Amateur Night in the kitchen–with special guest, Rhubarb

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It’s on the verge of toppling over to summer on the prairie and as I watch all things grow and reach to the sky, blossom and sprout and green up, I talk about it with neighbors and friends. We talk about lawn mowing and how saturated the ground is. We talk about lilacs and what we’re planting this year. We talk about tulips and getting the outdoor flowers in pots.

We talk about weeds and weather and the short growing season.

And we talk about rhubarb.

Because it’s a universal language around here. If you’re from the prairie you have undoubtedly tasted rhubarb in many forms, in jellies, jams, syrups, pies, cakes, cookies, puddings, salads and breads. You have probably had it pickled, cooked, souped, dried and made into wine. 

Hell, if you’re really thrifty you’ve probably made boats or clothing or shelter out of it. It’s so abundant around here husband’s working on a way to burn it for an alternative, renewable and cheap fuel source.

It’s so common and hearty that I had a patch of it growing on our land and didn’t even know it–until pops came over with his shovel looking to add a another plant  to his garden.

“More rhubarb!? Wait. I have rhubarb?” I said as he marched behind the house and over to the area where my grandmother (his mother) once kept her garden. And sure enough, there on the end of the spindly plum trees and looking dangerously similar to my enemy, burdock, sat a two big, leafy rhubarb plants.

As pops dug his shovel around the perimeter of the smaller plant and placed it in the back of his pickup for transplanting, it occurred to me that these plants have likely been growing here my entire life. And that rhubarb jam and syrup and crisp I remember from my childhood more than likely came from them.

Now that’s what you call an heirloom vegetable.

Anyway, suddenly I had a craving for all things rhubarb. Suddenly I was working hard to channel Betty Crocker with all of these ideas and confidence for creating something delicious with the only edible thing (besides dandelions) growing in my yard this spring.

I called husband to come and help me collect some of the stalks while informing him quite assuredly that I was going to make something delicious out of this.

“It’s easy,”  I said to him as he pulled the stocks from the ground. “It’s easy I’m sure because everyone’s doing it. There’s rhubarb something-or-other every where I turn. How hard can it be>”

So off he went to break the inedible (and I heard from the ladies at the museum yesterday, poisonous..eek!) leaves off of the top of the plants and off I went to google the shit out of “Rhubarb recipes.”

Yes. I Googled it. 

Just like I Googled jelly making.

Don’t judge.

My human resources are limited on this subject and by 9:30 pm, I am sure all two of them were wrapping up their own rhubarb projects and getting ready for bed like normal, hardworking women with a head on their shoulders.

My head? Well, it was quickly spinning because as soon as I plugged  “Rhubarb Recipes” into the search engine the first thing that came up was an entire website dedicated to the plant.

I am not kidding.

Here it is.

www.rhubarbinfo.com/recipes

But you probably all know about it anyway because you probably contribute and wear that rhubarb t-shirt they’re selling around as you work in your gardens and make exquisite rhubarb pies in your kitchens.

Damn you and all your homemaking capabilities!

Sorry. I had to get it out because at 9:45 pm on a Tuesday night I dove into that rhubarb website and didn’t come out on the other end until well past midnight.

It was a harsh lesson in the dangers of being a rookie homemaker with full internet access and all human life-lines tucked tight in bed.

Anyway after purchasing my very own “Got Rhubarb?” t-shirt from the site (because I believe there’s nothing like a t-shirt to commemorate brave events like this) and browsing through countless muffin, sauce, pie and bar recipes, I chose the following after having a recent delicious encounter with a strawberry-rhubarb jam made from a professional.

Ingredients:

2 pounds strawberries (4 cups, mashed)

2 pounds rhubarb (8 cups, 1/2 inch pieces)

6 cups sugar

Procedure:

Wash fruit. Cut rhubarb into 1/2 inch pieces. Cover rhubarb with half of the sugar and let stand 1 to 2 hours. Crush berries and mix with remaining sugar and combine with rhubarb. Place mixture over low heat until sugar is dissolved, then boil rapidly, stirring frequently to prevent burning. Cook until thick. Pour into sterilized Kerr jars to within 1/4 inch of top. Put on cap, screw band firmly tight. Process in boiling water bath 10 minutes. Yield: 10 eight oz. jar

I am not a professional. Did I mention this? But the presence of only three ingredients enticed me.

I had strawberries.


I had sugar. I definitely had rhubarb. I had (too much) confidence and I thought I had a stove around here somewhere… I was certain I was on my way to the Homemaker Hall of Fame…

Until I realized I didn’t actually have jars.

Dammit.

So I jumped in the pickup and made a trip to my mommas to collect the jars that once contained delicious Christmas preserves and tomato soups and homemade pickles and jelly from my aunt and neighbors.

Fifteen minutes later it was 10:00 pm and I was back in the kitchen realizing that not having canning supplies in the house wasn’t going to be my first and only rookie move. Turns out starting this project past 9:00 in the evening after skimming the recipe and skipping over the part where the rhubarb needs to stand in sugar for 1 to 2 hours was my second mistake.

Oh well, I just finished mowing the lawn, fed the calf and took that long anticipated shower while I waited.

