Tag Archives: life

Bikinis do not go with neckerchiefs.

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Ok people. That up there? That was real life here this weekend. Like real, zero degree, blustery, white, snowy, wintery life here in our little piece of Western North Dakota paradise.

That’s a real life rosy nose. And that’s a traditional camouflage neck warmer and real snow carried on their shoulders into the house directly from under the unpredictable November sky.

And those men have just come in from working under it, trudging through the deep white blanket like two abominable snow men roaring through the trees and valleys on a quest to find the cattle in a near white out.

Because the show must go on. Even when you feel like you’re trapped in some sort of glitchy snow globe that was put together without the pretty, sparkly Christmas decorations.

Anyway, it’s times like these I am glad I can feign being busy with housework and avoid the outdoor chores. And it’s times like these, when the ice melts off the men’s muddy boots and onto my “freshly mopped” floor, that I look for a reason not to find the nearest bear den and join in the celebration of hibernation, chances of being mauled and eaten be damned.

So for my sanity and for the sanity of the puffy coated beings around me, I came up with the following. Hopefully it will help convince you this season can be loved and trusted to happily deliver some wonderful things.

I present to you:

The Top Ten Reasons You Can Like Winter And Move on With Your Life:

Because he's still not convinced...

1. Pockets. Now that you are wearing an excessive amount of clothing, you are bound to have a pocket or two.

And if you’re really lucky, you left a dollar or ten in there last spring when you put it away and are now smiling cause you found it… and promptly purchased 1-10 Snickers bars.

Because money found in that manner should be used to buy candy.

It’s a rule I just made up.

Also, pockets make it so you can carry an unreasonable amount of things you might need…like gum and matches and pictures of your pug…er, I mean kids…and candy bars.

2. Mittens. They allow your fingers to get reacquainted  after that long, hot summer.  Your fingers appreciate this. And I appreciate mittens.

You should too.

3. From November to April you have a fine excuse for your bad hair days. It’s called a beanie people (or a toque if you’re my neighbor to the north). Deal with it.

And they will, cause their hair looks exactly the same when they come in from the cold.

4. It is not swimsuit season.

And won’t be again for a good seven months. So have a cookie why don’t ya.

5. Snuggling with the cat.
Snuggling with the pug.
Snuggling with the lab.
Snuggling with the other cat.
Snuggling with the husband.
Snuggling with a blanket and a cup of coffee.
Snuggling with all of the above.

Oh, and snuggling with a Snuggie–God’s apology to man kind for inventing this weather in the first place.

Didn't know they made Snuggies for dogs did ya? Well, fortunately they do. And now you know.

6. This time of year nobody will give you a hard time if you watch “A Christmas Story” repeatedly until Valentine’s Day. Because nothing warms a chilly soul like a pair of bunny pajamas, a Red Rider BB Gun and a lamp that looks like a leg.

Nothing.

7. Can’t decide on what to wear? No problem, you can wear it all (and probably should if you’re fond of  your toes).

8. Sledding, skiing, skating, snowboarding and all of the other dangerous winter sports I stink at but you’re probably good at.

Just do me a favor and skip the triple axels and back flips and ollies when I’m around and we can remain friends.  I’m sensitive about my lack of skills.

And the constant stream of snot running down my nose when I partake in these activities.

9. The landscape looks good in white and you look good in wool and fleece– which makes you two a match made in heaven.


10.  This season–this blustery, sparkly, fluffy, temperamental season–makes spring all the sweeter and summer all the greener.  150 degree temperature fluctuations? No problem.

Where would we be if we weren’t adaptable?

Well, we would all be in San Diego…

And it’d probably get kinda crowded there and they’d more than likely run out of tequila…

So I’ll take my hot chocolate with a splash of peppermint schnapps and wait this out in my long underwear and a wool cap, thanks.

Because bikinis are overrated and don’t go well with my favorite neckerchief.

Cheers to the new season. How nice of it to show up early.

Because really, doesn’t it make for a stunning, fresh scene?

There, don’t we feel better now?

P.S. Email me and I’ll gladly give you the name of my stylist.

