion show in my room while dancing to Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back."

And that's after I piled several pair (ok, more than several - like a dozen or so) into a bag for Goodwill. Where I'll drop them off out back, then head around front, willing myself not to go in. But I will, and I'll shop, and I'll try on shoes, and I'll probably bring home a pair, and I'll hide them from Rob, and try them on with various outfits, and it'll be fun, oh-so-fun. Oh so indulgently, toe-wigglingly fun.

If you know of a cure, please forward it along. I'm out of closet space.

"What's wrong with shoes? I collected them because it was like a symbol of thanksgiving and love?" --Imelda Marcos

"The fact is, sometimes it's really hard to walk in a single woman's shoes. That's why we need really special ones now and then, to make the walk a little more fun." --Carrie Bradshaw

Just Call Me Betty

Crocker, that is. You know Betty, of the gingham-covered cookbook? I'm sorry, what?

Hold on a sec, would you? (It's not? Oh geez....)

I was just informed that it's the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook that's gingham, not the Betty Crocker cookbook. (Sheesh.) Well, that'll just help me make my point. Guess what I just did?

No, I didn't run ten miles (my thighs wish). No, I didn't spot Matt Damon at the local cafe (*I* wish). No, I didn't shave my head (nobody wishes - except maybe Rob's ex-grrlfriend).

I judged canned items at the county fair.

That's alright, take your time. I'll wait for you to stop laughing. (cue "muzak")

I know it's funny. I know it's hilarious. I even know it's completely out of left-field, completely out of character, and completely astonishing that I'd do that. Or that they'd ask me to do that. Or that they'd ask me, I'd say yes, and get paid to do it.

Yea, see - now you're looking indignant. Yessiree, they paid me to look at the canned items in each category and assign first, second, and third places.

I was actually a wee bit nervous. I mean, who'm I to think I'm some sort of canning goddess? And because I was indeed doubting my own qualifications, naturally I had a run-in with Farmer Bill on my way there (which didn't help my confidence any, as you can imagine). Rob must've told him what I was up to, because as I jogged to my van (running late is a sure-fire Farmer-Bill-attracting activity) he yelled, "Have you ever even canned a g*d-d*mned thing in your life?!"

Yes! I can garden food every summer!

"You DO?! Well, I didn't know that."

Aunt Nancy said that hearing I'm a judge ruins her faith in the county fair.

"You can say that again."

Ya gotta love family.

Funny thing, though, is I had a blast. And I DO indeedy know a thing-er-two about canning. Like you're supposed to leave 1/2 inch of headspace, which one person repeatedly did not - and entered about a dozen things. (Tsk, tsk.) And you're supposed to cover the food with the liquid, which several entries conspicuously lacked. (One was canned beef - Ew.) And color matters. And uniformity, and consistency, and appearance. And yes, taste, although we weren't advised to open jars unless we really needed to. (My aunt wisely pointed out I'd risk botulism if someone didn't know how to properly can. One might assume all fair entrants would be canning goddesses (or, ok, gods), but perhaps not, and I'm not especially fond of difficulty swallowing, slurred speech, or muscle paralysis.)

When I was finished judging the canned items I was asked to help with the baked goods. Now that sounds like a delicious task, I agree, but tasting several dozen bakery items starts getting the ol' gut churning. Especially for a GID-gal like m'self. (GID being one of our new favorite Willow-inspired terms, standing for "Gastro-Intestinal Distress." As in, I've got the GIDs. Or, that was a mean case of the GIDs this morning. Or, that goopy-looking row of cookies is gonna give me the GIDs.)

And when you think of the county fair, don't you conjure up images of all the best cooks this side of the Mississippi? A bunch of Betty Crockers with gingham aprons on (she wore a gingham apron at least, didn't she?) and mixing bowls in arm, with strong right biceps from stirring enough batter to keep fresh-baked cookies on hand at all times? Round-bellied kitchen goddesses who whack you with a wooden spoon if you dip a finger into the bowl? Pies cooling on windowsills, flour-sack towels freshly stacked in drawers, and a creaky screen door leading out back?

Well, my friends, times are a'changing. Who woulda thought I could taste 11 peanut butter cookies and not find one that made my eyes roll back in peanut-butter-ecstasy? Believe me - it happens.

And sometimes the sorriest-looking entries taste the best, and the perfectly displayed ones taste like styrofoam. One child entered the most pathetic looking cookies ever baked (trust me) but we laughed it was probably the most honest entry there. Despite my apprehension I did taste them. Aw, well, (choke), how sweet.

Judging is both a dream come true and my worst nightmare. (Note: Slight exaggeration.) I loved analyzing each entry, admiring the handwriting styles, reading the sometimes overly honest detailing of some. (One requirement was to specify the canning method - one entrant shared that her jelly didn't set the first time so she added more pectin and retried. Points for honesty.) I checked for seals and headspace. I opened a few when they didn't look like what they were supposed to be. I lined them up in order of best to worst. I made notes of what was wrong when something didn't get chosen.

But I also felt terrible that some didn't win. I appreciate all the hard work that goes into it, especially when I notice the same entrants (identified only by number) submitted food in several different categories. Any person who goes to the trouble of picking and preserving 6 different kinds of jelly deserves a medal of honor in my book. Her family should kneel at her feet in praise every time they spread a spoonful on their toast.