And by then I was ready to realize my third rookie mistake: getting a vague recipe off of the internet without even watching a damn YouTube video on the topic.

What do you mean by “cook until thick?” What’s thick? How thick? How long? What am I doing? Where am I and what did you do with Martha Stewart’s voice that’s supposed to be running through my head right now?

Which brings me to rookie move number four: over confidence. Over confidence in a usually under-confident kitchen rat. That and allowing husband to fall asleep while I attempted to pour what I decided was thick-enough, boiling-hot jam into the boiling-hot jars.

“Are you sleeping! HEY! ARE YOU SSSLLLLEEEEPPIIINGGGG???” HHHHEEEEYYYYAAAA!! I NNNNEEEDD YOUUURR HHELPPA HHEREEE!”

I think the snoring coming from our bedroom three steps away was a little exaggerated and a lot fake.

I was on my own. On my own with a sticky mess,

six jars of strawberry-rhubarb jam

and a kitchen that looked like this.

I wept.

And then, at 12:30 am realized my fifth and final mistake:

Not. Making. Wine.

Oh well, I wiped the jars, and plopped down next to husband and poked him.

Still, er, sleeping.

And then I asked: “What’s another name for rhubarb?”

“Snore”

“Celery with a sunburn…bwhwahahahhah!”

I guess he really was sleeping ’cause I know he would have laughed at that one.

Anyway, turns out the jam was rookie-proof and my family has been enjoying it on toast, ice-cream and pancakes. I haven’t dared open my own jar yet, knowing that my family can be overly kind and encouraging, especially when it comes to someone in the family attempting anything domestic.

They always give an A for effort.

Anyone have any rookie-proof rhubarb recipes? I heard that rhubarb grows back….

Oh, and since you learned what not to do here,  check out this site for a glimpse into the kitchen of a professional rhubarb connoisseur to learn how to do it right: Rhubarb and Venison 

And then we sang “Home on the Range”

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Good Monday to you! It looks like the weekend brought with it some real summer weather that is likely to stick around for a while. Like 80+ weather and a few more pasty North Dakotans sporting a pink hue. The season’s in full force and I feel like soaking in the sun off of Lake Sakakawea and climbing the buttes in the evening and sitting on the deck with a burger and beans.

I do not feel like mowing the lawn again, which seems to have grown seven more feet toward that hot sun while I was away in Medora for the weekend.

But it was a great weekend of music and strolling through the streets of this historic tourist destination in the heart of the Magnificent Badlands. (I capitalize because it deserves capitalization, that’s how Magnificent it is). Singing in Medora has been one of my best gigs, and each visit I thank them over and over again for allowing me to put on my fancy boots and sing for my supper and for people from all over the country who pass through on their way to finish their life-long dream of visiting all 50 states, to spend a wholesome family weekend with their children, to bike the trails of this rugged country, or, you know, to sip wine and make requests of their local musicians…

And then take a walk around the the restaurant in an attempt to peddle my CDs as the other innocent patrons are trying to enjoy a quiet meal.

Oh, you’ve gotta have fans…super, small town, best friends, former english teacher, former agriculture teacher, mother and mother-in-law fans. They bring the party.

And I can’t over-emphasize that statement enough.

Thanks Roughriders for not kicking us out. I hope you’ll have us again.

But that’s the thing about places like Medora. It is truly an escape. A town on the edge of the South Unit of the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, home to the North Dakota Cowboy Hall of Fame and one of Theodore Roosevelt’s favorite places, it is town founded on preserving the adventure and spirit of the old west.

So on a stroll along the boardwalks and through the gift shops, you will see cowboy hats, you will see boots, you may see a horse and rider and you might happen upon a jewelry store on your way to a reenactment of an old shootout (complete with historic guns, a piano, some saloon girls and volunteers from the audience who are related to you) and promptly spend all of your singing money on turquoise and silver…and then on some coffee mugs, a blanket, a scarf and a witty plaque that says something about how the woman of the house is in charge…

Yes, I bought that.

And then promptly took husband’s advice that perhaps our rapidly draining bank account is a cue to step as far away from the temptations of retail as possible and out into the wild place on the edge of town that has been preserved with the wildflowers, grasses, rivers and wildlife that were here long before the train, barbed wire fences and, you know, jewelry stores.

So we hopped into in-law’s mini-van and drove the loop through the South Unit of the park. And we were not alone as cars with license plates from California, Washington, South Dakota, Texas and Wyoming drove slowly down the pavement, pulling over to catch a prairie dog squeaking at his neighbor with passion,

a lone antelope meandering through the sage brush,

a group of wild horses grazing on the flat

and of course, a herd of mighty bison rolling and panting and sunning themselves on the baked clay. 

I have lived on the north edge of these badlands nearly my entire life and am making plans to plant myself here for good, but each time I roll through what we call “the brakes” on my way home from a town somewhere or a vacation to the lakes or the mountains I always slow down.

I always hold my breath.

I always experience an overwhelming feeling of  awe and wonder, because there’s no place like this here on earth. And even though it’s right here in my backyard, I think I will always feel like a tourist.

I think I will always stop to take a photo of a bison kicking up dust, a reminder of a wilder time in our world.


