Two Turkeys With One Stone

For those of you who are on my Christmas card/letter list:  you've already gotten this letter so you can click delete ......... UNLESS you want to see the photos I've added.  For those of you who are not on my Christmas card/letter list:  This year's Christmas letter was so much like a blog post I figured if I'd gone to all the work to write it, I might as well post it.

December, 2016

Autumn lasted so long this year I was beginning to wonder if we’d be eating Christmas dinner out on the deck but as it turned out, one day I was digging in the garden, bits of compost sticking to my sweaty skin, and two days later 12 inches of snow fell.  I fretted because we still had half a row of potatoes to dig up but Dean was fretting about his 30 or so wild turkey “children” because they weren’t eating.  Earlier in the day, as he had walked around the yard shaking his can of birdseed, they’d followed him like he was the Pied Piper of Turkeyland and watched as he spread the seed over an area he had lovingly cleared of snow so they wouldn’t have to punch their ugly little beady-eyed heads through the snow to find it.  But instead of eating the seed they just hopped around it, bobbing their heads up and down, squawking.  I suggested that maybe they just weren’t hungry but he assured me that they had to be hungry.  He hadn’t fed them the day before when it was snowing so they’re probably starving!! I thought they were just stupid.  After all, once they fly over the eight-foot high fence into our garden there’s almost always one bird too stupid to remember how to fly out.  When we see Mr. or Ms. Dim-Wit stuck in the garden, we open the gate and shoo it toward the opening, only to watch the pea-brain run right past that wide-open gate, poke its head through the fence, discover its body isn’t following, run further, shove its head through the fence, and on and on, until finally! the dingbat flies over the fence to freedom … or the next fenced in garden.    

Fortunately winter hadn’t arrived yet when we went to DC to visit Abby or I might have had to find a turkey-sitter who would send Dean daily updates of his gobblers.  She was there working on a three month temporary detail as Acting Deputy Chief of Staff for APHIS (Animal Plant Health and Inspection Service) and we thought, what a great opportunity for Abby to share her small one-bedroom apartment AND every minute of her free time with us for ten whole days!  While she was hard at work Dean and I went to museum after museum after museum and we only got yelled at by a museum guard one time each.  I was just glad there were only a few other tourists around each time it happened so it was only super embarrassing – not super duper embarrassing.  When we weren’t in a museum we were in an art gallery, and even though art galleries aren’t my thing and I didn’t “get” a lot of what I saw, or understand why some exhibits were even considered art, I tried really hard to appreciate it, and most especially tried not to yawn when Dean was looking my way. 

When we walked into this gallery the room was filled with objects made of antelope, deer and elk bone and my first reaction was, “seriously?”  I came all the way to DC just to see more animal stuff?  But it was all really pretty cool. 

Really?  This is art?  Do YOU “get” it?

We also learned how to ride the metro to where we really intended to go, and even got to experience the fear, racing heart and barely contained panic when, on one trip, the train door opened and a metro policeman bellowed “evacuate the station!  Evacuate the station!” 

 

Addendum to original letter ~~~~  We did actually do more than just go to museums and art galleries.  The first weekend we rented a tiny (and from the groans we heard in the back seat apparently shockless) car which we drove to Chincoteague Island so Abby could get her beach fix ....

.....and Assateague Island to see the wild horses.

The next weekend on Saturday we metro'd and uber'd to Mount Vernon and a street art festival and then on Sunday rented another tiny little rattle-trap car (which was upgraded to a Mercedes!) and we drove to Great Falls on the Potomac River....

..... and finished the day by pulling up in style to a winery.

And now ... back to my original Christmas letter.










Jorge was only able to visit Abby once while she was in DC because he’s been busy finishing up the final statistics, lab work, analysis, writing and everything else he needs to do in order to complete his PhD in the fall of 2017.  Who knows where they’ll live once he finishes and finds a job (if it’s DC we still have our metro cards!) but wherever it is, we’ll be brightening their lives with our visits.      

Leslie and Ryan will be going to DC themselves for a week in April because a few weeks ago Ryan was chosen as the Wyoming State Teacher of the Year!  They’ll be participating in all kinds of activities, one of which will be a black-tie dinner at the White House, but what they’re really excited about is that all five of them will get to go to Space Camp!  As exciting as that is, I think Leslie was even more ecstatic when, after a year and a half of taking classes, studying and writing papers at the same time she was teaching full time, she finished her Masters in Special Education. 