I was really wishing I had a pile of toast handy when judging the jellies and jams. Nothing like a jar of homemade jelly to make you think all is right with the world.

The baked goods were a little trickier. I did the junior department and that can be a little worrisome. I remember when I was teaching and students would bring me homemade goodies. Depending upon the giver, I'd sometimes have to toss a whole tin-full of baked goods. I didn't want to, but when a kid comes to school every day covered in dog hair and smelling like pee and old socks, well, I'm not going to eat their food. Sorry. (Wait, no I'm not. I waited until they were gone to throw them away. I'm not entirely heartless.)

I've come a long way in the fair community, from washing steer butts to judging canned goods. I used to bake my muffins the morning of the fair without having practiced even once. I used to dig out old drawings and smooth them out instead of drawing something special to enter. I was what you might call a "last minute find an entry" kinda grrl. I even entered a parakeet one year, and it won grand champion. Who knows why. I didn't know a thing about parakeets. We had one in a cage, I entered it. My dad's friend made fun of me by asking if it was hard to handle the parakeet as I walked it around the judging ring. I cried. (I still run into him on occasion, and I still cry. I wonder if his ears ring when his name comes up in my therapy sessions.)


Photo: Me with my assistant, the lovely and incredibly helpful Brittany, who asked many questions, fetched water and paper towels, and shuttled jars back and forth. I think the little stinker is aiming for my job.

But the kitchen goddesses are chuckling now that I'm a judge. Me, who resisted any and all attempts by mom to foster interest in cooking and gardening. Me, who made a huge, whiny fuss about being in 4-H (until fair time, when I got to live there for a week straight). Me, who had not a lick of interest in becoming a wife, or a mother, or a stay-at-home mother, or a homeschooling-stay-at-home mother, or a cooking-gardening-cornfield-living-homeschooling-stay-at-home-wife-and-mother.

Me - a fair judge. Go figure.

Howdy Do in Corn Country

Our neighbor ran over our mailbox today, but we don't mind. We don't get our skirts in a twist about such things and besides, our mailbox has been through h*ll and back over the past ten years. It seems to have a sign that says "Hit me" on it. Or, "snowplow me over" or "cream me with a bat" or "Attention mice - cheap rent and free bedding."

We've hit it with our car. Strangers have hit it with their cars. The snowplow guy and I are on a first name basis since he's sheepishly handed me my mailbox at the front door about 5 times. This past winter it was propped in a snowdrift for the better part of 3 months because the ground was too frozen to reset the thing for the gazillionth time. When the snow would melt back, we'd just sink it further into the ditch. (Our mailman loves us, we're sure.)


Our neighbor is having a bad week so Rob worked hard to convince her it is no big deal. He had her calmed down and was assuring her there was nothing to worry about when my cousin, Farmer Bill, pulled up. And then the conversation went downhill fast, as they seem to do whenever a farmer is around.


Farmers in these parts are - well - blunt. Blunt as a pitchfork. They don't mince words. They say what's on their minds with no care for the blush it'll bring to your cheeks or the hot water it'll get you in with your parents or the embarrassment it'll bring in front of your new boyfriend. City folks, when they have the rare opportunity to witness a conversation with a farmer 'round these parts, often need to have their eyebrows surgically removed from their hairlines afterward.


One time a city friend was visiting when Farmer Bill drove by, leaned out his window, and yelled, "Hey Laura! Get to work!" at the top of his lungs. I'm always working! I hollered back. "You're NEVER working!" he screamed as he slowly drove away.


I didn't think much of it until I saw the look on my friend's face. "Who was that?!" she asked, timidly, "Do your neighbors always scream out their truck windows at you?!?"


Oh, that's just Bill. Ya, it's better if he just screams from his truck window - if he stops, that's when it really gets interestin'.


When Farmer Bill stops, it's usually to ask me a question. And the question is usually along the lines of, "What the hell are you doing that for?" or "Why did you put that there?" or "And just what do you think you're doing now?" We call him the mayor of Irish Grove. You can bet if you're doing anything even remotely unusual in your yard - like, say, digging a pond - it'll trigger his radar and he'll be pulling in.







The other day my mother ran into an old farmer in the parking lot of the local grocer's. He's elderly now and was waiting for his wife in his truck. My mom walked up to the truck window.


Mom: Hi Martin, how are you?

Martin: Who the hell are you?

Mom: I'm Marcia. John's wife? You remember John?

Martin: Oh ya, I remember him.

Mom: And I used to be your neighbor, growing up. Do you remember me now?

Martin: Oh ya, I remember you now. You were a lot prettier back then.







So today, when Farmer Bill showed up, the mailbox situation got a little stickier.


Farmer Bill: What the hell'd you do?

Rob: (Mr. Nice Guy) Oh, it's no big deal.

Farmer Bill: No big deal? Your mailbox is busted!

Rob: (Mr. Smooth-it-Over) No it's not busted, it'll be fine.

(Neighbor is looking more worried now.)

Farmer Bill: No it won't - that 4x4 is all cracked, you'll need a new one.

Rob: (wishing he had telepathic abilities) Nah, I can just fix it.

Farmer Bill: Fix it? How the helleryou gonna fix it? And the box is cracked too.

Rob: (resorting to lies) Oh no, it was like that before.

(Neighbor is looking like a deer caught in headlights.)