I think I will always slow for that antelope and wonder if he might be headed for the river.

I think I will admire the wild horses and squint for the new colors blooming despite the rocky and hard clay of the landscape.

So as we rolled back into Medora and prepared for another evening of music, I took notice of how many songs I sing about the buttes and the wind out here. I recognized all of the cowboys that make their way through the lyrics, all of the old boots and saddles and guitars they carry with them.

I realized that the music, my music, paints for me a picture of this world I have sprouted from, this landscape that people have on their bucket lists of places to exist in and stop to photograph or hike to the top of.

So I sang with my eyes closed and then opened them to see the guests flushed from their hikes, re-hashing the day, cutting into their steaks or walleye and talking about that bison that crossed their trail, that trail ride on the back of a horse, the cliffs that have sluffed off of the buttes due to the wet seasons, the family photos they took and the muscles they got re-aquainted with out here…

And I sang more songs about cowboys and horses and standing in the prairie wind and falling in love out here and being pushed to leave but pulled to stay. Songs about eagles and dancing in the meadow and the cold North Dakota winters and at least one song about my dogs and mail order brides and a woman who took a moment to step off the road in an attempt to find herself.

And then we sang Home on the Range.

This will not be in Better Homes and Gardens

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I mowed the lawn yesterday afternoon on the first day this spring where the temperature was above 80 degrees.

Yes, you heard me people, 80+. It happens around here.

And so do sunburns on pasty skinned northern women who decide a tank top and shorts is an appropriate outfit for the type of manual labor that involves pushing over tall stocks of thick grass and weeds in the name of a well groomed lawn in the middle of a wild place–and then quickly decide that a northern woman with pasty skin that hasn’t seen the sun for six months should maybe try shaving her legs and applying sunscreen before attempting such risque outfits.

Eeek, it was a moment I decided I might be one of those people who look better from far away.

Anyway, as I primed and pulled and shoved that lawn mower around the old clothes line, up what was at one time a valiant attempt at landscaping and then, you know over the graveyard of bones and sticks and toys the dogs drug home from Timbuktu, sending at least two bones flying into husband’s pickup before shocking the blades of the mower on one of those old landscaping rocks and landing the machine directly in the center of a immaculately preserved cow plop from last fall, I had a wave of envy for people in town who can mow their lawns in fifteen minutes with no serious hazards to their vehicles or risk of being splattered with manure.

"She's got the mower again! Save yourself and your good eye!"

Yes, mowing the lawn and weed-eating was the equivalent of my summer outdoor chores when I lived in town. It was my favorite task and I was known for choosing hours of raking and mowing and weeding over three minutes of laundry folding.

But here’s the thing, working in the yards of all my homes in town I would not dared to have worn as little (with such little grooming) as I did yesterday pushing that mower across the barnyard. I mean, I at least owed that much to my neighbors.

And although yesterday I had to dodge barbed wire and mow around the tractor and dodge scoria flying at my exposed shins, I could at least do it with my white, scrawny, flailing arms and legs glowing (and then burning) in the sweet sunshine while sweat pooled on my forehead and down my back.

And I didn’t have to worry about the neighbors feeling sorry for me and  shaking their heads as they watched from their front porches.

Which got me thinking about my yard situation: Sigh. It will never be Better Homes and Gardens worthy and I will never  get Martha Stewart to accept my invitation for a visit.

Sigh again.

It’s a hard truth to swallow.

I mean the reality is that we live in a barnyard, a barnyard with a shop and equipment and, you know, a barn. And pickups and machinery don’t make the best lawn ornaments no matter how many pots of geraniums I set on them.

So yes, I realize there are things I may never be able to achieve in a lifetime of living on this ranch in the middle of the clay buttes, and picture perfect landscaping and pets with both eyes and no wood-ticks may just have to be some of them. Because country living means, undoubtedly, mowing over cow poop and a roll of wire and a tractor in your front yard.

But it also means running to your car in your skivvies at night with nothing but the dogs to take notice, a campfire out back on summer nights if you want, fresh-cut rhubarb left over from your grandmother’s garden, a song about wind and a long walk with your husband to your favorite spot to take the place of expensive marriage counseling.

Yes, country living means wood ticks crawling across your kitchen floor and wild weeds mixed in with your garden patch and an unending collection of mud and boots in your entryway at all times.

But it also means breaking for deer on drives to town with a cold diet coke and your hand out the window, horses, slick and sleek after shedding their winter coats grazing in the sun setting on your backyard, a cool spot in the shade, wildflower bouquets and sleeping with the windows open to feel the cool breeze as it moves the curtains and listen to the frogs sing in the creek below your house.

And this planted just for you (but not by you) a few steps out your door.

The grocery store is the basement deepfreeze, the movie theatre is an old DVD collection, a concert is learning a new song on your guitar, date night is sitting side by side on the deck on a clear night with a glass of wine or whiskey (depending on who’s drinking), the coffee house is a trip to the neighbor’s for coffee black in old mugs, and a relaxing evening is a trip to the river to drop in a line for catfish.

