Monthly Archives: January 2011

Snowman Weather

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Ok, so we had weather earlier this weekend that allowed the sun to shine and finally break down the hard, cold white a bit. Just enough to get its thaw on, to create nice drips off of the eaves, to allow some of the road to show, to create a little mud, to even soak your clothes when you’re out in it…

…making a snowman.

Now I know you are not the kind of people to judge a grown woman who choses to use her precious free time walking out in the hills on a windy day while thinking to herself: “perfect consistency…and I have just the right outfit” only to plop down on a whim and begin the age-old ritual of turning and churning and transforming the sticky drifts of white that really are starting to get on your nerves into something a little cuter.

A little more bearable.

Because it was coming to the end of a month that is historically tough on most North Dakotans (at least those who have to start a car or bundle up to go outside at any point in the course of 31 days) and I was starting to feel house bound, cold, melancholy and pasty white. I needed this thaw to defrost my mood.

And I needed to make a snowman dammit.

So when the blue skies opened up, like they often do on winter days in ND, and brought with it the sun and temperatures in the low 30s, you couldn’t keep me inside if you put bolts on the doors.

Because I would have crawled out the damn windows or up the chimney or taken the roof off if I had to.

I needed to be in the warm sun, no matter the howling wind.

Well, nobody locked me in the house or sealed the windows up. In fact, no one was even around the place on Friday afternoon to witness this little childish endeavor. And that’s ok. I didn’t need spectators or a partner in crime to help me achieve a January level of bliss. I just needed the perfect spot, my mittens, and all of that snow.

So I stepped out into the glistening bright world, strapped on my snowshoes, and marched for the hills, sinking in heavy white, trudging and puffing and sweating my way to the perfect spot…

…where I plopped.

I plopped down on my hands and knees and gathered up the sticky, wet, previously untouched snow as the wind whipped through my neckerchief and turned my cheeks the brightest shade of red. I gathered and rolled and patted and fluffed and shaped each ball together, imagining all of the snowmen of my youth. Remembering how we used to roll the snowballs until they grew so large we couldn’t possibly move them another inch. And then we started all over again with the second, enlisting help from the bigger, stronger, boys on the playground or our dads or big brothers to hoist the second snowball up, and then the third.

I smiled as I remembered how we would raid our parent’s coat closest for the perfect scarf, the wool cap, the gloves we would hang on the end of the sticks we managed to dig out of the snow for Frosty’s arms.

We would track snow through the kitchen and stick our rosy faces into the refrigerator looking for a carrot, because the man must have a carrot nose.

And what about the eyes? Rocks if it the snow melted enough to find them. Or coal if we knew where that was hidden.

Buttons on his chest? Maybe grandpa’s vest or dad’s old feed jacket.

And sometimes the man made out of snow would have a smile. Sometimes we would make a U-shaped trail under his nose with a piece of licorice or rocks or the appropriate ingredient found in the fridge.

But if the smile could not literally be made, if we could not find the proper ingredient, it didn’t matter.


Because by the time that snowman was all put together into a huge, towering man in a great outfit he was sure to sit in front yards, on playgrounds and on hilltops for months to come, slowly shrinking out of his clothes and his nose while bringing smiles of pride to the faces of the kids who made him and those who happened to walk or drive on by.

We all got the point.

Snowmen make you happy.

And it turns out they still do. Even when you are a bit older and a bit more affected by the stress of the weather and the pressure of a life that must go on despite the cold.

Even when they are put together by a woman determined not to lose her spirit again.

Even when they are out of site for the rest of the world.

Even if they look exactly like you.

Winter love and warmth from the ranch this week.

Don’t blow away!

Winter Horses

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In this stark white world
I come to greet you

through fallen snow
that drifts to change the land I know

up hills
and across a frozen sea

you meet me there.

You see me bundled to the brim and wonder
what a girl is doing out here without a proper coat.

So you come closer

so I can bury my face in yours, thick and full
grown long to keep the cold at bay.

I breathe in the dust and sun and sweat–
the pieces of summer you’ve kept in your skin.

No, I have no coat like this.

Your mane is the wind,


your feet the dirt we miss.

Your breath the sweet green grass,
nose still the warmest touch…

your ears the slightest noise

easy boys…

I’m the only sound you hear

now look me in the eyes

so I can see the life we lived…

before the winter white set in

Horse on hill

 

Why we get our ice cream in town…

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I just have a quick story to tell you all about a girl, her medicated zit, stretchy pants and a Fed Ex man in a Fed Ex van.

Well, I am not sure how quick it will be as I haven’t decided on how many details to provide so if  you know me, you better go fill your coffee cup and settle in…

See, once upon a time there was this girl who had to pay a price for all of the natural beauty and peace and quiet that surrounded her. And typically that price came in the form of inconvenient weather and malfunctioning equipment.

And always when she least expected it…

Now I think I may have briefly let you in on the debacle that was the Schwann’s Man’s attempt to reach our doorstep with his truck full of corn dogs, ice cream sandwiches, pot pies, and breaded vegetables before Christmas. And we welcome the Schwann’s Man with open wallets around here because being 30 miles away from the nearest grocery store, unless we install a little freezer in our car, our ice cream doesn’t stand a chance on a trip of that length with a working floor heater.

But when the Schwaan’s Man finds himself in our driveway, in his truck, stuck like a rock in concrete in two inches of snow, our chances at ice cream sandwiches for the next three to four months are pretty well shot to hell.