How I know it’s hunting season

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Ok, we are deep into deer hunting season around here.

And just in case I didn’t notice that the men in this area have all suddenly grown full on beards and taken to driving ten miles an hour down the roads dressed in camo head to toe with their orange hats on their dashboards and their faces smashed against the windows of their pickups, I would like to present to you how I have been made well aware of the season in my quiet little corner of the world…you know, in case I had no idea:

First things first, I am reminded in my bathroom when I reach for my wedding rings in my pretty little soap dish.

Good morning sunshine.

I am reminded when I go to get dressed and am shocked that husband has indeed hung up his hunting pants. Nice and neatly might I add.

I guess he respects the camo.

I am reminded in the entrance to our house when I go to greet a knocking UPS man.

Cause nothing says “Welcome to our home!” like a gun and a case of camouflaged beer.

And no you’re eyes are not fooling you, that is camouflaged beer. And I am reminded once again of my place in this world when I find it in my fridge:

“Cold as a mountain stream and as refreshing as its name….”

Or don’t find it in my fridge… I know I put it in here somewhere…maybe near the not-so-fresh-anymore half and half and coffee creamer. If only it weren’t so cleverly disguised…

Oh there it is! Phew, I was getting thirsty for that cold mountain stream.

Good thing Busch added a little blaze orange or I would have died of thirst…or shot it! Oh, I could have accidentally shot it.

Good Lord.

And I am reminded on my evening commute as the radio plays the following ballad…

…and when I slam on my brakes while this creature looks for an quick escape from the sausage factory:

And I yell: “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!”

And he screams: “I AM RUNNING LADY! I AM RUNNING! I CAN’T RUN ANY FASTER! SSSHHHHIIIIITTTTT!”

Then, taking lessons from the Busch can, promptly puts on his camo vest and disappears into the brush.

Now, let’s test out your sportsman skills and see if you can spot him in the photo above.

Winner gets a case of camouflage beer….

….that is if I can find it….

Good luck hunters. There’s only a few days left of this blessed season!

In case you needed a reminder.

Cowboy Cooks Apple Strudel (For Supper)

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Oh man, I just looked at the weather report and it doesn’t look like we are going to get a wave of tropical weather anytime soon. I was out there this weekend and if I was in denial in any way before our ride to break ice on the stock dam, I was soon frozen into reality.

Cowboy breaking ice

And so were my toes, no matter how thick the wool socks.

So we came in, thawed our feet on the heater and Cowboy said “Let’s make strudel!”

Apple Strudel

And I said a quiet prayer of thanks to sweet Jesus for sending down a man who would utter those lovely words.

Because by “Let’s make strudel!” he really meant “I’ll make strudel.”

It’s one of those charming understandings that this married couple shares: He makes strudel. I stand back and hand him things.

Ahhh, “Let’s make strudel:” some of the best three words that have come out of Cowboy’s mouth. They are right up there with “Found your _________ (insert various expensive things I lost that he told me never to lose) and, you know, “Marry me.” Which is really only two words. Two words that I didn’t fully appreciate until dear husband first came to me with the idea:

Strudel. Apple Strudel. Apple Strudel for Supper.

You heard me.

Apparently Cowboy’s momma has been making this traditional German “dessert for supper” dish for years, putting her right up there with some of the best mommas in the world. And you might be surprised that this would work as a late evening dish, but, well, Cowboy says to trust.

And I trust.

So Cowboy called his momma to get the finishing touches on the recipe and we packed up our supplies and made the trek over to my momma’s house. We had some very important company coming in from Texas to deer hunt and Cowboy apparently thought said company was getting too skinny.

Also, Cowboy needed more space for our journey to food heaven.

And momma has more space.

But momma doesn’t have sharp knives.

Sharpen Knife

Here we go again.

Sharpen Knife

Sharpen Knife

First things first:

Dress the part: Cowboy wanted to welcome our guest in style, so he wore his polyester shirt and his vest….and his mustache…

Cowboy

Ta da!

Ahh, the vest. So practical. Warm AND classy.

Hydrate: Drink of choice: Jeremiah Weed. All the cool kids are drinking it. And. We. Are. Cool. Kids.