And so on. Rob called me later, laughing his fool head off, to tell me the story. We could write a book with all the stories like that.




Photo: Brady and friends, breaking down the haybale seating at Willow


But one time, it was my Brady - a farmer-at-heart perhaps? - who used the blunt end of the pitchfork in a conversation. He was about four or five, and was riding around with my father in the farm truck when they stopped in the road to talk with a neighbor, a farm hand, who was stopped in his truck. This particular neighbor... well.... he's missing a lot of teeth. A whole lotta teeth. He's missing so many teeth he's probably gotta gum his dinner.

The whole time my dad is talking to this farm hand, Brady is tugging at his shirt sleeve.

"Papa," Brady whispered. Hold on, Brady.

"Papa!" Tug tug tug. Hang on, honey, you're interrupting.

"But Papa, I have a question!" Alright, what do you need...


Nice and loud, he asks... "Why doesn't that man have any teeth?!"


Well now, it's a good thing that old farm hand is well versed in the speakin' ways of farmers.

Making a List is Useful

Jonathan has been doing a lot of cooking lately. Mostly at night. Late at night. His current list of likely career choices includes Chef and he delights in practicing.

Inspiration for late-night cooking is one part honing-of-craft, three parts sating-of-hunger; either way, his cooking muse likes to visit after dark.

Last night the urge to cook struck again. It was growing late. We were tired. We'd just gotten home from our weekend Willow binge and finally unloaded the van and settled down to zone out a wee bit before dragging our tired selves to bed, when Jonathan asked, "Can I cook something?"

Um - ((yawn)) - sure.

He decided on macaroni. He asked his brother if he wanted some so he'd know how much to make. That sounds very brotherly-love and all, but it's actually the result of some very intense arguing and heavy resolution work. Jonathan always took strong ownership of his culinary creations and didn't like to share it with the rest of us. Big brother got regularly steamed about it, and after some serious negotiation and a promise from me to keep enough supplies around, Jonathan now consults his brother to see if he will be partaking. Last night was a resounding yes after a weekend of non-stop gallivanting with a posse of friends.

Jonathan was surprisingly chipper and alert last night, considering our weekend, and he was chatty while cooking.

"Mom, knowing how to cook really comes in useful. It's a really useful skill. I'm so glad I know how to do it!" he chirped as he stirred his pasta.

Yep, it is useful.

"What other skills are useful, Mom? Let's make a list."





Ok, a list. I'm growing more bone-tired by the minute, but I guess I can add to a list. Um, driving - knowing how to drive is very useful.

"And exercise! It's useful to know how to work-out," he says, as he sets the timer for the pasta, turns on the theme song from Rocky Balboa, and starts doing push-ups in the living room. (I am not making this up. I'm ready to start drooling on myself and he's multi-tasking.)

Yes, working-out is useful. Can you turn down the music a bit? I think my sinuses are clogging up.

"What else, Mom?" huff, huff, huff. He is counting sit-ups as we list.

Well, writing. I like to write. Um, your macaroni is boiling.

"Thanks Mom! Thanks for telling me!" He tends to be really gracious late at night. I smile. He skips to the kitchen - skips to the kitchen.

"Typing! I'm so glad I can type! Now I can do it fast, faster than other kids," he states, as he stirs the pot.

The macaroni is finished, and after some frowning about the white cheese of the organic brand, he calls his brother and father in for pasta.

I think he added a few more things to the useful list, but my head is wobbling on my neck at this point and my vision is starting to blur.

Cleaning. Knowing how to clean a kitchen is useful, I suggest, hoping he'll agree.

But he doesn't hear me. He's already off, jogging down the stairs to the basement, macaroni in hand, and soon I hear the new drum set and he's heavy into a practice session.

Knowing how to play music is useful, I think. So is knowing when to go to bed.

Who gave him an energy drink? Did those garden tomatoes have caffeine in them? Is Willow magic that strong?

I shoveled down a small bowl of organic mac-n-cheese, infused with Jonathan's cheery energy, and trudged off to bed. As I lay happily spent in bed, on fresh clean percale sheets, a box-fan-breeze carrying away a weekend's worth of heat accumulation, I heard clanging and banging in the kitchen... and I smiled.... Life is Good.

What's on your useful list?

Willow Time

It's Willow Time!

An annual weekend of frolic and fun and festival'ing and food and... um... oh ya, folk music!



Photo: Dan, Martha, Pat, and friend performing at Willow last year


Our friends moved into an old farm house in the middle of cornfield-country many years ago, and being a wee bit out of place and all, they were quite surprised to find a hippy-dippy folk festival takes place every August in their side yard. It's a fundraiser for the Methodist church next door and attracts hundreds of music-lovers, but I'm convinced Dan and Joan command just as much attendance as the festival itself.

Photo: Friends gathered at Dan and Joan's

Many of our friends sign up to perform and we gather around to take in their lovely voices and instruments. Sometimes we are moved to dance, and the grrrls all wear pretty skirts and flowers in our hair.

Photo: Diane, Pat, me



Dan and Joan graciously open their yard to friends for a weekend of music, extraordinary communal meals, garden walks, and late night drumming on the porch. We've enjoyed many Willows, and have many amazing memories.