At least he still attempts to visit mom and pop.

And for good reason. See, as a woman who has worked from her home for a good amount of years, my mother has the Schwann’s Man thing down to an art. While other neighbors (I will not name names to protect the ice cream and convenience food refusers) shut off all of the lights and let the dog out when the big white freezer truck rolls down their driveway, my momma keeps track of the man’s arrival by placing that little orange dot on her calendar. And then she welcomes him (or her, there have been female Schwann’s Men…I mean people…in the past) inside for a cup of coffee while she presents her list and asks things like: “How are the roads?” “How’s your wife?” “Did little Jimmy pass that test?” “Any bad dog encounters lately?”

And the Schwann’s Person answers these questions and asks some of his or her own and then mom tries to sell them one of my CD’s while she crams her triple fudge swirl, chip ‘n mint, rocket pops and green beans into her already maxed out refrigerator.

My momma’s rapport with the Schwaan’s Man has been so positive over the years that it caused some controversy within the household when, at four-years-old, my little sister accused her own mother of having an affair with the man who brought ice cream.

But we blame that on all of the Day’s of Our Lives she was allowed to watch while mom was trying to get some work done…

Anyway, I tell you this to make sure you understand the remoteness of our living situation– nearest neighbor: at least one mile either direction. And in either direction there happens to lie some pretty gnarly, snow-covered, drifted in hills as of now. So sometimes the Schwaan’s Man was the only visitor we would get on those cold days in December.

The Schwaan’s man or Fed Ex.

And we have to be good to our guests…

Which brings me now to the stretchy pants and the zit.

See it was Martin Luther King Jr. day and I had settled in with plans of writing, testing out my new vacuum, organizing our laundry situation and maybe singing at the top of my lungs to the music I had turned up obnoxiously loud while I did it. Notice in this list of things to do that I didn’t squeeze time in for an activity like showering, brushing my teeth, putting on a fresh shirt or, you know, even looking in the mirror. I mean, it was a holiday, the snow was blowing outside my door and by my definition I was snowed in. There would be no unexpected visitors. I was safe within my cocoon of a house out at the bottom of a hill filled in with drifted snow.

On most days like these I would have been safe to put a little zit cream on the goiter that had sprouted in the middle of my forehead and skip the bra thing. No one would ever know.

Most days the only one judging my appearance would be the pug (and he can’t see me cause he’s asleep on the couch) and the lab, who would never point fingers.

Most days I would be safe.

But this was not most days. This was the day that husband was expecting a very important package. See, just a few days ago, unbeknownst to me, he had placed an order for…

wait for it…

..a portable oven…

…for his pickup.

Because every man dreams of being able to drive around while the smell of casserole or a hot pocket fills the cab of his truck with the aroma of a hot meal. The man must be really sick of sandwiches.

Anyway, husband knew this package was to arrive last Monday and he was happily on the phone with Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex from Wisconsin to give him the much-needed directions and let him know that his wife would be in the house down the hill if Mr. Fill- in Fed Ex from Wisconsin needed me to come up the snowy hill with the big four-wheel drive to meet him.


And I would have known all of these plans and had adequate time to at least find some real pants with a button and a zipper if I hadn’t been so enthusiastically vacuuming every inch of our tiny home (ceiling included) and declaring the Dyson Animal a gift to man-kind while singing “Stand By Your Man” at the top of my lungs. I would have know about Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex from Wisconsin’s arrival had I not missed all three or four calls to my cell phone and the half-dozen to the land line.

See, the Dyson picks up dirt and dog hair like a champ, but it sure is not quiet. And as soon as I shut the thing off, with a nice little armpit sweat going and beads of perspiration glistening on my forehead, really accentuating the zit, I put my hands on my hips and was just getting to the whole wiping my brow thing when I heard a knock on the door.

Must be pops, I thought to myself. He has the day off and he won’t judge me.

I took three swooping steps and swung open the front door.

Not pops.

Not pops, but Mr. Fill in Fed Ex from Wisconsin with really nice teeth and golden locks flowing from under his baseball cap.

“You must be Mrs. Scofield?”

“Err, ummm, yes. Yes. I guess I am. Hello.”

“Hello. Your husband told me you would be home.”

He handed me the package.

I suddenly became freakishly aware of the inappropriate use of toothpaste as zit cream and the muppet-like hairstyle I chose this morning.

“Hope I can make it up that hill,” said Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex from Wisconsin as I began to shut the door. “Your husband didn’t tell me it was that steep and these vans don’t have four-wheel drive…”

Oh shit.

“Oh, ha. I hope you do too. Wow. It’s bad out there…”

I slammed the door. Ran to the bathroom to scrub my forehead. I found my bra. I found my pants with button and a zipper for crying out loud. I put on some damn socks. What’s wrong with you woman? Get it together! If by the grace of God Mr. Fill in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin makes it up that hill without any assistance I will never go a day without showering. I will never go a full day without swapping my stretchy pants for ACTUAL PANTS!

Fully clothed, hair tamed a bit, I pressed my nose against the window with hope that the tires on that massive “van” were covered with metal studs…the only way that thing was going anywhere.

But, alas, there were no studs. There was barely a tread on those tires. And Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin wasn’t even moving past the garage let alone up the hill, around a 90 degree turn and out of my life forever.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I called husband. He might have advice.