That means that I am now the only non-nerd in the family.   If I was a nerd, I would develop a spreadsheet of the composition, size, shape, texture and weight of every object Baxter has thrown up.  Or I would analyze the dog food that Angus had been eating to determine why it gave him seizures.  Or I would calculate degree days to determine the average date of arrival of Box Elder bugs so I’d be armed and ready for the annual massacre.  Or I’d write a program to model the average placement, circumference and sliminess of the turkey poop left in our yard so I’d know where to step.  But instead I think I’ll just accept my non-nerd status and go bake some Christmas cookies.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!!!

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Two Turkeys With One Stone

Merry Christmas From All of Us to All of You!

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Merry Christmas From All of Us to All of You!

Feliz Navidad!

I’ve been gone.   Have you noticed?  We shared Thanksgiving with my family in Lincoln and extended the holiday by celebrating Dean’s mom’s 85^th birthday with his family before driving home, unpacking, packing again and leaving two days later for Ecuador where we spent 12 days with Abby and Jorge.  I have lots of stories and lots of photos.  What I haven’t had is time.  Time to share those stories and photos.  Heck I haven’t had time to LOOK at any photos we took.  I haven’t had time to bake one Christmas cookie or write a Christmas letter or even just sign my name to a Christmas card, slap a stamp on it and throw it in the mailbox.   (Don’t worry Dean, I did find time to shop – a little.)

I have only had time to unpack and make a list of things we need to bring to Leslie and Ryan’s before we pack again to spend Christmas with them in Sheridan.  We will be relaxing and napping  in front of their fireplace, playing with kids and pretty much just kicking back and being lazy.  (There ARE advantages to reaching this “golden age”!)   Abby and Jorge will be spending their Christmas with Jorge’s family at the beach dancing until dawn.   I wish we could all be together again like we were last year, but if Jorge’s Complicated/How Does Anybody Navigate This Process?/Really?  Immigration needs WHAT piece of paper now?!/Visa Process goes well, Abby and Jorge will be living here in the U.S. for next year’s holiday season (another story I haven’t had time to tell).  Cross your fingers!

When life slows down and I have put our suitcases away for longer than seven days, I will tell you stories about blue-footed boobies, pina coladas on the beach, a street filled with luminarias, lying in bed listening to the beautiful early morning singing flowing from the cathedral across the street from our hotel, walking on the paramo at 13,000 feet in El Cajas National Park  and listening to the deep sighs of  my head-holding sick husband as Jorge drove down winding mountain roads, brow wrinkled and tense with worry about his father-in-law, on our last day in Ecuador.

In the meantime, I wish you all a wonderful Christmas and Joyous New Year.   I hope you are all able to share it with someone you love.

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Feliz Navidad!

Arrggh! I Be Needin' Food!

There has been a lot happening in our neck of the woods in the past few weeks, not the least of which was Christmas and all that it involves.  There was a harrowing ride to and from the airport as well as ...

cookie frosting ...

figuring out how to transform the transformer ...

cooking ... (for recipe go here)

gift opening ...

relaxing ...

and of course, the expected eating and eating and eating, and, well, more eating.  

As I “forced” myself to eat more and more cookies and breads and candies and wine and trifle and pie and the occasional token carrot, my body did what it had to do to accommodate the cornucopia of foodstuffs I was sending down my gullet.  It (specifically, my belly) stretched to make room.   After weeks of this endless eating I’ve begun to worry I will be forced to shop for larger clothes and the only thing I hate more than shopping is … well, there’s nothing I hate more than shopping.  So I’ve  taken drastic measures.  I tied my wrists to a chair.  I tied my wrists to the arms of a chair and yelled “stop!”  Sort of.  Actually, I whispered it to myself.  In my head.  This morning.  I tied my wrists to the arms of a chair and whispered “stop!” right after I opened my desk drawer and ate some of the candy I’d stored up “in case of emergency.”

Non-stop eating was important but it wasn't the only activity keeping us busy.   We also participated in the popular sport of winter driving.   Abby & Jorge flew from the tropics of Ecuador and landed in a blizzard just before the airport was closed.  Our normally four-hour trip to the airport turned into a six hour drive over ice and snow.  And the usual four-hour trip home took over seven, not counting an unexpected overnight stay in Cheyenne because the interstate closed partway home.  