Photo: Gemma, Joan, me (and Brendan with camera)

This year is special for us because it's the first soccer-free Willow weekend in several years. Usually we have to juggle our time between Willow and games and neither event gets full attention.

Photo: Dan, Taylor, Rob, Chris and little Maya

And one of the highlights is spending time in their gardens. These pictures don't do the place justice - their yard is a magical wonderland, every corner a work of art. We take long strolls there, and the kids chase each other through the paths. We are sent to pick fresh herbs and vegetables for our meals and retreat there when we need a quiet moment.

So tonight I'm busy cooking a weekend's worth of food - marinated vegetables, black bean salsa, zucchini bread, pesto pasta, with quiche and granola and yogurt for breakfast. We're packing our clothes and yard games and tents, and the camera batteries are recharged - we're heading to Willow!

Why I'm Not a Food Blogger

Occasionally I bug my friend Gina to become a food blogger. She's quite the foodie and often rushes to whatever store necessary a mere minutes after discovering a new recipe. It's always a treat to eat her creations, and I love hearing her crazy food stories that usually involve the food network, her just-as-food-crazy dad, or a late night craving for something Italian (and I don't mean a guy named Antonio).

Sometimes I email recipes to her in hopes she'll get into one of her crazed cooking modes and make it. And by make it, I really mean make it for me. And sometimes I even forget to say please because I'm already laughing at the thought of her reading the recipe, making a list, and dashing out the door for the nearest ethnic grocer's.

She won't blog, though. Heck, she won't even comment on my blog. (Shame, SHAME.) This kinda platform ain't her thing, she says. I've tried several coercion methods. I even tried to sway her by threatening to make a food blog myself, thinking surely then she'd find it within herself to save the thousands of unlucky blog readers from having to eat my paltry excuses for internet-worthy recipes. But no.

Ah well.

I finally harvested my garden beets, and as I picked and rinsed and prepped them for canning, I thought of Gina, and the Pioneer Woman, and all the folks who either do or should blog about food. And for a moment I actually thought, why not me? I mean, I cook. I preserve garden goodies. I bake. (Well, once in a while. Sort of. Sometimes. Ok, rarely.) So I got out my camera and gave it a go.

(By the way - please don't visit the link to the Pioneer Woman above. Cuz I know if you do, you won't come back. And I'll miss you.)

Here are my lovely beets.

And so begins reason #1 I can't be a food blogger - I harvested them late. Some of those suckers are so big they could be used as softballs or shotputs, and that means those'll be woody in the center. No matter, we'll just preserve the right-sized ones and use the big ones for croquet balls later. (Have you ever used food as a sport? No? I highly recommend throwing food as hard as you can against stone barn walls. It beats squeezing those little stress balls anyday.)

Reason #2 I can't be a food blogger - When I started the canning process my kitchen looked like this:

Egad - you could lose small children in there.

Alright, so we've been messy lately. So what. You wanna make something of it? I've got a melon-sized beet in my hand that says you don't.

Reason #3 I can't be a food blogger - I didn't get pictures of the next few stages of gathering the canning supplies, cleaning the jars and lids and seals, and arranging it all in a very specific lay-out, because I got lost in the land-of-no-return that is my utensil drawer, looking for the myriad jar lids that seem to disappear in there as we eat canned food throughout the winter months. This drawer is first hard to open, then hard to close. It's looking much better now that I've fished the dozen or so jar lids out of there though. Just take my word on that.

You could lose small children in there, too.

Now, reason #4 I can't be a food blogger - I actually boiled, skinned, and sliced the beets last night. And forgot to take pictures. Actually, I didn't forget - it never even crossed my mind. Hey, Wife Swap was on - I was distracted by the southern dog lover wife calling the vegetarian meditating husband a wimpy woos.

Ok, so where are we.... oh yes, we're canning. Alright, so now I mix the brine for my pickled beets. I don't like calling them pickled because really, they're not pickled. They're spiced. Spiced beets. But we called them pickled beets growing up and it stuck, and now I confuse myself when I say spiced beets and people say, "Huh? What're spiced beets?" and I have to go into a whole lengthy explanation. Kinda like how this paragraph is getting lengthy. And boring.

So here's the brine. Doesn't that look yummy? No? Well then, that's reason #5 I can't be a food blogger - that kettle looks like something might crawl up over the side and suction-cup itself to your face.

Oh, and I forgot to tell you the ingredients (reason #6 I can't be a food blogger) - a whole lotta vinegar, a whole lotta water, several teaspoons of cinnamon, a couple teaspoons of ground cloves, and a bunch of sugar. The original recipe I have is for making 2 cups of beets only. So when I'm making 20 pints, I haven't a clue how much of anything to put in there. That's higher math and I don't want to hurt myself. So I guestimate and dump. And then when it's too briney-ish-esque-able, I add water.

Time to add the sliced beets to the brine and bring it to a boil. Oh hell, I don't have a photo of that either. (Reason #7) Oh, and I do add some sliced onions. Those are the little floating white bits, just in case you were wondering. (Reason #8)

Now it's time to sterilize the jars, lids, seals, and utensils (which include tongs, a knife, and a canning funnel).

Here's how my friend Diane sterilizes her jars. It's quite brilliant, actually, and so much easier than letting the jars tumble around in a pot of boiling water, risking breakage. First I wash them in a hot dishwasher, then I heat a 9x13 pan of water on a burner. I roll the jars on their sides in the hot water and stand them upside down so the steam can rise inside and kill any little buggers still hanging around. I also put the lids and seals in there, and the tongs and other utensils for a good steam bath.