Or, you know, you could  always take that trip to town with your diet coke and stock up on groceries, have someone else cook you an appetizer and steak, sit on your friend’s manicured lawn, go to the bar to listen to the band, catch a movie in the theater and grab a latte on your way out.

But I would have to shave my legs for that, because in town people see you close up….

I think I’ll take that hamburger in the deepfreeze grilled up and served on my picnic table on the now-clipped lawn, a glass of wine, a tune on my guitar and a John Wayne movie, if not for any other reason than to avoid taking a shower.

Which reminds me, I am heading out into civilization to Medora to sing for my supper this weekend. If you’re looking for a nice getaway and someone else to cook you an amazing steak, please join me:

June 3, 2011
5:30-8:30 PM
Roughriders Hotel–Theodore’s Dining Room
Medora, ND

June 4, 2011
5:30-8:30 PM
Roughriders Hotel–Theodore’s Dining Room
Medora, ND

I guess I’ll have to take a shower after all 🙂

Hope to see you this weekend, but if I don’t enjoy your yards, country and city folk alike!

The horse whisperer I know…

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It was my pops’ birthday yesterday. We took him out to dinner in good ‘ol Watford City and he got to hang with little man and have a steak and watch the sun finally peek through the clouds and shine in on the dining table of the restaurant.

Pops loves steak and little man and hanging with his family. And birthdays are a day, in the opinion of my family, that you get to do whatever you want. So I couldn’t help but think to myself as we sat in that restaurant after a day of rain and watched that sun appear that if pops could do anything at that very minute, with no realistic restrictions placed on any of his family, it would be this:

Head to the ranch, catch the horses, saddle one for each family member (including little man) and head out across the hills as the sun sank down into the horizon changing colors from yellow to pink to orange to red.


Now I know Little Man is only seven months old and it will be at least seven more before I buy him that little pony, and last time big sister was on a horse (or I guess it was the mule) she nearly had a panic attack as Pearl took after the dogs with no regard to the screeches from the tiny woman on her back. Oh, and mom is over the whole horseback riding thing and has been since she realized her husband was going to stay her husband regardless of if she ever saddled up again. So maybe the entire family on horses thing would have been a bit stressful in real life, but hey, a birthday dream is a birthday dream.

Anyway, pops has been riding horses since he could walk. It is a piece of him that’s pretty amazing actually, how it feeds his soul, how he appreciates the animal and how he can get a horse that has been giving other riders headaches and heartaches to trust and move forward and learn a little every day.

Because Pops hasn’t found a horse he doesn’t like. Yes, he has favorites, but each animal has something to give to him, some redeeming quality. And the quirks–the one that lays down in frustration, the one that doesn’t like her ears touched, the one that is soft-footed, the one that shies at rocks and cows and any leaf that moves, can be worked with, can be better and  is what pops calls “a good horse.”

They’re all good horses.

I was reminded of his instincts with the animals on a ride we took on Sunday afternoon before the rain poured down. We have seven horses on the place (and one old, blind mule) and for the most part, husband, little sister and I have been on all of them at some point or another.

All except the Buckskin.

The Buckskin, beautiful, mysterious, unpredictable, and the only horse branded with the E hanging V brand belonging to the Veeder Ranch is the most expensive colt pops has ever owned. He purchased the animal for his sound breeding and sentimental value, reminding him of his father’s lifetime horse “Buck.” Pops broke the horse, sold him and then worked out a horse trade to get him back.

I am just assuming here, knowing the nature of the horse, but it is quite possible that the previous owner didn’t get along with the Buckskin.

The horse is damn intimidating.

Well, in some situations more than others….

Anyway, it’s because the buckskin bucks, you know, just a little just about every time that saddle hits his back. But give pops the chance and he can get that horse worked out into a picturesque equine who holds his head right, lines out, and gets over the hissy fit thing. Usually by the end of the summer anyone can ride him, if they dare.

I never dare. I like to look at him though.

Anyway, that mellow-yellow attitude is not the case for the Buckskin in the spring. On the first spring ride the Buckskin has his kinks and pops talks himself out of riding the other horses he is working on and into getting on his favorite.

And that’s what happened on Sunday. I chose my sorrel, Colonel (who shares in my personality disorders: laid back, wussy, clumsy, and too trusting)  and then had to put him back because those qualities got his ass kicked in the pen by the other horses.

So it was me and the Red Fury, little sister’s horse, (who shares the same personality disorders as her: energetic, ADD , impatient, stubborn and literally raring to go). Needless to say when we get together we get pissy.

Both of us.

So as I was negotiating with the Fury, pops was saddling the Buckskin as the hump in the horse’s back continued to grow.

He laid on the saddle and the horse swung to the side. He pulled the cinch and he gave a little jump.

I got nervous and the Fury got more nervous as pops lunged the buckskin in a circle, the first step in getting the kinks out.

Pops patted down his back, slapped the stirrups against his side. The buckskin hopped.

The Fury snorted.

I whimpered and had a vision of a runaway stampede as husband saddled up the big Paint he doesn’t necessarily get along with no matter how hard he tries.

Good Lord, we are all going to hit the ground.