No answer.

I called Pops. Maybe he’s home and would come and rescue me from awkward conversation and the chance that I may have to attempt to help this Fed Ex Man in distress.

He was not home. He was driving away from the situation, but while his cell phone broke up, I thought I could hear the words “You” and “Pull him” and “Out.”

I decided I needed a second opinion and called the neighbor.

No answer.

Husband called back and I thought I heard the same advice I thought I heard come from pop’s voice box.

“Jess, unless you want a three to four hour coffee guest,  you will have to pull him out yourself.”

Sigh.

I stepped into my boots just as Mr. Fill-In Fed Ex Man was approaching my door with a look of panic and defeat.

Panic, because he no doubt had no intentions of serving as a three to four-hour coffee guest in the house of a crazy woman in sweat pants and what appeared to be the start of a horn growing out of her forehead.

“Uh, yeah. I’m stuck,” he said.

And his face turned from defeat to terror as I informed him while pulling on my overalls and beanie with the ball on top that I was his only hope.

That this sorry ass would be pulling his sorry ass out.

I will note here that I do not fake confidence well. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do and that is the thought that was going through my head as I found husband’s tow rope, started up the Chevy and put it into gear to pull forward…

…and didn’t move.

I put it in reverse. Not budging.

I put it in drive. Not going anywhere.

I checked the 4-wheel drive. I put it in reverse again.

Stuck. Or something like it.

Not actually the pickup I was using, but you get the dramatic point I am making...

Oh great. I didn’t even have any Schwaan’s food to offer this man! We are officially stranded! We will be out here alone, the two of us and the only thing I have to eat is a couple tortilla chips and a brown banana. Sweet mercy, we’ll starve!

Mr. Fill in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin with his pearly white teeth gave me some space while I attempted to maneuver husband’s pickup a few more times and then…

Tap,tap.

I rolled down the window.

“Are you stuck.”

“Ha, ha, I guess I’m stuck too.”

I got out of the pickup and Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin got in. I discreetly pulled the phone from the pocket of my jacket, turned my face away from the disturbing scene and dialed husband.

“The Fed Ex guy is driving your pickup. I hope that’s ok. See. Well. It was stuck. Yeah. Well. I couldn’t get it out…oh, wait…oh…there it goes…never-mind. He got it out. Bye now!”

And as I stood there like a helpless little woman in oversized overalls and a beanie with a ball on my head, Mr. Fill-In Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin pulled the pickup over to his “van,” hitched the two vehicles together with husband’s giant rope and told me to drive.

“Just drive me on up and out and past the approach until I get straightened out and then I should be good to go.”

Well, you remember how I told you there are snow covered hills on either side of our home sweet home? Yeah, I had that in mind as I pushed on the gas and drug that Fed Ex Man in his Fed Ex Van up out of our drive, around the 90 degree angle drifted in with snow, to the top of the hill with the grain bins, to the right on the main road and I didn’t stop until I had that Fed Ex Man in the Fed Ex Van at the very top of a hill I was sure he could coast down.

And when I finally looked back I may have caught a glimpse of Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin waving his hands in the air in panic, begging me in sign language to stop. Stop dragging him down the gravel road! Where are you taking me? How much further? Oh sweet mercy what have I gotten myself into? Who is this woman?

But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And I have never trusted a vehicle without 4-wheel drive so sometimes you just have to point in the right direction. And in the winter, that direction is down hill and right past the Veeder ranch approach, which no doubt has come to be known by delivery drivers in this area as the black hole.

I guess we’ll be getting our ice cream and our packages in town from now on.

Oh the price we pay for the simple life.

The pet that can’t be trusted…

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Oh Chug the pug. You are in big trouble.

I fear you cannot be trusted.

I fear that you never could.

I should have known better when I left you alone with the guys last week. Alone in the little house with your couch and your fluffy blankets and your cats with no responsibility but to sleep and be so kind as to step outside, scratch on the door, bark, whine, something, when you had to poop.

But oh, you could not be bothered could you?

Between all of the lounging, snoring, snuggling, snarfing, sniffing and watching the boob tube,  you happened to find time to do things, wonderful things, that distracted you from your urgent bowel movements.

Like munch on a slipper or two…

…and a tube of Tough Actin’ Tanactin, wherever you happened to come across such a thing.

How was that for ya?

And then, you know, just to get the taste of fungal cream out of your mouth, husband’s remote control.

And then a highlighter for good measure. The one that was sitting innocently on the coffee table at a height that you would never exert yourself to reach if, you know, it was easier for me to just lift you on up there. But there must have been something so attractive about that neon marker.

Something that looked delicious.

Delicious like that full bottle of Coca Cola you found the time to gnaw the lid off of.

That was sure nice of you. You must have been so thirsty. I really do feel bad about that.

But not as bad as I feel about the fact that the toe of my favorite black pump is missing.

The black pump that was hidden away in the depths of my closet, because life choices have restricted pump wearing for me lately.

You must have had to really exert yourself on that one.

I hope you are not too tired.

This winter must really be rough on you, acting out like this.

And if this unruly, rebellious behavior is about the outfits:

The trapper hat.

The Santa suit.

To that I send my sincere apologies. But in my defense, humiliating you for my enjoyment was one of the main reasons I granted you the permission to enter this family in the first place, so you might as well get used to it.

You exist for my entertainment.

And cuddling.