See the steam? I burned myself a good seven or so times. Thanks for the technique, Diane!

Once the jars are hot and the beet-brine-mixture is hot, it's time to fill the jars. This isn't jelly-making, so there isn't a huge time crunch. Just flip a jar onto the counter (and be sure to use a hotpad to hold it), put the funnel into the jar's mouth, and start ladeling the beets into the jar. (Bloody hell, I forgot to mention ladle in the list above. Reason #9.)

Fill the jar with beets, then ladle enough brine to fill the spaces. But leave about 1/2 inch of headspace. (I think after canning in 100% humidity I have about 1/2 inch of headspace left m'self. Or maybe I only had 1/2 inch to start with.)

When the jar is full, wipe the rim with a dry cloth or paper towel, then use tongs to grab a lid and a seal from the boiling water pan. And this is where the knife comes in, because sometimes some of the feisty little jar lids seal themselves to the bottom of the sterilizing pan and they need to be pried off. Insolent little things. Taking care to use a hotpad, hold the jar with one hand and twist on the seal with the other - tight, but not too tight.

Now it's time to set the jars aside and wait for the little "pop" you hear when the jars seal as they cool. Make a little "pop" noise with your lips - yep, it'll sound just like that. The first one always makes me jump up and down like a giddy school grrrl and yell "Yippee!" And I get all motherly over them and coo as they pop, one by one. It's a sorry sight, but I've earned it.

Reason #10 I can't be a food blogger - ugly hands. Hey, I'm a hard workin' gardener who's never had a manicure. And look, I didn't follow my own advice and use a hotpad. No wonder I have ugly hands.

Reason #11 - I think I keep changing verb tenses. My PR editor is going to roll his eyes. My make-believe PR editor.

And reason #12 - I'm still messy. In fact, on batch #2 I got distracted by muppet youtube videos or something and let the brine boil over, which dribbled over the hot stove and under the sterilizing pan and started charring on the burners. Nice. And when I'm done, my house smells like burnt brine and the counter looks like this:

BUT!.... When I'm done, I have this:

And food blogger-worthy or not, THAT is a pretty sight. Those will sustain us through the winter, accompany us on many a gathering, and look lovely atop my salad or aside my broiled fish.

And I finished in 1-1/2 hours and took off my apron a mere 3 minutes before it was time to go to town and fetch the kids.

Badabing, Badabam. Beat that, foodies.

Why I'm Not a Food Blogger - Part II

Raining Cats and Dogs and... Chicken Poop?

Honestly.... The things that happen around here....

I dropped in on my sister at the family farm yesterday, which means my 3 boys who can't-live-without-me-for-very-long eventually showed up and we had an impromptu summer gathering. It rained off and on and the gaggle of kids got a kick out of running in the rain and then leaping into a pile of feed corn. This is the farm version of tar and feathers - rain and corn dust - and they looked a sight.



Photo: The rain-and-corn cousins, after a water fight that involved very large buckets


We adults ambled over to be sure the younger ones weren't going to gore themselves on a corn auger or something, when I saw an enormous pile of... mulch... or dirt... or something...

What's that? I asked my brother-in-law, Mulch?

No, that's chicken sh*t, he said. (Actually, I think he said chicken manure, but I'm always looking for a good excuse to cuss.)

Chicken sh*it?! This wasn't a pile, people, this was a mountain. A mountain of poo. Gives a touch of relevancy to the old saying "King Sh*t of Turd Mountain" - which was one of our favorite sayings growing up. (Hey, we were country kids with only 2 tv stations. We were slightly out of touch with coolness.)

My sister and Marcel raise organic chickens on the family farm, but it was news to me that 60 chickens can poop THAT much. I started asking all the wrong questions, assuming the poo was from their flock. I know poo has to set for a long while before it can be used as fertilizer. It's too hot right out of the ol' butthole (sorry - couldn't resist). It has to break down, compost, cool off, and then it can be spread on the fields. They'd cleaned out the barn not too long ago and I was surprised to hear they could use the poop already.

When it finally became clear it wasn't poop from their chickens, I asked where it came from.

The internet.

If that doesn't give a whole new meaning to online shopping, I don't know what does. The ol' "you can get anything on ebay!" excitement probably doesn't lead one to think "even chicken sh*t!" I'm thinking we've got the makings of a Dirty Jobs episode right here in the cornfields.

The organic poo is one of many requirements to gain organic certification for the hay fields, the first transition for the family farm from conventional farming. Marcel said someone would come and spread the poo tomorrow. Which is today. You get that? Cuz I'm typing this the next day? (Try to keep up with my inarticulate meanderings.)

So this morning I left for my bike ride, the first one since the dog bite incident a few days ago. (Another Hollywood opportunity perhaps?) I now have to ride 3 miles to get to my one-mile-away mom's house unless I'm willing to let Fido get another chance to taste my ankle bone. (I really, really hope she didn't like the taste of me.) After a cup of coffee and a chat with mum, we heard a huge roaring, rumbling engine and walked outside to see the most enormous chicken sh*t spreader in the industrial world. Seriously, I bet the driver carries a ladder to get in the thing. This baby was BIG. Like, freight-train-big. It makes our farm tractor look like a riding lawnmower and our Toyota Prius hybrid look like a Happy Meal Toy. I'll bet my nephew - who adores big trucks - woulda hyperventilated and peed himself at the sight of it.

