Under this roof.

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This is what I had going on with my morning coffee today.

And this was my company.

Don’t be jealous. I know it’s hard.

See, my little big sister let me babysit little man, not just for a few hours, but for a complete sleepover stay at my house on the ranch thirty miles away from her.

Believe it.

She trusted me with her baby and his burping habits, tiny socks, and even tinier feet. She packed up a bag filled with gadgets to deal with poop, devices for boogers, wipes and clothes and blankets and baby blue outfits and stuffed toys that sing and glow and oh, those tiny, tiny socks and sent me on my way, down the snow covered road.

I was in heaven.

I was also freaked out about the fact that there was a little human strapped in his seat placed so helplessly in my care.

So I drove approximately three miles an hour and by the time I got the guy home, he was seven years old.

And a little hungry.

So I unloaded my tiny, not quite seven-year-old nephew and all of the things that go with him into our little house in the barnyard. Husband and I spent a good thirty to forty-five minutes trying to figure out that “Pack ‘n Play” thing they invented to replace the much easier to assemble, but not so convenient to transfer “Play Pen” and just like that our house was transformed into a quiet little place with a couple boring adults roaming around worrying about what to cook for supper, to a cozy, lovey, snuggly nest filled with questions about how long to warm up a bottle and if that was a poop or just a stinky fart coming from his adorable little bottom (little man’s, not husband’s).

Oh, yes there was all of that plus baby talk and burping and diapers and cooing and lullaby singing and my heart was so full as little man drifted off to sleep in the nook of my arm. And as I laid that perfect little guy down in his temporary bed in the corner of our house, it occurred to me that what I was doing, in this exact spot, under the bright stars shining down on the roof of this very house was something precious that has quietly and innocently been done for generations.

And it got me thinking about all of the children who were brought into this very home and held tight and read to at night and fed ice cream from the deep freeze and pancakes in the morning.

My grampa reading me bedtime stories...

Little man’s momma was one of them. And so was I. Although my memory doesn’t reach as far back to recall my time spent in the “Play-pen” in the spot where I laid my nephew down, I do remember piling into my grandmother’s bed with my cousins for a night of giggling and dreaming.

I do remember ice cream on the front porch, family photos on the couch, my grandfather’s chair, my gramma’s popcorn, board games, family Christmases, Jello Salad, the kid’s table and the way the house smelled…

Push-ups with gramma on the front porch. That's me in the hot-pink pants...

…and still smells sometimes.

And each of my sisters, each of my cousins will have their own memory of the place as children: filling up the plastic swimming pool on the lawn with the hose on hot days, the pajamas gramma made for us on her sewing machine, being rocked to sleep, the bunk beds, the adventure of gramma and grampa’s house on the ranch.

My first visit to the ranch...

No doubt my father, aunt and uncle and their cousins hold their own fond memories of childhood spent under this roof as well…though I don’t feel I hold the words to attempt those stories–those emotions. They are much too important. Much too precious.

And no, sweet baby nephew won’t remember the day I rocked him to sleep in the same spot where my grandma rocked her babies and her grand-babies off to dreamland.

Gramma and me

He won’t remember how his uncle held him in the easy chair and laughed as little man grabbed onto the neck of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. Truth be told, it is possible that this baby could be one of the last generations to drift off to dreamland under this roof. And with that thought I can’t help but think how much my grandparents, his great-grandparents, would have loved to have held him and watch him laugh and make him pancakes when he grew teeth and then give him gum when his momma wasn’t around to say no.

And although I would have loved to bring my own baby home to this house someday, time and life will not allow it. But as we are making plans to build ourselves a new home over the hill I am making plans to keep this one in tact so that my cousins and my sisters might bring their children from down the road, across the state and across the country, to spend a night under the stars shining on the roof over the house their great-grandfather built– a house that held them so tight with imagination, warm smells and love.

But for now I am thankful I am here to show little man, and his tiny feet, around the place…

I am thankful he was here with me…

…under this roof.

Saturday Night

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It’s Saturday
It’s late
and we should be in town
Singing to the music from the speakers above the crowd

It’s Saturday
Your hands behind your head
kicked back the way you do
the dog curled up in bed

It’s Saturday
And I’m saying something like “We’re old”
as I slide into my slippers and your sweater
because it’s cold

It’s Saturday
The T.V.’s on
I flip through the stations
you boil water on the stove

And we could warm up the car
or give a friend a call
It’s the weekend after all

But it’s Saturday
and there’s no way
I would trade the nook of your arm
for great seats and half drunk beer

Yes, It’s Saturday
and there’s no way
you could get me out of here

Pizza Cook-off: Cowboy vs. Cowgirl

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Ah, pizza! Pizza for breakfast. Pizza for lunch. Pizza at suppertime. Hell, pizza for a snack. I do it. You should too.