Jeremiah Weed

Cool.

Now select the proper tunes: Drive By Truckers

Let’s do this:

Cowboy Cooks Momma’s Homemade Apple Strudel (For Supper? Gasp!)


Ingredients:

  • 6 Apples (the more bitter the better. A motto that applies to apples—women and weather? Not so much)
  • 2 ½ Sticks of Butter
  • 2 Cups Water
  • 2 Cups Sugar
  • Cinnamon
  • 1 Heap’n scoop of Crisco
  • 2 to 3 Cups Flour
  • 1 Egg
  • 1 Cup Milk

And the meat. Yes, you were wondering about this weren’t ya? The meat you serve with the dish is actually an important component. Cowboy usually chooses venison sausage, but any type of ham or breakfast sausage will work as well to transform this dish into a flavorful combination of sweet and tart and salty and, of course, carb loaded goodness to warm up those toes and send you straight into hibernation.

Step One: Prep your skillet

  • Turn your electric skillet or frying pan on low to warm it up

  • Add 2 cups of water and 1 stick of butter to the skillet

Cowboy says: “That’s what I like about my kitchen, we measure butter in sticks not tablespoons.”

  • Add a big “heapn’ spoon full of Crisco”  to the skillet as well

(Oh my Gawd)

To this I said to Cowboy “You mean a tablespoon?”

And cowboy replied “No. Not a tablespoon. This much. This is how much I’m putting in there.”

(Yes, this is happening…)

Step Two: The dough

You may sense a theme happening here based on the last two entries of “Cowboy’s Kitchen.” Much of Cowboy’s favorite dishes happen to be heritage food. And his heritage happens to be German. And, apparently the Germans from which he sprung made meals that were based from the following simple ingredients: Flour, egg, milk, salt.

The good ‘ol white stuff.

I have advised we go in a different, lighter direction next time. But it’s Cowboy’s Kitchen, so really, I can’t promise anything.

Ok.

  • Using a one handed egg crack technique (You’ve seen this before) crack one egg into a liquid measuring cup

  • Add milk to the egg until it equals a cup (another classic technique.)

Now get my momma another beer…cause she’s thirsty and, as she said “they’re going down smooth tonight”

Why Cowboy got married: Wedding ring = tool.

  • Whisk the mixture. Well, a whisk is what you’re supposed to use, but Cowboy prefers to “Fork.” He’s old school like that. All the cool kids are old school. Haven’t you heard?

  • Pour the mixture into a large mixing bowl

  • Add handfuls of flour to the mixture and mix with your hands until the consistency allows you to roll it out thin with a rolling pin. About 2 to 3 cups of flour.

You might notice that this is not the hand of a cowboy. That's my momma's hand. Cowboy made her help.

And then this is what happened. Needless to say, I have never had to wonder where I inherited my deficiencies in the kitchen.

  • Sprinkle flour on your surface to avoid stick, place the dough on the flour and begin kneading the dough adding flour as you “knead” it (get it?)  in order to prepare it to be rolled out thin with a rolling pin.

  • Once you have the dough at the proper consistency make sure that your surface is still coated in flour (you may need to add more) and roll the dough out flat and thin with a rolling pin.

Hmmm, there’s something sexy about a man and his rolling pin….

Anyway, be careful not to tear holes in the dough, but if you do, it will all turn out in the end, so don’t worry, just take another drink.

Because it's all about the attitude, so do whatever it takes.

  • Sprinkle salt over the rolled out dough

Step 3: The apples

  • Peel 6 medium sized apples (hey, at least this time it’s apples and not potatoes)

And if you want to, conduct a contest  with your kitchen assistants to see who can get the longest peel. We did.

My momma’s attempt:

Oh momma.

Cowboy’s skills:

Pretty good, pretty good…

And, drum roll please….

Clearly not dressed for such success and for the other side of the camera, I won! I won!

And was accused of cheating because I used a peeler. But to that I say: That’s why God invented them.

Ok, moving right along.

  • Slice apples thin and into quarter sized pieces and spread them out over the dough.