It started to spread its load of chicken shat. But the dried chicken poo went everywhere. A veritable mushroom cloud of chicken dung released into the air like a bad sneeze, and you couldn't even see the 8-gazillion horsepower spreader for the blanket of chicken poo-spew behind it. My mom suggested I take off for home before the entire countryside became engulfed in the stuff, so I kicked 'er into high gear and set off on my bike. (There were 4 different synonyms for sh*t used in that paragraph. Impressed?)

Too late.

The first whiff made my brain scream Stinky Socks! Ew-ew-ew! It smells like month-old stinky socks! But then, after another snoutful of the stuff, reality kicked in. I'm inhaling chicken sh*t! Oh dear Lord it's up my nose! Oh dear God it's in my lungs! I was like Lucy from Peanuts, who wailed, "My lips touched dog lips!"... except my lips were touching, um, the wrong end of the animal, if you will. Ew-ew-ew-EW.

I tried to hold my breath. I tried to cover my mouth and nose with one hand and still pump up the hill. I sputtered and choked and convulsed and after I finally got through the haze and calmed my gag reflex, I laughed....

You have GOT to be kidding me. I just biked 1/4 mile through a dense rain of chicken dung.

Nice.

Photo: The sort of bath I needed after today's bike ride

I wonder what'll happen on tomorrow's bike ride?

Rainbow Expansion

Intuition Ignored

You know what they say... if you've got it, you might as well use it.

I think that's usually said about things like an overabundance of zucchini or leftover fabric scraps, but in today's case I'm talking about the big 'I'.... The third eye.... Cosmic awareness.... Intuition. I have it - lots of it, in fact. I'm a Pisces, a water-baby, whose M.O. is, like, all intuition, man.

It spoke to me today. I didn't listen to it today.

It can be difficult to discern the difference between true intuition warning you away from something, and simple procrastination or laziness. I didn't feel like taking my morning bike ride today. I mean, I really didn't feel like it. I really, really didn't feel like it. It was a lovely sunny morning, perfect for a ride. I didn't have to be anywhere so there was ample time for a longer ride. I did my five sun salutations and that felt great. But I really didn't want to go.

And I went.

I mean, sheesh, I'd just blogged about my morning bike rides and my quest to have killer thighs! I'd just blogged about bike riding being my stress reliever and the ideal way to start a day! I had to go! There was no reason not to go. Well, unless you count my intuition telling me not to.

I got 1/2 mile down the road and was attacked by a dog. A big dog.

It was one of those convergence-of-several-bad-things that put me smack in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn't heed the first sign - my intuition - and the next several signs didn't register properly.

I came over a hill and saw a neighbor woman standing in the road. I stopped. Further along I could see a car parked on the shoulder, a girl walking a horse, a couple dogs, and several farmers climbing into a pasture. That's called a traffic jam in my neck of the woods. I asked if something was wrong and she said no, just a calf separated from her mama and they were trying to reunite them. We exchanged "lovely day, isn't it?" pleasantries and off I pedaled. Straight into the mess.

The woman's dog came racing out toward me, teeth bared. I saw it coming and didn't panic because her dog always races toward me, teeth bared. It's a part of my morning routine. I've been waiting to feel that dog's teeth in my calf for going on 11 years now. I yelled at it and continued on.

Then I saw two more dogs coming my way, a big one and a wee one. I still didn't panic because I've passed these dogs dozens and dozens of times, and usually they barely lift their noses in my direction. I'd even petted these dogs, greeted them on my rides; we even observed a snapping turtle together once. But when the big dog got within a few feet of me I saw the fur bristled and the teeth bared, and before I knew what to do it lunged and bit my ankle. It lunged again, I lifted my leg just in time and screamed, and the young girl grabbed the dog and held it back as I rode off. I wasn't sure if I was hurt until I got another 1/4 mile down the road - until then all systems said get the h*ll out of here and I was going on adrenaline. (Good stuff, that adrenaline.)

My mom lives just around the next corner and I rode there, limped into her kitchen, and burst into tears. I've done that many times over the years. I did it when my first true love moved away. I did it while in college for reasons-that-need-not-be-shared. I did it when the doctor found a lump in my breast. I've done it about 93 times since Dad died. I think she keeps tissue and a bottle of valium near the back door for just this sort of occasion.

She calmed me down and patched me up, and I stayed until my nerves settled down. I'd just this morning had a feeling wash over me that said What if I'm suddenly gone tomorrow just like my dad was suddenly gone? And seeing a vicious dog bear down on me was a little too close for comfort.

The doc says I'll be ok, and I've got a sore right arm from a tetanus shot to balance out my sore left ankle. There are four holes in my ankle, but they're not deep, and I swear the nurse's cleaning technique hurt just as much as the bite itself.

My sister had intuitive signs before my father's accident. She even called him before they went north and told him she didn't think he should snowmobile. She acted on it. He promised to be careful. He was careful. Tragedy struck anyway.

I had intuitive signs at a park day with the kids one time. After two hours of seemingly-irrational unease I finally insisted we leave, only to hear on the nightly news that an escaped felon was being hunted in that very park. Tragedy averted.