In honor of the upcoming Super Bowl Sunday extravaganza, you know, where Dominos Pizza is expected to deliver 1.2 million pies to Americans in our homes where we are all whooping and hollering and sporting jerseys, Cowboy and I decided we wanted in on the action.

Not the jersey thing, but the pizza thing.

But we had to get creative, because it turns out Dominos doesn’t deliver out here.

What? It’s only 90 miles of blowing, drifting snow and now, I heard, a little ice will be splashed in for good measure. Geesh.

Oh, the price we pay to live in the wilderness.

Anyway, it just so happens that Cowboy has in his super secret hiding place where his super secret recipes are stored a super secret, super crunchy, super thin, super easy pizza crust recipe.

And then, of course, he has in his super secret cooking brain super delicious homemade pizza concoctions that never fail him—i.e.: the breakfast pizza, the chicken alfredo pizza, the taco pizza, and of course, the BBQ beef pizza.

And that’s what he’s cooking for us today.

Perfect. Can’t wait. Sounds hearty and meaty and cheesy and very, very Cowboy.

Which got me thinking…hey I might have something to contribute here that doesn’t involve a hunk of cheese in the shape of a holiday figure.

I might have an idea for a pizza that is very light, very vegetably, very colorful, very, very…well…Cowgirl.

And so the Cowboy vs. Cowgirl pizza challenge idea was born. To which Cowboy replied, “Whatever, you don’t stand a chance noodle arms.”

And I, with my quick and clever wit shot back “No, you don’t stand a chance…you, you…beef arms…”

Silence.

I turned and ran the three steps to the bedroom and cried in the corner while I hugged my knees, realizing I started something that couldn’t be undone, much like that hobbit movie with the ring and the, well….nevermind.

Anyway, this ain’t gonna be pretty.  But I’m brave, despite the size of my muscles and the range of my cooking skills.

Great idea.

Just.

Great.

Either way, Cowboy or Cowgirl, I think you will enjoy these recipes. If anything, just prepare the crust and add your own toppings, because really, you can’t go wrong.

So let’s get ya going on the crust while I pull myself together and put on my Cowgirl cooking outfit.

The crust:

Below is a picture of Cowboy’s super secret recipe that has been with him since freshman year of college. A recipe he no doubt acquired from his momma or his sister and wrote down in a dark room with only one light bulb dangling from the ceiling and then promptly folded it up and shoved it in his underwear drawer or under his mattress or in the ceiling paneling until he needed it again.

Well, at least that’s what it looks like.

Ok.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees while you gather the following ingredients.

  • 1 cup water
  • 3 cups flour
  • 2 tbs oil
  • 1 Tbsp sugar
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 1 ¼  tsp dry yeast – bread machine yeast

Photo for you, cause I had no idea what this was...

Pour all of these ingredients in a big bowl and mix together.

Here you will see Cowboy using his Christmas present from his biggest fan, my momma

It seems like cheating, it’s so easy, but if you don’t have a Kitchen Aid mixer, that’s ok. Neither did we all of our lives and we were not pizza-less. Just add the above ingredients to a bowl and mix with your hands until everything is mashed together and you achieve the proper consistency so you can roll it out successfully and get it to the pizza pan.

You may have to add a bit more flour as you go to get it just right.

Ok, this look familiar?

Sprinkle flour on your surface and plop down the dough.

Roll out with rolling pin until it is stretched out big enough to cover your pizza pan.

Spray your pan with cooking spray and transfer the dough.

This recipe makes enough dough for you to decide if  you would like your crust a bit thicker or a bit thinner, because who’s the boss? Not Tony Danza. You. You’re the boss.

Now, use a knife to cut off the excess dough.

What you do with that dough is up to you.

I made a pizza dough snowman.

Of course I did.

Ok, “Ta da!” the crust is ready. Perfection.

Cowboy and I both used this pizza dough recipe, but I cooked mine for about 5 minutes to get it nice and brown and crispy before adding the toppings and throwing the pizza pie back in the oven to heat it up.

Cowboy piled all the toppings on the uncooked crust and put it all in the oven to melt together.

So let the games begin…with my pizza. Because I like the phrase “Ladies First.”

Always have.

Cowgirl Pizza
Chicken-Bacon Pesto

Once I convinced Cowboy to prepare my crust for me (which you will notice wasn’t quite as beautifully executed as the one he took ownership of) by using my wit and charm and negotiation skills I prepared the following toppings.