I cringed and pops laughed at his mount as the Buckskin continued his little hissy fit. He led him through the big pen and to the other side to open the gate. Husband worked to get the big Paint to actually take his first step forward and away from the barnyard. I continued my negotiations with the Fury and held my breath as pops swung his leg over the Buckskin’s back.

Now here I will tell you I’ve grown up riding alongside my pops and in all of my 27 years I really can’t recall a time I have ever seen him hit the ground as a result of a mis-behaving horse.

A stumble? Yes.

A buck? No.

But I project. I project what I feel like when a horse is acting up and what it felt like for me the countless times I have been canned on the hard clay of the ranch. Because at least twice, as the result of a buck-off, I have been convinced I would never feel my left arm again, and I am pretty sure that is a sensation that you don’t get back the third time.

Anyway, I need to remember that the fear I hold is the not the fear pops holds when it comes to horses. Because pops is a teacher and the horse is his student.


He is always in control and he loves the challenge as much as he loves the result of his teaching.

So he swung on and took a moment to let his favorite horse show him what he was made of. He laughed and said something like:

“Ok horse, let’s get this over with. Show me what you got.”

And with that husband (who finally made it to the gate) and I watched in awe as he gave the Buckskin a little kick and the horse, with what seemed like a mile between the saddle and his back, hunched over and made his best argument for why he didn’t feel like taking a ride today.

And pops pulled the horse’s head around in a nice, tight little circle, pushed him back and forth between the four fences of the corral, stopped him, backed him up and did the whole scene all over again until the Buckskin’s ears moved forward from the pinned back position, his mouth started working with understanding and his head dropped down in cooperation.

It was five minutes. Five minutes of patience and listening and that horse went from broncy to trail horse.

(No photo available…I was too nervous) 

And off we went following that cowboy who has undoubtedly performed that process hundreds of times over his now 50 + years. and loved every minute of it. And in that two-hour ride, that horse that had behaved so badly at the beginning of the ride was the best behaved throughout the duration of the trip.

The Red Fury? Well we had words in the field half-way through and I finally let him open up and give it a good run and we were fine at the end of it all.

We always are.

But that’s the thing. I have been watching pops work with horses since I sat my butt in a saddle for the first time at six years old. I have watched him face challenging animals with the same kind of patience I witnessed on Sunday time and time again and I have always wished for the same thing, the same qualities in myself.

And pops would give me chances to learn by allowing me to put miles on horses he was breaking and when I came back sweaty and frustrated and bruised he wouldn’t get worked up. He would just tell me that’s the nature of the work. That horses need time to learn.

And so do I.

I imagine though, at his age, on his 50+ birthday, he knows things about the animals that I will never know. I imagine that he dreams about them. I imagine he always has.

Because if you ever go on a ride with my father you will get a glimpse of a man who is doing exactly what he was meant to do. It’s infectious, joy that pure. I get the same feeling when I’m singing my favorite song and have waves of it when all is going well on the back of my favorite horse when I can just let go of worries and shed off the layers of insecurity.

But when pops is on a horse there is no insecurity. There is no fear. There is no worry or dread of sense of time restrictions or mortality.

And there is no place else he’d rather be.

Better than television

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You know at the end of the  CBS Sunday Morning news program, after the human interest stories, the witty commentary, the pleasant conversations with Charles Osgood and his equally pleasant bow-ties? You know, after the one or two cups of coffee you consume watching celebrities and do gooders and geniuses tell their stories about how they have and are going to save the world that get you feeling all warm and fuzzy about humanity and ready to go out and maybe save the world yourself  just as soon as you have a couple waffles, a few more cups of coffee and, you know, change out of your sweatpants.

And just before you switch off the t.v. to work on completing the aforementioned tasks, that damn program puts its little feel-good cherry on top of the sun-shining through your window by leaving you with a glimpse into a wild place somewhere in this world. They just leave the camera there for a few moments as pink flamingos stand on one leg and poke their faces in the water, or penguins slide down an iceberg, or the mountains just exist on your television screen in all of their glory.

You know what I’m talking about? Do you watch the program?

You really should watch the program.

Anyway, the end of the show is always my favorite–to see a piece of the world existing in front of me uninterrupted, no effects, no music or frills or voice-over telling me what to think about it allows me to  exist, for a moment, as a pink falmingo.

Or a mountain.

It’s television at it’s best.

So in the spirit of my favorite program I leave you this Sunday evening with a glimpse of the wild that passed through the ranch yesterday evening and welcomed me home by surprise as I zoomed along the pink road, singing a Steve Earl song at the top of my lungs.

I sucked in my breath as out of the corner of my eye I spotted ten bull elk with velvet horns lingering along the skyline.  I slammed on my breaks, kicked up pink dust, rolled down my window and sat with Steve Earl in my ears, my mouth hanging open wide and pure, unbridled, spirited beasts breathing and snorting and running before my eyes and through my own wild world…

And I was an elk for a minute…

which turns out to be more glamourous than a flamingo…and, you know, quite a bit better than television.

Want to get a little closer to these beasts? Click here for another wild elk encounter.

Tiny little miracles (and some other things)

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I went out yesterday morning to feed some babies. It was the first time the sun appeared after a few days of rain and it was fresh and crisp and lovely all around.