I thought I was just feeling lazy this morning, even though my feelings against biking were strong and out of place this morning. I was lucky this time. It was a BIG dog. If it had gotten me off my bike... ((shudder))....

Rob is very sweet. Not only is he protectively pissed off, he brought home a whole mess of sweet treats to make me feel better and even bought a rose that the silly check-out clerk never placed into the bag. It's the thought that counts, of course, and I was teary all over again as soon as he got home. I'm like that. I'm strong until I see one of my nurturers - then I'm a puddle before I even get a word out.

Thinking back with the fog of adrenaline gone, it was my primal scream that made the dog back down just long enough for the girl to get its attention. I didn't recognize the sound that came from my body. It was fear manifested as noise. I don't think I could make that sound again if I tried, and hope I never have to make it again. I don't know where it came from.

It's not the pain that will stay with me, either - it's the fear.

I'm not going to sue the neighbors. And in true Pisces style, I was sad when I found out the doctors are mandated to report it and the dog may be impounded. But with a swelling, bloody ankle, I had to tell myself over and over I am more important right now as I drove to the doctor's office. I don't like conflict, and I empathize with being on the receiving end of such news.

Photo: Baby bird rescue

And the owner told me the dog just had pups. She's just being a protective mama.

Now there's something I can relate to - a mother's intuition.

Q&A Time

Homeschoolers get lots of questions, and they're usually the same ones over and over and over. We get well-versed in our 'elevator speech,' a one-minute-or-less summary of why we homeschool, how we homeschool, or how in the h*ll we can stand to be with our kids all day. But answering questions about homeschooling - and especially about unschooling - is really not that simple. The answer to the question depends, oddly enough, upon the questioner. Some questioners we're real fond of; others we see coming and start ducking our heads and zig-zagging through six lanes of traffic, screaming, "Come ON!" to our frightened children.

Let's dissect the types of questioners, shall we?

There are people who are curious but know nothing about it. We give rather average synopses to those folks - not too much nor too little information. Enough to satisfy the curiosity (yes, my kids read a lot) but not enough to make them twitchy (in their underwear). When people think doing 'school' at the kitchen table - or worse, in a room designated 'classroom' or 'schoolroom' - is the only way to homeschool, there isn't any reason to suggest otherwise and poke holes in their comfortable assumptions. They think I don my denim skirt and matching appliqued-apples-and-letter-blocks sweater and expect the kids to call me Ms. Laura from 8a-3p - and there's probably no telling them otherwise. Some people are curious enough to withstand my incessant 4-hour ramblings about homeschooling, but most folks don't want to hear anything about it beyond assurance that a) our kids are learning (they are), and b) they're learning the same things as their schooled peers, at the same time, and in the same ways (Um, sure. Yes. Of course. Of course!) 'B' might not be entirely true, but it's not within the realm of possibility for them, and I wouldn't want anyone to have to get uncomfortable about it. (I'm really nice like that.)

There are those who seek information because they've always considered it - or their grandchildren are doing it, or their child is having an especially bad time at school and they're worried. We'll go deeper with these folks, but the focus will be on why they can indeed homeschool (and won't be driven stark-raving-mad by their kids); or how fortunate their grandchildren are to be homeschooled; or why homeschooling could be a great alternative to their child's current situation of getting sucker punched at recess every day. And then these folks fall into a couple of sub-categories.

Some are discerning enough to know the educational system ain't all it's cracked up to be, and they see it could be done better. But they aren't always confident enough to stray from the herd. They worry about socialization (even though we all remember hearing "You are NOT here to socialize!" from a teacher or two - or twelve). They worry about making their kids do math, and teaching things they struggled with in school (like how to hide from bullies and make up good excuses to use the bathroom). They've opened the door a crack, but they haven't let in enough light. They're disenfranchised, yes, but opening the door nice and wide might mean they have to see some things they'd rather not examine. At least not yet. "Better the devil you know than the devil you don't" is reason to stay in the system rather than take the daring leap into the unknown. Ultimately, these people rarely homeschool. But I always figure any time they think critically about their child's school experience, it's a good thing. I always encourage them to be a strong advocate for children. Like maybe if nothing is being done about the sucker-punching bully, they should offer to beat him up themselves. (Settle down - that's a joke.)

Others, however, are unhappy with a current situation but don't necessarily know a thing about alternative options like homeschooling. When they consider pulling their kids out of school, their biggest concerns are where they'll get the same textbooks, not how to heal their kids after time in the system. (Unschoolers recommend lots of ice cream and lots of screen time, preferrably together.) These are often the people who will pull their kids out of school, then frantically call one of us and demand to know where we got our textbooks and what our school schedule looks like. (Well let's see, we eat breakfast sometime between 7am and 1pm...) I listen to their stories and discern where they are in the transition and why they've chosen homeschooling. I try to calm them a bit, and explain deschooling. I refer them to local support groups and online resources. These conversations are search and rescue, CPR for desperate parents. We see their arms splashing wildly and we grab our trusty life preserver and head out with determination. Homeschooling can be an amazing remedy to school-related trauma, but people have to remember to breathe and take a chill. Their kids are wanting lap time, and the parents are ordering seventeen curriculum brochures. Whoa, nelly.