  • 3 chicken breasts, seasoned, baked and shredded
  • ½ lb of bacon, cooked and chopped
  • 1 ½ cups feta cheese
  • 1 can artichokes, drained, rinsed and chopped
  • Sliced tomatoes
  • Chopped green onions
  • Olive oil
  • 1 package pesto mix (or make your own, that would be better. But you know who you’re dealing with here…I had to make the packaged pesto twice because of a common mishap I have with reading directions on the back of packaged food items. Happened all the time in college with hamburger helper…I’ll tell you about it sometime)

The oven was preheated to 350, so I threw my pizza crust in there for about 5 minutes to get it nice and golden brown while I incorrectly followed the instructions on the back of the pesto mix package and then started over and stirred it up correctly for crying out loud.

When the crust was finished I took it out of the oven and spread the pesto mix over the crust and began layer my toppings, under Cowboy’s watchful and judgment-filled stare…(oh, and his underdeveloped camera skills)….

I accomplished all this while, enduring, before I even poured myself a glass of wine (which I had to postpone until the project was complete to ensure total concentration…) comments such as these:

“Where’s the cheese?”

“Chicken? Chicken is for vegetarians.”

“Sniff, sniff…what’s that smell? Hmmm…yeah…well, what ever…”

“What are those green things? Artic-whats?”

“Well, if you call that pizza.”

My confidence was shaken.

But I held it together and when my toppings were beautifully assembled on the not so beautiful crust, I put the pizza in the oven to bake for about 10 minutes while I ran back to the bedroom and cried a little.

The buzzer beeped

I came out.

I pulled my pizza from the oven and cut us some slices…

Silence.

I ate three peices.

Despite his skepticism and his lack of love of artic-whats, vegetable chicken and feta cheese, Cowboy had two.

I think that’s what I call a hit.

So I poured myself a glass of the good stuff and left the dishes for the dogs.

It’s about time they started earning their keep around here.

Now Cowboy’s turn, which is sure to involve a fair amount of cheese and seasoning and patience and calm, cool and collectiveness that I have never possessed…oh Martha Stewart, we don’t stand a chance….

Cowboy Pizza
Zesty BBQ Beef


Ok, it took Cowboy a day to recover from the shock to his system that was my pizza. So day two, Cowboy began his pizza excursion by digging in the freezer for a 3.5 lb beef roast, seasoning it to his liking and  submerging it 3/4 of the way in water in our crock-pot…

…and slow cooking it for a good five to six hours.

If you need to, click here for the basic instructions for cooking a beef roast–there are about a million different easy ways to cook it, but takes some time and patience, which I don’t seem to possess either. I will tell you it was torture milling around the house with this slab of meat cooking and smelling so deliciously scrumtious and hearty all day. All. Day.

By the time we got started on the pizza project it was 5:30pm and I was sure I was going to die of starvation.

Ok, so while the beef is finishing up its cooking process, pour yourself a glass of whiskey (because Cowboys can cook while they drink…seems to make it better, not worse. Someday I will master the only multi-tasking activity males possess)

Looks like we need to call the liquor store to see if they deliver...

…and gather the following ingredients for the BBQ sauce.

Sauce


  • 1 18 oz bottle of BBQ sauce
  • ½ cup Jelly – Strawberry or Grape
  • 2 Tblsp Worcestershire Sauce
  • 1 ½ Tblsp minced garlic
  • 1 Tblsp garlic pepper
  • 1 Tblsp minced onion
  • 1 tsp Steakhouse seasoning grinder (Cowboy says: “I don’t know what this is exactly, but it’s got a bunch of delicious shit in it”)
  • 1 tsp red pepper
  • 1 Tblsp cajun seasoning
  • 1 tsp Liquid Smoke
  • A couples shakes of celery salt
  • 4 ounces of scotch (or whiskey of course)

Oh, and also grab yourself the following for the pizza toppings:

  • 1 small onion
  • 1 cup mozzarella cheese
  • 1 cup cheddar cheese

Ok, pour all of the sauce ingredients, except the scotch, into a big bowl.

Then, to help you get all of the BBQ sauce out of the bottle, pour the scotch into the BBQ bottle, shake it up and dump the concoction into the bowl too.

Who said Cowboy’s weren’t thrifty?

Now mix it all up!

Ok, your roast is smelling delicious and is ready to be brought out into the world.

*Cowboy only used about half of his roast for the pizza, so if you have a big 4 lb roast, cut it in half and use the other half for sandwiches or something. That would be good.