*Note: Cowboy didn’t cut the apples into small enough pieces here and this made it harder to roll up the strudel. So slice your apples smaller than you see here will ya? And then forgive Cowboy cause he ain’t perfect…

  • Sprinkle cinnamon over the apples.

  • Now, cut a stick and a half of butter into 1 tablespoon slices and place over apples…..

…yes, this is also happening…

  • Now you must coat, and by coat I mean COVER the apples and the butter and the cinnamon and the dough in SUGAR.

Cinnamon, butter, sugar?

Supper.

This is where Cowboy says you should start getting excited.

Are you excited?

I am.

And hungry.

And doing some sit-ups to prepare.

Good thing I wore my stretchy pants.

  • Now you’re gonna roll all this up into a tight log (my words, not Cowboy’s), so Cowboy recommends you cut this concoction in half to make it easier. Oh, and smaller apples make it easier too.

Cowboy used a spatula to help in the process of the roll up. Take a look here to see how it’s done.

And don’t worry if it doesn’t look perfect and if there are holes and you need to patch things up. I promise you your taste buds won’t care.

And neither will your guests.

Step 4: The finale

  • Make sure your water/butter/Crisco mix is at a dull boil
  • Now slice the rolled strudel into approximately 2 to 3 inch pieces and place them on your skillet or pan

  • Sprinkle the strudel with cinnamon and cover your skillet or pan, making sure the cover is sealed so you don’t allow the heat to escape

  • Covered, cook the strudel on one side for 25 minutes
  • Flip the strudel and cook for another 20 minutes uncovered, frying the bottom of the noodle so it is firm and golden.

Step 5: Meat and eat

Now I’m sure you’re not quiet convinced that this can indeed satisfy as a supper dish, but serve your guests a slice of apple strudel heaven with a side of your favorite sausage and the flavor combination is sure to delight.

Some people like to add to the chaos by garnishing with syrup. Hey, you might as well go all out.

I say, add a glass of wine like my momma and I and you’re sure to sleep until spring.

Just like the bears and the squirrels.

Ahhh, I just don’t think they make meals like this down south…but then, they don’t need the extra padding for winter.

You can thank me when you wake up.

*Note: Here I feel the need to explain what I was dealing with during my quest to bring you this recipe in all of its glory.  Because three things occurred that challenged me during this kitchen experience (and I don’t need any help being challenged).

1. The sun went down, like really fast as it typically does this time of year…
and…
2. My momma doesn’t believe in overhead lighting, even in times like these. “It’s just not flattering,” she says…
…which didn’t help with the fact that…
3. Cowboy’s cooking is a slow, thought out process, as I have explained before and I have been known to be less than prepared and…well my camera battery died.

So I borrowed a camera from my pops to finish the job.

I hope you got the idea, but the strudel looks better in person, I promise.

Next time I’ll bring a battery pack and a spotlight.

And more wine.

Another lesson learned in Cowboy’s Kitchen.

Just like her. Just like me.

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I would like to take a trip down memory lane this morning because I feel I have some explaining to do. I find I have to explain myself quite regularly given my emotional outbursts, unruly hair, borderline crazy relationships with animals, worst case scenario obsession and addiction to cheese, so don’t feel bad about it. I sure don’t.

But I feel it’s necessary given all of the drama, all of the animal created chaos, all of the love for place I have spilled all over the sweet world wide web.

Because I want you to know that this behavior, this passion, this melodramatic, arms wide open to the world life I lead and the fact that I write about it in all its glory and dirt and bruises and wind and sunshine is nothing new. Nothing new at all.

Yes, at young age I was told to write it all down, little girl. Write all those feelings down so you can capture them and understand them and maybe not worry so much.

So I did it and have been doing so ever since. And most of those thoughts were held safe in books never to see the light of day.

But sometimes we were given writing assignments in school…and, well…I guess I just couldn’t hold back the emotion and the theatrics and philosophy that emoted from my innocent mind,  seeing it was my time to expose my soul to the world.

In 3rd  grade.