But I’m mad at you right now so I’m going to need a bit of time.

Because it’s bad enough that you cannot be trusted.

Bad enough your nose squishes up like that.

Bad enough that your tail curls and the barrel that is your body finds its way in the space next to me, your paws work to unfold my protesting arms.

Bad enough that you are in big, big trouble mister.

And worse that, frankly, you just don’t care.

Cowboy Cooks Heavenly Caramel Rolls

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It’s Wednesday. Ughhh. Sometimes Wednesday’s are hard. You know, not the beginning of the week, not quite the end…just smack in the middle. Uff. If you’re sitting in an office or at home with the kiddies or maybe you’re driving down the road ( hopefully not reading this…geesh, pay attention) I would like to invite you to visualize Sunday with me.

Ah, sweet Sunday. It’s coming my friend.

Sunday mornings are one of my very favorite things on the planet.

Sunday mornings and coffee.

Because Sunday mornings involve pots and pots of coffee, sipped slowly out of my favorite mug with my feet up and nowhere to be. So I guess coffee is what really puts Sunday mornings up and over the top for me.

Cups and cups of coffee.

And these caramel rolls.

Coffee, caramel rolls, Sunday morning…the best…

…add this guy milling around the kitchen in his sexy cowboy flannel jammies and that’s it…I’m done.

Pretty sure my heaven is a big ‘ol pile of Sundays.

Anyway, I am sure most of you have your Sunday morning rituals that are pretty damn fantastically relaxing and cuddly and cozy and full of caffeinated beverages. But just in case you want to send it on over into the simple, heavenly, gooey, caramelicious, sugary, sweet category, Cowboy would like to share this recipe. A recipe his momma makes at every family gathering where there are mornings involved.

And I’ll tell you, a house full of relatives in the AM while the coffee is still brewing might have you shaking in your slippers, but you no longer have to worry in situations like this, because before you even pull these out of the oven, the aroma alone rouses the most bear-like guest out of hibernation…

…on occasion, there has even been applause.

Standing ovations.

Those reaction may have been solely mine, but still.

So without further adieu, I present you a glimpse into our Sunday mornings and these perfectly effortless caramel rolls.

P.S.: In case you were worried, there will be no photos displayed of me in the glory of the morning sunrise. The world (and the Schwann’s man) is in no way ready…

Cowboy Cooks His Mamma’s Heavenly Caramel Rolls:


Three simple ingredients:  (I know, I know…only three ingredients!!! Wow, Cowboy’s gone soft. But I must remind you, this is a day of rest…)

  • Package of frozen pre-made cinnamon rolls (6 rolls make one 8X11 pan. 8 rolls make one 9X13 pan)

Go ahead and save that little packet of cream cheese frosting for your toaster strudel. What you are about to create will not hold a candle.

  • 1 cup heavy whipping cream (or you can use half and half if you are thinking a little skinnier. But as Cowboy would like to remind you “Heavy is better…same goes with every recipe”)

  • 1 cup brown sugar (and if your wife forgot to seal the brown sugar last time she had oatmeal…which was like three years ago, if she remembers correctly…your sugar might be a bit lumpy. But don’t get mad at her. Be proud that she’s eating oatmeal and don’t worry, cause the lumps will cook themselves on out of there.)

Regarding the measurement of cream and brown sugar, Cowboy has somethin’ to say:  “The important part is that it goes on in equal parts. The amount depends on how gooey you want your rolls. If you want to use two cups of each be my guest you rebel, but I have never had a complaint at one cup each.”

Just like Cowboy to be so darn flexible.

Now let’s get going:

Step 1: Think about breakfast the night before. Take your frozen cinnamon rolls out and place in a greased 9X13 or 8X11 pan.

Put the pan in the oven overnight  so they rise while you dream of Matthew McConaughey, or, you know, saving the world.  (But for goodness sake, don’t turn the oven on! That’s not the kind of warm Sunday morning we are going for here…)

Step 2: Wake up, wipe out the eye crusties and before you go any further, for cryin’ out loud, get your coffee brewing. Pour yourself a cup of Joe in your favorite mug…

Perhaps your mug dons a snarky comment. Whatever. Your mug, your intentions. And I will NOT say it’s a fine morning sir. I don’t know how parallel the two run…

Then if you are, you know, going to a later Church service, go ahead and splash a generous amount of the sweet stuff in there…

But if you are going to Church during it’s regularly scheduled programming, I don’t think Jesus will mind if you treat yourself to a little splash. I mean, he was the guy who turned water into wine…

…I’m just sayin’…

Ok, that’s better. Now open the oven and declare “Martha Stewart they’ve risen!”

Take the rolls out and pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees

Step 3: A little trick to make your life easier when you are ready to dig in. Loosen the edges of the rolls with a spatula so the caramel runs down the sides of the pan and the rolls don’t stick. You will be glad you did.

Step 4: Pour brown sugar and cream in a medium sized mixing bowl and whisk together until they are nice and blended.

Cowboy would like to remind you that this is heavy whipping cream, so if you overachieve and mix it too long you will have yourself some whipped cream, and that kind of vigor is just crazy…especially in the hours before the sun comes up.

Now pour the concoction (that has no hope of not being delicious) over the rolls.

Step 5: Put the pan in the oven and check in 20 minutes (if you can wait that long)

Here is where Cowboy gets to use the random Christmas present I purchased for him in a moment of weakness. I mean, with all of this new cooking technology at our fingertips (i.e. our 1955 oven and the first microwave ever invented) he was dying for a kitchen timer magnet.