I had a major amount of work to do in the house. Like piles of notes and phone calls to make and stories to write. That’s the thing about working from home, when you’re home, that work waves to you all uppity like from that little nook of a desk that sits in the middle of your house. You can’t escape it, you know, unless you wander off.

So I wandered, me and big brown dog. (The pug? So glad you asked. He was snoring on the couch inside, avoiding mornings like the plague is his thing.)

Then I said  to myself: “Self, you’ve got time. This is why you live here. To feed the animals and spray the weeds and unload the dishwasher and avoid the laundry and ride some horses and wander. There might be something in there that says write and be productive and make a living, but I can’t be sure right now…oh and look, how convenient, I have my camera with me! How did that happen? I think I’ll just climb up this little knob and maybe I can find something to photograph seeing as things are all showered up and sparkly.”

So sparkly.

I like sparkly.

I wasn’t expecting anything but a couple bluebells, some horse poop, maybe a dried up crocus or two and a little time to clear my head, but as soon as I hit the top of the first butte, BAM!

It’s wildflower season.


I think we’ve been over my wildflower love affair before so you will have to forgive me as I revel in my obsession and breathe in the colors I’ve been waiting for all winter, the colors I could only find briefly in the sky that touched the white buttes on clear evenings.

I love that sky and I’ll see it again someday, but you’ll have to forgive the fact that all I desire is to put my nose to the ground for a few weeks, to poke around through the tall grass, kick the mushrooms, smell those soft petals and take them home for my kitchen table.

You’ll have to forgive all the photos of flowers that will be covering these pages during this very fleeting time in this very fussy climate. Because I am simply amazed, year after year, that as soon as the ground thaws out a garden that no human person planted just appears out of all of that clay and mud and poop and rocks.

Forgive me, yes. Forgive my amazement and overt enthusiasm for tiny little miracles like this…

and this…

and these…

Because who wouldn’t be excited about their own personal floral shop, a small offering given to us out here for enduring all of this snow and rain.

Gifts like the smell of sweet peas on your kitchen table that make a deadline a little more attainable, something that the dried up Glade plugin that has been sitting in my outlet for months has never fully achieved.

So thank you for taking this little wander with me. I tell ya there is a lot more where that came from, but I’ll try to restrain myself  to ensure that you get some of the other exciting news from the ranch. Important things like:

  • it’s wood-tick season
  • the pug currently still has all of his limbs in spite of his love for picking on things bigger and far more dangerous than him
  • Cowboy has been grilling the most delicious cuts of beef and venison, reminding me every day that I made the right choice in husband (even if he doesn’t do the dishes)
  • it has been too wet to get the cows home and
  • I am making to do lists for little sister to ignore when she comes to live at the ranch for the summer.

Oh, and I’m playing music with pops tomorrow evening in Medora at the Roughriders Hotel–Theodore’s Dining Room. I will also be on Prairie Public Radio today at 3:00 (CT) to talk about being a part of Dakota Air: The Radio Show  at the Burning Hills Amphitheater coming up on June 4th. Due to flooding in the Medora area, this show has been rescheduled for September 17th! But I’ll still be chatting on the radio, so catch it if you can online or on your dial. They’ll be playing some of my tunes and I’ll be talking about new music, old music and what’s to come.

More details on my upcoming appearances:

Thanks for all your support. Here, I picked these for you:

Hope to see you out west soon!

I picked myself some flowers and I’m ok.

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I’ve been away for a few days visiting with people about what makes their communities unique, the challenges they face, the best restaurants, who its people are and what the future might look like.

I have connected with some great ideas, some pertinent issues and some major rain storms. And the miles in between have helped me reflect on what it means to be out here on the ranch, the responsibility of it all and the importance of telling our story, each one of us, in our own way.

My head is full, my timeline crunched, my chest tight with deadlines and pressure to do the right thing, to say the right thing…

to be the best possible version of myself, knowing it is simply impossible to be her at all times.

The miles do that to me. The being away gets me all riled up and flustered and hopped up on margaritas and fast food …excited and stressed about possibilities and getting my butt back home to get things done.

I wind up…and up…and up in the spaces and pavement between here and there, the small towns and gas stations and hotels and little sister’s apartment, anxious about timing and getting to where I’m going and making the best use of my precious time away…making good time on the way back.

But I have a ritual when I hit the pink road in the spring and summer months that involves rolling down the windows and sucking in the air, taking notice of how things have changed, even in a mere five days.

Then I pick myself a wildflower bouquet…

recognize and accept my age inappropriate obsession with blue nailpolish…

and remind myself that no matter the expectations and the questions I simply cannot answer right now, the grass keeps growing, the sky keeps pouring, the horses keep grazing and the bluebells keep blooming.

Whether I’m here or not.

No matter what.

And damn, I’m glad I’m here.

Growing up North Dakotan

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This Sunday I will be in Fargo participating in a panel discussion for the Why Radio Show.

The subject?

Growing up North Dakotan.

I will take a seat next to individuals who have a handle on their identities, who may have wandered, explored their world and asked the questions that need to be asked. And one of those questions is “What does it really mean to be North Dakotan?”