Now shred your roast with a fork

And then cut it up a bit more with a knife

Now taste your sauce to make sure it is delicious. Add spices and more scotch if you need to.

Next, combine your shredded roast and the sauce in the crockpot and cook on high (or 350, depending on your roasting method) for about an hour to let the seasoning and sauce soak in and make it nice and tasty.

And add that onion if you want to. Or you can save it for the top of the pizza.

While you wait, this would be a good time to prepare your pizza crust and preheat the oven to 350.

And listen to Cowboy say things like:

“If this roast is any indication of what my pizza is going to taste like, your pizza doesn’t stand a chance….”

And wipe away tears.

Ok, like I said, Cowboy chose not to pre-cook his pizza crust. So when your roast is done, slap your BBQ beef concoction onto the uncooked pizza crust you prepared.

Now it’s time for the cheese! Cowboy was wondering where it was? Well, he found it.

Place pizza in the oven for 20-25 minutes, or until crust and cheese are a nice golden brown…

…and you will have this…

And it will be delicious.

And resemble, in no way, the pizza your wife came up with.

And you will determine that to compare the two would be like comparing apples to oranges…just like you and said wife.

And said wife will say: “That means we both win!”

And you will say together, in wedded bliss unison: ” Take that Dominos.”

And ride off into the sunset.

Happy Super Bowl Weekend party people! I hope your team wins.

The music

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Last Friday my dad and his band, along with a couple young talented guys from my hometown, got together to play music in one of the local bars. They do this from time to time when schedules allow, so I took the trip to town to tap my toes, listen and sing with them– one of my favorite things to do in the entire world.

Something I’ve been doing for years every time I get the chance.

And it reminded me of something I wrote this summer after driving home from a night playing music in town with the guys. We loaded up the equipment in the pouring rain and drove home to our beds and our families. That night I felt I needed to talk about the music, to really try to get to the bottom of what it means. So I wrote it down, I analyzed, I remembered and thought it out. And then I tucked it away as I went on with the day-to-day and found my feet on the ground I love.

And started writing music again.

So last Friday I dug it out of the archives and I wanted to post it today.

The music

I want to talk about the music. I want to really tell you about.

But I am not sure where to start, and if I do, how to end.

I want to tell you how it takes over, how it tortures, how it aches and thrills and brings me to the highest highs and the lowest lows. How I nurtured it and ignored it. How I whispered it in the night air and screamed it in the hilltops and took it with me on the road and opened the doors wide and let it out. How I shut it in tight. How it haunts me and swells and lulls and crescendos and de-crescendos through my life. I want to tell you how it holds me and throws me down and then picks me up and laughs it off.

I want to tell you all of these things. I want to make you understand this blessing and this curse.

I got home late last night in the middle of a thunderstorm. My dad, with a trailer full of speakers and mic stands and guitars and crumpled song lists, drove me home into the night after an evening of playing with his band at an event in our hometown. It is an eclectic group of men–the band. And I could describe them here for you, but that would be a novel.

That would be an epic tale of triumph and creativity and struggle and friendship all wound up in their very own reasons they get together in bar rooms, around campfires, in living rooms and on porches across the country to play–to show off their instruments, sing into the dark and the smoke the words from the pens of like-minded men and women–songs from their own pens.

They tap their feet and drink from bottles after a long day in the office, in the field, on the road, in the oil patch or at home, alone, and they let it go. They push through worn voices, lines like “come away from your working day,” or “you’re spook’n the horses,” or “long may you run”– each song hand-picked by each man for something–something that matters.

And they get requests. They get requests to sing “Pretty Woman” or anything Garth Brooks or Simon and Garfunkel or “something we can dance to!”

And sometimes they oblige. Sometimes they do. But mostly they sing what ever the hell they want. Because they’ve been here before. They’ve played those requests and sat through sets in bars where the dancers were falling into equipment and laughing and cussing heartily to each other, drowning out perfect guitar riffs and damn passionate vocals and a great steel lead. They’ve driven into the night to get to the next show for the paycheck and the idea this might lead to something bigger. One of them has played to crowds of thousands and slept in tour busses and traveled the world. One of them has spent most of his musical career picking in the living room, looking for the voice to sing it out loud. One went from picking and singing in a traveling band, to alone in coffeehouses and restaurants, to sitting alongside a young daughter as she nervously sang her little heart out in front of her first real audience. All have found a home with the band.