Best. Present. Ever.

While you wait, have an orange or something. You know, to balance out the damage you are about to do when you eat the entire pan of these rolls…

…trust me, if you don’t grab these rolls out of the oven and immediately retreat with your fork into the nearest room with a lock, you will at least be tempted.

But whatever you do, definitely have more coffee…

Step 6: Ok, once the rolls are a nice golden brown color, take them out of the oven.

Grab another pan or put some tinfoil on the counter, because now you’re going to flip them over to let them out of their pan and present them to the crowd of drooling relatives that have most likely gathered in your kitchen by now.

Good flip. Now scrape the remaining caramel from the pan onto the rolls….

…pause for the applause and whistles….

..bow if you wanna…

…I know you wanna…

And say something like “Oh, this was nothing really. Effortless…wow, no need to throw roses…geesh…I just love you all. So. Much.” (wipe a tear)

Then stand back and watch them disappear.

Or, if you’re in our house, stand back and watch your wife find a few dozen reasons to walk by the pan throughout the day and take a bite or two along the way. It’s a Sunday miracle how fast a pan of caramel rolls disappears in a household of two.

Here’s to a heavenly Sunday….

…on a Wednesday…

To be a cat…

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To flinch, to twitch, to leap and play
To catch a string as it’s pulled away
To tweak
To flip
To scat

To be a cat

Ears permanently perked straight up
A tail that sweeps, sleek legs that strut
Rough tongues
they lick
and lap

To be a cat

Striped and plain, spotted, plaid
Mischievous, obnoxious, bad
Scraggly
Fluffy
Fat

To be a cat

Shadow lurking, eyes that glare
Curtain hanging way up there
Quick
and smart
and way too fast

to catch them in the act

Oh to be a purring, overbearing,
whisker tickling, bare feet licking,
curiously lovely,
oh so cuddly,
naughty

Cat

 

Thank you to Jingle at Promising Poets Parking Lot for giving “until we’re warm again” the Perfect Poet Award last week. Thank you for creating a warm supportive  space for poets!

As part of the award acceptance, I would like to nominate another poet Lynnaima who has submitted her poem about words titled “The Best There Is” to the Promising Poets Parking Lot.

Onward poetry!

 

Winter Optimist vs. Snowshoes vs. January in ND

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January. Oh January. A challenging month for even the most optimistic North Dakotan. One could easily throw in the towel around here, especially with the uncharacteristic snow accumulation we have seen already this winter, but most of us stick around.

Or go to Jamaica for a couple weeks.

Some people do this.

Wusses.

But the glass-half-full individuals, we put on another layer and say things like “Wow, that snow…hard to drive in it, but gorgeous isn’t it?”

or “Whew, it’s cold out there…great day for chicken noodle soup.”

And my favorite

“Halfway through. Once we get through January, it’s all downhill…spring’s just around the corner.”

I imagine these phrases come out of the mouths of the residents of our neighboring states (oh, and Canada) in all directions, in our typically northern accents, patting one another on the back while brushing snow out of our hair and stomping our feet on the rug, cheeks rosy from the bite of the wind.

Yes North Dakota Januarys bring out the true colors of our people:  the Jamaican cruisers, the Arizona dwellers, the optimists and the people who are not phased  who expect it and keep their mouths shut and Carharts on. There are the non-natives that are so damn cold they can’t keep the coffee coming in fast enough. There are the natives that love it because every new inch brings a new story about a neighbor they had to pull out of the ditch or the challenges of getting the cows fed or how the Schwann’s man got stuck in their yard and didn’t even offer a complimentary package of corn dogs for all the trouble you went to in digging the southerner out…twice.

But always, no matter who is residing in this, picking up their children from school, breaking ice, enjoying winter sports, there is astonishment at how it can possibly keep snowing and how it ever was summer.

Ever.

And then the stories, the comparison from winter to winter come rolling in.

“This is bad, but not as bad as the winter of ’77. Or ’96.”

“Do you remember last Christmas when we couldn’t even get our doors open?”

Or

“I heard (insert name of town forty to fifty miles away) got another 10 inches.  Can you imagine? Boy we were lucky.”

These are conversations you will hear in every diner, in every gas station while you are pumping your gas and shifting your weight back and forth against the cold, in line at the bank, by the cheese section in the grocery store, or at coffee with your neighbors.

Oh, I love it. The drama of this season.

For me, a self proclaimed winter optimist who has uttered the aforementioned phrases, I have to confess at times this season (and this month especially) make me feel a bit like a recluse. Like, all I want to do is wrap myself in a blanket and write songs about how cold I am and how much I love the warm body in bed next to me and chicken noodle soup and coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon and warm baths and my  snow suit and neckerchief.

Yes, winter has typically been my creative time, not sure why, but I think it forces me to get inside my own head and listen…either that or take a nap. Cause it’s so damn quiet out here.

Anyway, I can’t remember if I told you or not, but for Christmas I received a shiny new pair of snowshoes from my in-laws. I have great in-laws.

I got snowshoes and husband got a kayak and now I am torn between wishing the summer to hurry and come back or the winter to stay…because we have toys.

We’ve never really had toys.