As a woman whose heart has been planted solid here, but whose feet and mind have wandered with music and education and the winding road, I have been asked this question in many forms. It’s like asking what it means to you to hold your last name, or wear your grandmother’s ring, or to lay down next to the man you love every night.

How do you answer it?

Not everyone can speak about it. Not everyone can explain.

Not everyone needs to.

I was talking to my good friend  on the phone yesterday afternoon. As I stood right in the middle of our home state she was in Oregon, a place on the map she picked with her husband. She had been there for nearly three months after years of college and graduate school they were looking for adventure, new opportunities, valuable experience before they settled into their lives. She is loving the ocean and the coffee shops and the eclectic culture. She loves the rain and the flowers and the new scenery and the people.

But you know what she said to me between breaths about her plans and her new apartment and the photography show she is putting together?

She is missing something.

“I miss that prairie. I want to lay in my grass and smell my lilacs and plant my garden and breathe in that sky. I miss my home.”

Home.

Her home.

Who are these people who hold the scent of the dirt, the push of the wind, the endless winters, the wheat fields, the small town in such regard?

Who tends their grandmother’s garden, brings in the baby calves into the basement in the dead of a blizzard? Who works the teller line and serves your morning coffee? Who has owned the Implement Dealership for years?

And who roams all over the world for years on end, traveling over seas to live and work in foreign languages, who are leaders of cities and  major corporations? Who serves in the military,  climbs mountains and rafts raging rivers only to find themselves pulled back again, to be haunted by the memories of sunsets and 4th of July Celebrations no matter how how far they have traveled or how long they’ve been gone.

Who is North Dakota?

We are rural route roads, beat-up mailboxes and dusty school bus seats. We are rides in the combine, summer sausage sandwiches, a thermos of coffee washed down with warm lemonade and  faces black with dirt after a hot August day.

Two miles to a gravel road on the edge of town and we are freedom, our father’s truck, twelve years old behind the steering wheel.

We are first loves and last loves and forever loves found on those backroads at night, on front porches, in the backseats of cars and under a blanket shared in the stands at a football game.

We are the stars that light up the endless sky at night, family farms, four generations of the same recipe on Christmas Eve.

The barnyard light.

We are white wood prairie churches, our mother’s voice quietly singing the hymns, jello with suspended vegetables and mayonnaise casseroles waiting for us in the basement when the service is through.

We are wet clay caked to cowboy boots, the black soil of the valley, the stoplight in town.

High heels and business suits, running shoes and hoping things will stay the same…knowing that they need to change.

Number crunchers, songs that must be sung, books that must be written.

Snake bitten.

We scream for sun and pray for rain and push the river from our doors. We’ve been here before.

Chokecherry jam, misquote bites, country fairs, one station on the radio, too young for our first beer, FFA and 4-H steers. Too young to leave here.

We are race car tracks and power lines, hockey rinks and barbed fence wire.

Drilling rigs and endless fields of wheat…September heat.

We are bicycle tires in the middle of Main Street, fireworks in May, popsicles and swimming pools and a stop at the Tastee Freeze please. Rodeos and American Legion, football heroes, lead singers in the band, the ferris wheel in town.

Pow wows, three legged races, familiar faces, dances in the street.

Fishing in the creek.

We are “Pete’s kid,” “Edie’s granddaughter,” and  “Your mother wants you home right away!”

We are pushed to go and pulled to stay, we are leaving this place as soon as we’re grown.

And we are the sky we can’t explain, predictably unpredictable, colorful and full of rage and gentle hope that it’s all ok.

We’re the wind, relentless.

The snow, endless.

Sharp and hard and steadfast and certain like the winter and the change in weather.

We are the dirt under our nails, our wind tangled hair, the cattails and bluebells and big white tail deer.

We are all of these things that make up a home, but home is not ours to take.

It is in us and we have been claimed.

Join me for:

“Growing Up North Dakotan”

A panel discussion featuring Joshua Boschee, Kathryn Joyce, Jessie Veeder Scofield, and others. Moderated by WHY? host Jack Russell Weinstein

Prairie Public Television Studio
5-7 pm
207 5th Street North
Fargo, ND
Facebook Event 

The event is free. Come be a part of the audience, ask questions, make comments, and engage philosophically with this most important issue.

If you can’t be in Fargo, please share with me here how North Dakota has claimed you.

Back in the saddle

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Ahhh,  finally. I got my butt back in the saddle this Sunday for the first time this spring.

Well, technically this was my inaugural ride:

(Two butts in the saddle, always better than one.)

But after the babies left husband and I saddled up the sorrels and took off over the greening landscape to really test things out.


Really, my first ride of the spring should have happened a month or two ago, but given unpredictable weather, skies spitting snow and writing deadlines the horses got to stay out to pasture for a few extra weeks.

I like to think they were itching to go too, but their big bellies and lazy attitudes gave me the impression they were just fine with procrastinating the inevitable.

Ahh, the first ride. It’s something we wait for all winter long as the snow drifts pile up at our door. We try to remember it ever being green. We talk about all of the work we will get done when it thaws. We can’t wait to rummage through the tack, brush the winter hair off the horses and slip the them some grain to coax them in and see which one has the most spunk and, you know, who might hit the ground for lack of practice in both human and beast.