I took my job as navigator very seriously on this drive and kept Dean alert to all driving hazards by ceaselessly reminding him to “go slow…take your time…don’t rush…slow is good…let the idiots pass…they’ll end up in the ditch just like the other 11 cars we’ve already seen…”  We all really wanted to be home but it was probably a good thing the interstate closed because staying in Cheyenne also gave Abby’s tongue time to heal in preparation for the next day when she got to listen to me “help” Dean again.

Even with the heater blasting in the car, Jorge spent most of the time on the ride home like this:  

But it only took a few days for him to transform  – like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis – and take off the coat he had been wearing inside the house.

After that, the possibilities were endless.  Before we knew it he was out in the cold and snow shredding and sledding with the best of them. 

If you want to see videos of the action you can go here.

Of course all that “skiing” and sledding worked up an appetite which resulted in, yes, even more eating. 

The expansion of my belly over the past month or so has been a bit disheartening.  It’s hard to ignore a protruding belly, which means I’ve been spending more time thinking about why it’s become larger and flabbier which reminds me of cookies, and cakes and pies and cheese and pretty much all kinds of food (except vegetables) which makes me hungry, which causes me to reach for those cookies and candies and cheese, which is why I finally had to tie my wrists to a chair. 

Gosh, I hope all this talk about food hasn’t ruined your well-intentioned “eat healthy” New Year’s resolution and sent you running to the kitchen where you are now squirting chocolate sauce into your mouth.   If you are slumped in the corner, chocolate dribbling down your chin, don’t despair, because you too can utilize my wrist-tying-food-limiting technique.  But before you do, here’s a tip:  using ribbon to tie your wrists is the most comfortable.  However, if you are out of ribbon, a plastic grocery bag twisted into a rope will substitute nicely.   And if you prefer something more secure, I just happen to know where you can get a fine pair of handcuffs.  

Wait a minute.  You didn’t REALLY think I tied both my wrists to the arms of a chair did you?  Of course I didn’t do that.  It was only one wrist.  It’s pretty much impossible to tie both wrists to separate chair arms without any kind of help.  And if I asked for help, that would mean I was admitting I had a problem.  And I don’t.  Just because I have perfected the “one-armed-sneak-food-and-eat-undetected” technique is not an indicator that I need a food intervention.  Although it does mean I’m dragging a chair behind me everywhere I go … which is causing some issues with the walls … and it’s scaring the cats …

I need a smaller chair.

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Arrggh! I Be Needin' Food!

Christmas Déjà vu



Not everybody can have a juniper Christmas tree.

 On Christmas Day 29 years ago we were living here.

 

Dean brought our supplies in on a sled.



















I remember two things about that Christmas.


Yes, that is our wok lid covered in foil.


Number one: the main course was antelope. The four antelope we had shot that Fall were the only meat we ate for the nine months we lived out in the middle of nowhere, in a cabin with no electricity or running water, at the end of a road that was closed – either by drifting snow or mud – for five months of the year. Well, to be perfectly honest, we ate four antelope and the chicks we later mail-ordered, raised up until they were plump and tender and then sacrificed to the God of Hungry Stomachs.

Number two: Friends from town drove 40 miles on a wintery highway, seven miles on a snow-covered dirt road, and then skied ½ mile or so in to our little cabin just so they could share Christmas dinner with us. I don’t remember what time we had determined dinner would be served but when that hour came, even though our friends had not yet arrived, we sat down and ate. There was no discussion as to whether or not they may have driven off the road and were lying bloody in a snow bank. There was no discussion as to whether or not they might have gotten lost and were wandering around freezing and disoriented. There was no discussion as to whether or not we should worry about them or wait for them. We just figured they weren’t coming. It was time to eat so we ate. I now know, many years later, that we should have waited for their arrival before we ate our Christmas dinner. But when you’re living in somewhat “rustic” conditions, you become a bit primordial. You just kind of forget about small details like brushing your hair or not eating dinner until your guests arrive.