Anyway, since no amount of wishing will warm up this world and even though we are tempted to take a run down the nearest snow-covered hill in the new kayak, we know better. So I have so been enjoying exploring our winter wonderland in my snowshoes. Which seems like a safe winter activity. Much safer than thrusting a body attached to skis down a mountain at great speeds…or you know, doing the same in a little canoe type thing…

So the snowshoes are marvelous. I can go places on the ranch that I can’t even go in the summer because of unruly vegetation and mushy creek beds. I put those things on and I feel like Jesus, impossibly walking on the ocean’s water…only my ocean is white and cold and the waves don’t move the same way.

I attached my winter body to the fantastic contraptions for the first time last week and laughed with evil glee as my pups fell through snowbanks and frolicked and fell and tumbled headfirst into drifts while I effortlessly glided on up and over and down and around, like Jesus…wait, I think I used that already…well anyway, you get the point…

And I could go on and on, but I want to tell you a quick story about how snowshoes seem like a great idea, especially when you are on a mission to get in shape and actually be useful on the ranch. They are a wonderful invention that turns an inconvenient pile up of snow into a grand and beautifully daring adventure, and a way to get around the place to check things out, until you forget that the temperature gauge dangling outside your window does not report windchill and halfway through your trip to find the horses, which turned up a lot of footprints and turds, but no actually horses, you discover that the snot that has been plaguing your nostrils the entire trip (as snot does in cold weather) is actually not snot at all.

Because it is blood.

It is blood and it is gushing down your face and onto your scarf and staining the white snow. And just moments before you discovered this new turn of events you felt you were a bit tired, but could make it the mile back to the house with little effort. Because you are an outdoors woman. This winter is no match for you and your snow suit and your muscles.

But now there is blood.

Now there is blood and you quickly become aware that you are indeed alone out there in the wilderness. You think you might freeze to death.

Alone.

Because there is blood.

And you are cold and cannot possibly go one more step. And your feet are heavy. And you are sinking in the snow. You know you are sinking in the snow. What? Aren’t these snowshoes supposed to keep you up on this stuff? LIKE JESUS?!

Oh Martha Stewart, the house is far.

And there is blood…why…why…why?!!!!

The beautiful, snow-covered trees that you were photographing without a care in the world just moments before suddenly become obstacles  looming just to get in the way of your safety.

Those drifts so deep, your feet so heavy, the dogs no help at all…those dogs just carrying on, sniffing each other chasing birds all happy and free like there is no one bleeding out here!!!

Oh lord there is blood and the house is so far away…

…those damn horses…

…damn exercise…if you ever make it back alive you vow to stay snuggled up on the couch where normal people belong in the winter. Who do you think you are? A mountaineer?

No. You decide you are not a mountaineer. You are a pale, pasty woman with noodle arms who belongs in the house writing songs about warm blankets and soup and love, not out here like some kind of crazy adventurer…

…you put your hand to your face…

…still bleeding…still blood…still the potential to die…or faint and then freeze to death and then die….

…you trudge up the hill, you stop to make sure you’re still alive.

And you are.

You are alive and you eventually make it home, sweaty and bloody and panting with the panic of it all. You make it home and realize, to your relief,  that the funeral plans you made for yourself on the long, bloody trudge home can be written down and saved for the next near death experience…which you are certain you will never have because you are never leaving home again…

Home.

Where the horses and one mule are standing right in front of your door licking the salt off your car and laughing at you and your bloody, crusty nose.

You may have even heard one of them call you a weirdo.

Probably.

Damn horses.

This may or may not have happened to someone, somewhere.

And it may be funny or tragic, depending on the level of your optimism.

Oh January, how you taunt me.

Be careful out there.

Love,

A Winter Recluse turned Mountaineer turned Recluse again

until we’re warm again

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I can’t be your warmer breeze
no, I can’t be her right now
I can’t be your brown worn hands
damp hair, your sweaty brow

I can’t be the evening mist
or the clouds that roll on by
I can’t be your blades of grass
the lightning in your sky

I cannot be barefoot
or younger than today
can’t be your rain boots or your fishing pole
or make the summer stay

But I can stand beside you
under skies of gray and white

and on the long and starlit nights

I’ll be your wool cap and your overcoat
your coffee and the broth in which your dumplings float
I will wrap my arms around where your scarf has been
wrap them tight around your neck until we’re warm again


A warm vacation in a cold place…

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So I made it home alive. I know some of you were worried seeing as the last time you heard from me I  was putting chili in a Tupperwear container and requesting your prayers on my way out the door to hit the slopes of Minnesota on the shore of Lake Superior–headed toward music, mayhem and dangerous winter sports.

Yes. I am all about the danger.

So I left the cozy little snow pile that is my corner of the world for another cozy, bigger snow pile across a couple states.

Because sometimes all a girl needs to make it through the winter is a beanie and a much steeper, icy slope to slide down.

…and one of her BFFs…

…a BFF who will sport a union suit and pose with you by the fire just because it’s funny…

And a little sister who will do the same….

…a little sister who I just realized looks a lot like Burt Reynolds…

…oh, and some tinsel…

…and a couple bands who play the fire out of every stringed instrument I’ve ever loved…and then throw in a clogging percussionist just to make sure my heart is nice and melty…

…and of course, some beautiful scenery….

So yes, I made it back to the ranch alive and I would like to tell you that the only time I fell during the entire ski trip was down the steps going out of our condo.

And up the steps at the bar.

And down the hill to the hot tub.