But no matter the months it seems to come back easy every year. The cinch gets tightened, the horse grunts and swings his head around, I pull up my pants, put my toe in the stirrup and launch my butt into position.

Deep breath in, I give my ride a bit of a kick to ease him out of the barnyard. This time around it took a bit of convincing, but soon we were off, right behind husband who has been oiling and training the stirrups of his saddle in the basement of the house all winter. Finally he got to test it out.

Finally he got to climb to the top of that hill and feel the breeze on his skin, smell the sweet grass, feel the sway of the horse’s back beneath him, test out a trot and then a lope along old cow trails and through the clay buttes…

down the draws to his last elk spotting, just past a bull snake basking himself in the sun, quick to escape to the nearest gopher hole.

Finally I was able to relax and fall in line with the rhythm of my horse’s pace, feel the sun on my shoulders…

be reminded of how the land rises and falls when the weight of winter has been lifted, take in the view of the most handsome man…

smell the sweet sweat of my favorite animal, hollar at the dogs who follow too close and be exactly where I wanted to be.

Yes, no matter what we say during the winter months, the promises we make to ourselves to get the work done, to check the fences and cut trails, the first ride of the season is nothing but a meandering, soul rejuvenating, deep breath in, unpredictable, blissed-out therapy session with just a little edge, you know, because of that hitting the ground thing.

The first ride–a necessity for sanity and a sweet, sweet success (and I am happy to report no butts met the ground this time around).

Such a success that nobody here gave a second thought to picking ticks off our jeans the rest of the night.

Wish you were there with me. I promise you wouldn’t have had issues with the ticks…or the snake. That’s just how heavenly it was.

Ah well, maybe next time.

Until then, go find your blissed-out place, you know, the one that confirms a change in season, and bask in it…

A few minor bruises and a bursting heart

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First things first:

Sigh.

Happy Monday. You’re welcome

Second:

Thank you all for showing your compassion for my hereditary malfunction of succumbing with force to the laws of gravity day after day. I have to say your stories of cow trampling, stair plummeting, dock dunking, face planting in church and falling off of your tall shoes had me laughing out loud.

Which brings me to the second thing:

Bwahahahahahahahah!

ahhhhhhhhh!

Your willingness to share your embarrassing mishaps with me made me love you more than ever. I’ve always felt that life and all the bruises and bumps that come with it are a bit easier if we can just laugh at the whole damn spectacle.

Especially when that spectacle happens to be looking at you in the mirror. Like Cindy said after spilling her embarrassing “sleeping leg face plant” story, maybe public embarrassment is a way of getting rid of bad Karma. If that’s so we should all be evened up in that department….

In his next life he's guaranteed a wolf body at the very least...

So, it was a tough decision, but given the sheer volume of Annika’s misfortunes, mishaps, smashed limbs and near misses with the holiday fruit salad I am quite certain she is destined to be reincarnated as the Queen of England for all of the suffering she has encountered here in this life. Yup. That and the fact that she had the good humor to let her college roommates tally her falls, flubs and skinned knees make her the winner!

Congrats Annika. Your stories made me feel like the lead ballerina in Swan Lake, a ballerina who came out of the other end of a ranch weekend relatively unscathed…except for the bruise above my eye as a result of a three-year-old’s attempt at fetch with the lab.

Oh, and that scraped heel from a horse spooked by husband’s branch-breaking project.

See him back there, so helpful and unaware of the dangers of loud noises...

But you know what? I barely even felt any of it. Because I was high on the sweet spring air, the horse hair, the bluebells and all of the family and kids and babies that came out to visit us this weekend.

My heart was full and at risk of being the third body part to split or bruise, almost tearing at the seams there was so much joy in there.

Because look at this…

And this…


Don’t turn away yet…

Yeah, you crying? Not yet? Well this should send you over the top…

I’ll wait while you get a tissue…

You ok? Ok.

Yes, this weekend the barnyard was filled with squeals and screams and laughter and tiny little footprints. It was bliss. And it helped confirm my belief in the importance of keeping and sharing a place like this with others, especially the others that stand under three feet tall.

Because there’s something about kids and animals that make people like me believe in impossible things…like maybe those two species, kids and beasts, can actually talk to each other…

The innocence, the trust, the unconditional love and wonder they hold for one another makes me feel like maybe, before we could remember, before we grew up and got all that noise in our heads, all our worries and plans for the future, before we forgot what it was like, before we thought we had so much to say, maybe we could really listen.

Maybe that’s why kids take so well to the farm, why they squeal with delight at the baby calves and reach so willingly to touch the nose of a horse. Maybe that’s why they suggest buying baby chicks and piglets and beg for a puppy. Because they belong here. Together.

Now all’s quiet again at the ranch and those babies have gone home to their beds. But I like to think they dream about horses. I like to think in their dreams they are out there with the dogs, running and rolling in the green grass, laughing and talking to each other.

I like to think those kids left a little piece of their heart here knowing that they can come back and get it anytime they want.

Sigh.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get down to the barnyard.  Now that the dust has settled on the weekend, I swear I can hear those horses calling my name.