We had just swallowed that last bite of antelope and wiped the grease from our mouths with the back of our hands when our visitors arrived at our door. Their cheeks were red from the cold; they were invigorated from the ski and their hungry stomachs were anticipating a warm and welcoming dinner. I hang my head in shame when I tell you we felt no embarrassment as we told them we’d already eaten. We just brought them in, sat them down at the table, and placed the measly remains of our Christmas dinner in front of them.

Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Emily Post would have been red-faced at our total disregard of common courtesy. But here’s the thing. Living in isolation can sometimes cause a person to become a little bit weird or even the teensiest bit crazy. I’m sure Dean thinks he stayed perfectly sane but it wasn’t me who thought pickups could fly over snow drifts four feet high.  And anyway, I only beat my fists in the snow bank and screamed at the stars once.

Twenty-nine years later, we once again spent Christmas in a cabin, only this time Dean and I were the visitors. Christmas morning we donned snow shoes and walked about ¾ mile in to a cabin on the mountain to surprise three little grandchildren. It was a sunny and crisp day with only the sound of the crunching snow and Dean yelping each time the bell on his pack swung into his elbow.

You’ll just have to imagine a picture of three surprised faces excitedly running out of the cabin door because as we approached the cabin, I reached for my camera, and promptly fell into a twisted heap.

Fortunately for Dean and me, Leslie and Ryan were much better hosts than we had been to our visitors.  They made Emily Post proud. Even though we were ½ hour late arriving they did not eat without us. There was lots of food –  cheese, salami, delicious soup, homemade bread topped with butter Emerson had shaken by hand in a jar with a marble, ham steaks, baked beans, garden carrots and potatoes, cornbread and homemade cookies.

We wore ourselves out sledding,

playing games,

and helping with chores.

There was a bedtime story under the soft glow of kerosene lamps,

before we all crawled into our beds. Dean and I shared a bed with Pierce. It was a quiet and peaceful night. There were no cars roaring down the street, no sirens, and no barking dogs. The only sounds were Myra’s soft snoring, the occasional snap of the fire flickering in the stove, and a sharp intake of breath whenever Dean rolled over onto Pierce’s freezing cold water bottle.

It came to an end much too quickly. There was a quick icicle tossing contest before we packed up,

 fired up the snowmobile,

left the peace and beauty of the mountain, and headed back to town.

However, unlike the visitors who came to see Dean and me all those years ago, we left with bellies filled with oatmeal covered in brown sugar and homemade butter and many happy memories.

More photos of Christmas on the mountain are here.

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Christmas Déjà vu

The Sounds and Smells of Christmas

Last weekend Leslie came over and we had a Christmas goodie baking day. She wanted to send a box of home baked goodies to Grandpa (my dad) who, after Mom died, became adept at cooking burgers in the George Foreman Grill, but has not yet figured out how to bake a cookie in it.  She figured he might enjoy cookies made from Grandma’s recipes, so we made Ginger Lace Cookies, Sugar Cookies, Walnut Balls, Mexican wedding cakes and Scotcheroos.

Grandma’s Old Fashioned Fudge was also on the “to make” list but I told Leslie she was on her own for that one. Back before I came to my senses I used to try and make that fudge. I wanted to make it just like Mom’s – perfect. I tried several times, but my fudge was usually more like sand than silky smooth chocolate. The last time I tried to make Mom’s fudge was when Abby needed a treat for a party when she was in grade school. That time I overcompensated for the sand factor and it was too soft. Rather than be discouraged, I was inspired. I proudly handed her a container of “fudge balls” to take to school. Unfortunately the poor child was scarred for life after being teased by her fellow students about the “elk poop” she brought to the party. Not one to be deterred by my experiences however, Leslie valiantly attempted the fudge — which progressed beyond sand to cement and she was also forced to admit defeat.

As we all know, Christmas goodie baking can be a dangerous activity. There is the risk of blindness when spinning beaters are lifted from a bowl of icing. There is the tongue burning hazard resulting from “testing” a cookie before it’s sufficiently cooled. There is the peril of burning flesh which can happen in the blink of an eye when your husband walks behind you with a cup of steaming tea as you are turning with a pan of cookies which were, a mere two seconds earlier, baking in a 350 degree oven. And then there is the risk you will chop off a body part.