Hmmm, having put that in print, I’m now thinking that’s not such a good thing….

Anyway, other than that, and a couple bruises on my butt from where the lift smacked me multiple times (that damn thing catches me off guard) I am doing pretty good…

…which is more than I can say for my fearless, snowboarding, determined sister…

So I am working on the back to real life thing as we speak. But I have to tell you, the chili was delicious, the company hilarious, the drive treacherous, but we made it across the great state of North Dakota and on up to northern Minnesota, stopping through the most adorable towns where the local men still drink coffee at the Cenex and talk about the weather and the ice fishing and wonder out loud where the road-weary, frizzy haired, bundled up North Dakotans were headed, besides the restroom.

Oh Minnesota, town after town, just like the real life Lake Wobegon.

I love it.

And I love a good road trip that takes me down highways and dirt roads and through towns that remind me of why we need to get out and see and touch and breathe and live in this world.

Because I love where I live and all its familiarity, but I love to leave too, you know, every once in a while.  I love the art of packing up my favorite sweaters and socks and jeans and shoes and then realizing that three bags is a ridiculous amount of luggage to bring for three days, so I learn to love the art of unpacking some sweaters and shoes and adding in some leg warmers and six hats and nineteen graphic tees and a banjo…

I love planning our meals and closing up the house tight and singing at the top of my lungs to the music coming out of dashboard speakers. I like sitting close in the cab of a warm vehicle while the trees and farmsteads and snow fly by outside our window as we anticipate our destination and eat handfuls of Cheetos and Skittles and Snickers bars.

 

Don't judge me, I'm on vacation...

I love that sitting in a car for hours on end is a valid excuse to eat handfuls of Cheetos and Skittles and Snickers bars.

And I love to arrive in a place I have never been and make it my home for a few days. I like to reside in a schedule that includes decisions like: “Should I take a nap?” “When should we eat?” “What kind of cocktail should I invent?” “Should we sit in the hottub tonight?” “What games should we play?” “When should we hit the slopes?” and “Do I really need to shower?”

I like the feeling of making plans with traveling partners hand picked as the cream of the crop who have the same intentions of a casual adventure laced with chips and cheese and fresh air and not picking up after ourselves…

…you know, the people who applaud and laugh until they pee a little when you slide on your ass all the way down a slippery flight of stairs in your first attempt to enter the mountain air to hit the slopes. Yes, they laugh hysterically at you and your fresh bruise, but only after they make sure you are not bleeding profusely.

And as much as I like to be surrounded by the people I adore who I can count on to peel my sorry ass off of the frozen ground and carry my stuff as I limp it off, I like the idea of going somewhere on a mission, somewhere I am surrounded by strangers on the same mission to see, to listen, to take pictures and conquer mountains and have a cocktail or two and laugh until they pee.

Which got me thinking a bit about time well spent as we were making the twelve hour drive back to the ranch on Sunday through a few blizzards and the darkness. Because when most people around here visualize a vacation, especially in the dead of winter, they think of going somewhere with sandy beaches and warm sunshine and Cabana boys with bottles of sunscreen waiting for them. I don’t think many consider driving themselves and a bowl full of chili to someplace slightly colder with a bit more snow and then actually choosing to hang out and frolic in the weather.

But you know, I couldn’t have been warmer by that fireplace sharing stories and dealing cards. I couldn’t have laughed harder as husband tapped his toes to the beat of a bluegrass band and smiled for the camera as all of the worries about a new house, a business plan and work on Monday melted away under his blue snowsuit.

I couldn’t have been more at ease dangling my legs, attached to skis, on a lift moving me up a mountain…

…well, I take that back, I could have been more at ease, but for a girl who doesn’t like heights, I think stifling my screaming was as good as it gets…

This is my "I'm not scared" face...

And I couldn’t have been happier knowing that there are places, wonderful places in this world with snow covered trees and lakes that lick miles and miles of rugged shores dotted with small towns full of great, simple people who don’t ask for much but a little time to play. I couldn’t feel better knowing that there are people who have music inside them who choose to share it with joy and foot stomping gladness out of their mouths or a banjo or tapping feet and into an evening filled with listening ears. I couldn’t be more intrigued by the idea that the big wide world is mine to see, mine to hear, mine to fall down and lift up and get lost in…

And I can load up my car with my chili and my sweatpants and my shoes and my union suit and my best friends and be there if I want to…

…and come home again to a paradise of my own.

Cowboy Cooks Crock Pot Chili

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Ok party people, the holidays are officially over here at the ranch and I have dubbed it that way by taking down my beloved tree, tossing the wreath, unplugging the lights and packing my decorations up nice and neat (well, neat enough).

Because I needed to cleanse the holiday, get rid of all of the distraction so I can begin work on my will power.

I mean, the second Christmas at the in-laws over New Years really put to the test just  how many cookies and cocktail weenies and shrimps and candy canes and cheese balls a girl could possibly eat without touching a single vegetable unless I found it coated in some sort of cheese or white sauce during the last month—yup, I really pushed the limit of those stretchy pants….

…oh stretchy pants, how I love thee…

Anyway, now is the time. Back to reality.  Back to real pants. No more sugar cookies for breakfast. No more cheese ball for lunch. Because in 2 days we are hitting the slopes for a weekend of music and mayhem and physical activity, and I have exactly 48 hours to get in shape, dammit…

See ya next year...