And finally there are the people who ask questions in search of faults. They have already decided you're half-cracked for homeschooling your children, sealing their fate as deprived misfits. These folks can be spotted a mile away, in facial expressions if not tone of voice that they often try to disguise with sugary sweetness. They like to lure you into their trap, make you feel all cozy and warm, then pounce. "So... you're saying you're perfectly fine with not knowing how your kids measure up? Huh. Well isn't that interesting...." These people are no fun at all. A lot of lying by ommission happens with these people.

Once Brady called me on it. We were dishing our plates at a church potluck when an older woman started complaining to me about homeschoolers. She knew we homeschooled, but she was sure her concerns were falling on sympathetic ears. Apparently she knew some unschoolers and they riled her something fierce. I was trapped, stuck in the line, and smiled and nodded as she finished her little rant. Then she lowered the boom - she sought my agreement with a pointed statement... "But I'm sure YOU homeschool the proper way!"

Oh! Oh, um, yes, we do all sorts of interesting things.

We do all sorts of interesting things? Well, we do, but what did that have to do with her implied statement? A lame answer indeed, but it was all I could come up with at the moment. And thankfully she was too keyed up to even notice I'd blubbered jibberish. She nodded smugly and toddled off with her plate overflowing with unrecognizable casseroles, and Brady turned to me and said quite plainly, "you lied."

Not exactly, I replied, and we had a lengthy discussion about the futility of 'going there' with someone who was so obviously rooted in her opinion about unschooling. I talked about how difficult it would've been to try to convince her otherwise, and beyond that, why would I want to? I didn't really like her all that much. Er, I mean... She wasn't seeking information, she was seeking confirmation. I didn't agree with her, but it was easier to let her believe so. She wasn't open to understanding unschooling and frankly, that's ok.

I've given public talks about unschooling, but those people wanted to be there. It's great fun sharing information with people who come in with open minds. Not so fun being trapped in the grocery store aisle with a cart loaded with plastic water guns, getting drilled on why we're out and about at 10am on a school day with a cart full of plastic water guns. It's a reminder for me not to judge others based on what I think I know. ("So... you're perfectly fine with not knowing if your child will get sucker punched at recess today?") And while I don't know (or care) whether or not my children know the same exact things as their schooled peers or just a whole lot more (settle down - that's a joke too), I do know they're getting good at dodging speeding cars in six lanes of traffic. And that's the sort of practical knowledge we homeschoolers are reeeeal good about teachin'.

P.S. Have a question about unschooling? Ask nicely and ye shall receive.

Be Patient

Bikes and Boys

I absolutely adore biking. I do it almost every morning. It's my exercise, my stress relief, my centering tool, my communion with morning sunshine and chattering birds and open road.

It started 14 years ago. Rob and I bought matching Trek mountain bikes at a Madison bike shop, and I was immediately hooked. We bought a child seat and I'd take off the for the country hills with Brady strapped on the back. He'd fall asleep, I'd get a good thigh burn, and I'd push myself to get up the biggest hills in the highest gears. It tones my whole body and gives me that amazing physical tiredness I need to sleep well at night. One summer I biked something like 80 out of a possible 90 days. I had thighs that wouldn't quit back then. ('Course, I was a lot younger, too. :)

After 13 years on a mountain bike, Rob surprised me with a road bike for Christmas! And once you go road, you never go back, lemme tell ya. Mountain bikes to roads bikes are like mopeds to motorcycles. There's just no comparison. My mountain bike is fun for rugged rides, but I ride like the wind on my new bike. I can cover the same distance in nearly half the time, and that's way cool.

Biking is a great antidote for stress. I might wake and grumble about taking a ride, but as soon as I leave the driveway and feel the wind rush past, I feel the tension start to melt away. I can measure my stress levels by the distance I need to cover before I feel better. Some stress melts away immediately, and the feeling of muscles moving and the sound of birds singing and the view of the hills breaks me from my mood straight away. But other times, the troubling thoughts are harder to shake, and it takes several miles and several killer hills to break through the threshold. There've been bike rides where I've not noticed a single hill because I was so distracted by my current angst, the release taking mile after mile after mile.

But there are many rides where the solution to a current dilemma suddenly appears, or a new writing project comes to mind, or a week's worth of menus get planned. I get a regular update of local crops and home projects in the area, and I get an intimate view of the seasons of wildflowers. I never tire of dodging the same potholes or visiting the same stretches of road.

Lately, though, I've pondered the same thing over and over and over as I ride. My current conflict isn't really a conflict at all - just a really huge, somewhat unexpected transition that is worrisome and exciting and scary and hopeful....

Brady is going to school.

Can you believe it? We're not sure WE believe it yet. He's giving it a try. 9th grade. High school.

It's a long story how it came about, and I'm not in the mood to type it all out just now. Suffice to say it's a transition that's needed some quiet contemplation, which is why I haven't blogged about it yet. And when the range of emotions are all over the map, what I say today won't be how I'll feel tomorrow and probably isn't anything like where I was yesterday.

But that's our big news. My boy is venturing off into an entirely different realm, and none of us knows what our life will look like in 26 short days. Stay tuned.

For now, I'll continue to ride with the wind, and offer my fears to the universe, and let my feelings run their course in the comforting rhythm of the pedals as I climb hill after hill after hill on mile after mile after mile.

Who knows - I just might have those killer thighs again yet.