Leslie and I weren’t the only ones who were chopping last weekend. While frantic cookie-baking was going on in the kitchen (with occasional “help” from a child)  ...

there was some pretty intense chopping going on in Dean’s art room. Art and craft lessons with Papa have become a Saturday morning ritual at our house.

And sometimes those lessons have involved a paper cutter. A very sharp, very wicked sounding paper cutter. You

know – the kind of paper cutter children are warned away from with sayings of “if you even LOOK at that paper cutter, your fingers will shrivel and dry up and every time you pick your nose a finger will break off.” Of course, if you are the Papa who owns that child-mutilating contraption, apparently it is your duty to “teach the children how to cut paper” without shortening their already stubby little digits.

 My method of dealing with any Dean-led activity which I am positive will (but Dean assures me won’t) result in a calamity, is to just pretend like it’s not happening. For example, when the girls were young and we went hiking, I would see Dean take my daughters up close to the edge of a cliff so they could see “that special rock way down there”; the rock just beyond the depression in the ground where I suspect some previous father’s child had gotten a “closer” look. When that happened I would just turn around, walk away and hum a happy tune to myself. “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’” was always a good choice.

Anyway, as the cookie production continued, every time I caught a glimpse of three children, Dean, and a paper cutter, all together in the same room, and heard the rrriiiiiiccccchhhhhhttttttt sound only a wickedly sharp blade can make, I cringed, turned away, and beat that cookie batter to the tune in my head, “I They Will Survive” which, as it turned out, was a good song choice. Later in the day when I heard that very same rrriiiiiiccccchhhhhhttttttt sound, it was Pierce, in the art room, all alone, with the very shiny, very sharp paper cutter, contentedly putting all his recently learned skills to work.

After the screaming died down and Dean pointed out that Pierce had NOT cut off his fingers, he somehow managed to twist the blame onto me since I was the one who had made Pierce cry when I bellowed “NO!” — not his Papa, who cooed over him and took him off to watch football in the den with him. A bit later as Leslie and I were spreading the melted butterscotch chips on top of the Scotcheroos, we heard muffled cries coming from the living room. Pierce was on the couch, bouncing up and down, his head shaking back and forth, both hands rubbing the saliva that was dripping out of his mouth all over his face. He was making gagging noises and choking sounds. Leslie grabbed him and kept saying over and over, each question a bit louder, “Pierce! What did you eat? Pierce! What’s in your mouth? Pierce! Show me what you put in your mouth!” Squeaks, gagging, face rubbing, head shaking and smeared spit was all she got in return to her frantic questioning.

Finally, as only a mother can, she interpreted the gurgles and gags to be “it stinks! Stinky! Stinky!” In concert with each other, Leslie and I yelled “Dean! Dad! Did you fart?!” Dean, not even realizing he was now alone watching football, of course denied it. He blamed it on the dog. Pierce meanwhile was still gagging and spitting and holding his nose. Leslie told him to “go downstairs where it won’t stink.” Centuries of genetic conditioning kicked in. If smoke rises to the top, stink must do the same. He covered his head with a blanket, got down on all fours, stuck his skinny little butt in the air and scooted across the floor to the stairs.

In the time it took him to slide down the stairs on his belly with a blanket on his head, then turn around and run back up, he was back in the kitchen. He was still gagging, still holding his nose, and still shaking his head back and forth making more squeaky gurgling noises which Leslie interpreted to be “it followed me! It’s on me! Stinky! Stinky!”

Was it Dean? Was it Shadow? My vast experience with Dean tells me it wasn’t him. And Pierce’s eyes weren’t watering so it didn’t seem that Shadow had let one loose. My personal belief is that Pierce has a strong aversion to the aroma of butterscotch but only Pierce truly knows (and he’s not sharing).  What I do know is the next time I need some entertainment I’m going to have Leslie bring Pierce over, bake something with butterscotch chips and see what happens. But I’ll hide the paper cutter first.

If you have all finished frosting your cookies ...

and still have time for more baking, here is the recipe for my mom's:

Ginger Lace Cookies

¾ cup shortening

1 cup sugar

1 egg, beaten

1 tsp. cinnamon

1 tsp. ginger

2 level tsp. baking soda

2 cups flour

4 tablespoons molasses

Roll in balls the size of marbles. Roll each ball in sugar. Bake at 375 degrees for about six to eight minutes.

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The Sounds and Smells of Christmas