That is what I told husband as I was lugging the Christmas boxes upstairs and instructing him to take the candy cane covered tree out of my sight…

But apparently he had other plans.

Plans that included this chili.

Because what every ski bunny needs after a long day skidding, face-first down the slopes, is a nice hot bowl of chili to ease the pain of her lack of athleticism and grace…and we are making it tonight to take with us…

…and it’s gonna be just the way Cowboy likes it, finally, so pipe down about your aversion to anything above mild and get ready to feel some real heat ok?

Cowboy staring down the spices...concocting plans...loving every minute

Well, at least the northern states’ version of heat. Cowboy would like to apologize in advance to anyone from Texas or New Mexico who knows how to assemble a chili that makes your aunt Edna breathe fire…and like it. This is a German boy’s, crock pot attempt…and it’s damn good–well as good as anything can be without butter and flour.

Ok, hold on to your long underwear, cause Cowboy’s cookin’ snow meltin’, nose de-frostin’, wool sock wearin’ chili. And he ain’t taming it down for no one…especially me.

Step One: First things first

Grab yourself a beer why don’t ya. And an apron that says exactly what you’re thinking. Oh, and a crock pot, or some version of the thing with a lid

Now gather the following ingredients:

  • 1 lb hamburger
  • 1 1/2 lbs stew meat
  • 1 large red onion
  • 8 oz container whole mushrooms
  • and as many jalapenos you can handle

    I can't handle it....!!!!

  • Brown the hamburger in the crock pot if you have the time and John Wayne is on anyway, or you can just throw it in a pan on the stove. Add some chili powder and salt and pepper if you want
  • While the hamburger is cooking chop the red onion, mushrooms and jalapenos. (I didn’t get any photos of this cause I was busy finishing off the last of the Christmas fudge, you know, to get it out of sight).
  • Now throw the hamburger, stew meat (uncooked), onion, mushrooms and jalapenos (add some of the jalapeno juice if you’re feeling brave and daring) in the pot where they can all get acquainted before the real party begins…

Now you’re ready for the hard part–gathering the rest of the ingredients to dump in the pot and stir.

Literally, that is all you do.

And taste.

And smell

And tell yourself over and over what an amazing chef you are…

I think I might even be capable of completing this recipe, if I weren't so distracted by the view...and those damn candy canes

Step 2: Ok, dig in the pantry and pull out the following ingredients:


  • 1 tablespoon minced garlic
  • Black pepper to taste (a little more than a little but a little less than a lot)
  • Red pepper to taste (Cowboy says, “Red pepper is a tricky little devil…it doesn’t taste so strong at first, but it’s the after burn that kills ya…ooofff…”)
  • 7 oz can green chilies
  • 28 oz can of baked beans
  • 15 oz can navy beans (drained) (“navy beans, navy beans, navy beans…” Lunch Lady Land? Anyone? Anyone?…)
  • 15 oz can kidney beans (drained)
  • 15 oz can pinto beans (drained)
  • 15 oz can spicy chili beans
  • 15 oz can black beans (drained)
    (Cowboy says “You don’t have to use all these  beans, but I do cause I like ’em.”)
  • 15 oz can of diced tomatoes
  • 1 tablespoon chili sauce (if you don’t have this you can use Tabasco sauce…Cowboy can’t pronounce the name of this, but made it clear that  “it adds a delicious spicy taste to things..anything…says so right on the bottle.”
  • Oh, and you can add some Cajun seasoning too, if you’re feeling particularly southern today.
  • And last but not least, of course, the chili powder. Get acquainted with it, cause, as I was told, without it, chili is just a bunch of beans.
  • Ok, so in no particular order, open your cans and your lids and dump it all in the pot.

  • Now get that chili powder out of your holster and give it a few generous shakes.

Keep adding until it tastes good to you.

And now for, the secret ingredient: the fresh, whole cherry tomatoes. Which are apparently important and so enticing that I accidentally used a few on my salad for lunch (oh yeah, a salad…this is serious).

Anyway, Cowboy noticed. “Looks like I’m missing 5 to 6 tomatoes,” he said.

To which I replied, “Tomatoes? Tomatoes? Do those look like snickerdoodles?”

  • So now you add those tomatoes to the chili and mix it all up until you’re happy with it.

  • Now put that crock pot on low and wait.

Because it wouldn’t be Cowboy’s Kitchen without the wait. And we skipped the butter this time around, so I am sure you’re all thrown for a loop.


If you’re starving, like me, you can bring the concoction to a low boil/simmer for about 1 hour and that should be good enough to eat. But you can’t overcook it. The longer it stews the better.

Cowboy recommends the following, word for word:

“Have all this shit ready in the morning, throw it in a pot, put it on low and eat it for supper…that’s the best way to do it…”

We are going to put it in a Tupperwear, freeze it and transport it a few hundred miles to Lutsen Mountains in Minnesota, where we will fling our bodies down a slippery, ice packed mountain of danger and when we are done we will drink something to take the edge off and listen to some good tunes at a mountain music festival this weekend.

And then enjoy the hell out of this chili.

And I will work on my plan of not breaking every bone in my body, or face skidding, or crying, or panicking.

Or at least escaping death.

Pray for me.

But don’t pray for this chili.

Just make it and you shall be saved.

Or at least warmed up.

And unless you wanna come with us, I’ll see ya when I get back….

…hopefully in one piece…