These are the voices that sang to me the music I grew up with. The John Prine, the Lyle Lovett, the Bruce Springsteen, the EmmyLou Harris and the Neil Young came through on weathered guitars and equally weathered voices. I listened. I followed along.

And I fell in love. I took those voices, and started searching for my own at a pretty young age. I could go along here and describe to you the linear, biography type write-up of how I moved into and out of a career focused on music. That is important for press releases and websites, but not so important to me. What I want to explain is that I was never looking for fame and fortune or a chance to wear really great outfits with the songs I was writing and singing.

I was looking for a way to tell myself something.

I would walk out in the hills behind our house and sing at the top of my lungs where nobody could hear me, just to let myself let it out. It didn’t matter how my voice sounded, but I wanted to create something. I wanted to create something as beautiful and heart wrenching and cynical as the world I saw spinning around me. So I flung it out there and with a little coaxing, I began singing with my dad in public, then playing my guitar, then the songs that I wrote. And pretty soon people wanted me as at their conferences, their summer festivals, as their side act, their opening act, and sometimes, their featured attraction. Then I found myself on the road a bit, performing at colleges and as a guest on the local radio and small TV stations. Pretty soon I found myself wanting it too–knocking on doors, making phone calls, asking to play, auditioning, entering in contests, recording my music.

And then I had to explain myself.

“How do you write?” “How does it come to you?” “Did you take any formal classes?” “Who taught you to play guitar?” “Where do you want to go from here?”

And my favorite, “You should try out for American Idol.”

Pretty soon I was 23 and making a modest living off of rationalizing my worth as an artist, playing my music, proving myself and struggling to answer these questions.

But I don’t know how to answer them. I don’t know how to explain to anyone what I decide to write down, how the music comes out and the fact that most days I don’t think I’m much good anyhow. I don’t know how to explain how it got as far as it did, and then, how I stepped back a bit. I was given a wonderful opportunity to travel the mid-west and sing my songs and tell my stories and meet all kinds of wonderful people and see the United States from the inside of my Chevy Lumina. And it was a good gig for someone like me who had no idea what she was doing really.

But to be honest here I was a little lonely out there singing songs written about a place I loved, a place I kept packing up and leaving. And I could have gone on and on like this into my life, with small successes, telling my story, telling the world about what I love and not being there to love it. To live it.

Because to me the music was words and notes and callused fingers plucking the stories out of me and into that world that used to weigh on me, inspire me, scare me a little. To me the music was all of this. All of this and suddenly it was work too.

And so I felt I was being swallowed up a bit by the method of it all. I wanted the music, but I didn’t want to be launched, I didn’t want to be swallowed by it. I didn’t want it to take everything with it as we flew down the road to the next town.

So I backed off for a bit to remember exactly what it meant to me in the first place. To find that little girl singing in the trees again. And I tried to explain. Because some people can’t imagine being given a voice and a passion and not taking it to the bank for every thing it’s worth.

But that’s just it. What is it worth to me? What is it worth to the small town band playing their hearts out on a Saturday night to a bar crowd?

I remember when I was younger getting ready to go sing at an event during a warm summer weekend. I sat in the back seat of my parent’s car as they drove to the destination and I remember my secret struggle with this situation in which I found myself. I was thankful for the gift. I was thankful for my voice and my love for the music, but I thought to myself, at that moment, when I imagined my friends at the pool or hanging out together at the lake, free of the jitters, free of the nervous stomach before the performance, that they had it pretty good. For one moment, I thought maybe I didn’t want this responsibility.

But last night, as I was strumming alongside some of the most talented and rugged and honest men I know, I whispered a quiet “thank you” to God.  Because whatever the music can be, whatever expectations and struggles and disappointments and goals I have and have not achieved with this voice, I am grateful simply for what it is:

Sanity and creativity and holding on and sitting side by side with the people you love and singing into the night songs about traveling and the places you’ve been, songs about learning and death and standing up for a friend.

The connections, the mixing of voices, the harmony of two best friends, a mentor, a legend, a daughter, and a father swaying to the beat of their hearts in time to the music flying out of smiling lips and eyes squeezed shut with pure joy.

It is respect and trust enough to let it take you to a good place, a strong place where your soul speaks and all of the people you’ve loved and lost, those who lifted you up come to life for the moment.

It is finding the sound, taking a breath in unison, inviting strangers to sing along until they are no longer strangers.

It is packing up and driving into the thunderstorm at 1:30 am, rehashing the night, and the notes and the characters beside you. And making plans to sing again.

So I’d like to tell you about the music. I would. But I am sure to disappoint someone here, because what it means to me might not be what it means to you.

Because to me, it means everything.

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!