And it just happened to be that one of my most prized obsessions at the time, and actually during my entire elementary school career, was my old horse and partner in crime and confidant and best friend Rindy. Rindy the old, sorrel mare.

Me with the mare at a 4-H show. I told you I was serious about 4-H and now I present the evidence-- all over that sweet, intense face.

Rindy was often the subject of my early literature.

So my gift to you, straight out of the archives, are a couple of my early pieces on the subject of friendship and love and animal whispering–all lessons learned from this beautiful, overweight and elderly creature.

Get your tissues and be prepared to be moved beyond words.

Exhibit A:

Yes, I think Exhibit A demonstrates my flair for adventure and the competitive spirit you all know me to posses as an adult. Oh, and also pure honesty at my father’s convenient forgetfulness which provided me a valid excuse for my accident. And my love of a good story.

And my feelings. Oh my feelings…

…which seemed to be placed directly on my sleeve at birth and continued to develop and grow and overwhelm my being as time marched on and my relationship with, ahem, my horse, blossomed and grew…

I give you Exhibit B:

First, I would like to point out that it was I who coined the phrase “you complete me.”

Take that Jerry Maguire.

Second, I think it is quite evident here that I needed some real friends…you know…the kind with opposable thumbs. I guess that’s what happens when you give a girl 3,000 acres years before she is legally allowed to take her drivers test (and fail).

Point three, it appears that third grade is where I developed the art of preparing for the worst case scenario as it looks like I was arranging for the eminent death of my four legged companion, or worse, her trip to the sale barn.

As if my pops would take away my only friend.

And while I have the podium, let us marvel at my remarkable use of simile, i.e:  “cling to her like a bur,” which I am certain I took from one of those children’s horse novels I was reading at the time.

In addition, it appears I was also the first horse whisperer to write about my successful experiences training the four legged beast to perform on command at such great speeds by, you know, talking it over with her.

We are a blur (or was that bur?) of athleticism and speed and pure endurance, thanks to my training skills and Rindy's agility and physique.

Also, please note the little whip I had ready in case Rindy fell out of line. A whip that was, if I’m being honest here, all show. A whip that never even grazed that horse’s butt. Not a once.

Now wasn’t that fun?

So here’s the thing about this flashback– there is more to our photos and our memories than bad red pants and other questionable fashion choices.

See, living out here for the past six months as an adult woman who is looking for her place in the world I am reminded every day of where I began:  in the hills behind this very house where I fell off multiple horses, walked the coulees, wrote my first songs and sang them at the top of my lungs to the trees, where I learned to dress warm, do what I’m told, identify the wildflowers, teach a young horse to trust me and plant and tend to a garden that would reap what I sowed.

And I know that’s a gift given to me from someone, somewhere.

Because oh, how I have searched for myself, just like we all have at different times in our lives, at different transitions: from student to employee. From woman to wife. From wife to mother. From young to-“gasp”- old. Yes, I have searched before and learned lessons from failing at goals, crying about work, messing up friendships and driving away from it all.

And in the times I have lost myself I have often closed my eyes and asked the ten year old version of myself, you know, the one you see up there, what to do. I have asked her for her spirit, for her courage, for her confidence and dreams.

I have asked her where she has gone? How could she leave me like this alone and so unprepared to take on all of our plans?

Because ten year old version of me really had it all figured out.  I really liked her.  And there were times I needed her and her purple pants to come and be by my side, to come and save me from myself.

So I came home. I traipsed around her old stomping grounds. I clung, like she so eloquently described, to the back of horses she never had the chance to meet. I named the wildflowers and searched for stray kittens and flung my body down the clay buttes during a rain storm and did all of the things that she would tell me to do if she could have seen me wallowing like this.

And it’s been six months, a half a year since I moved back here, back home where my roots are planted. So here’s my explanation, the one I promised you at the beginning of my journey down memory lane: This world in which I’ve surrounded myself remains a wonder to me.

Because this weekend as I was looking through old photographs and laughing and teasing and covering my eyes at the choice of words and the choice of outfits, tears streamed down my face at the thought of the innocence and spirit I possessed and how my life captivated me so.

During the last six months, as I saddled up horse after horse and took off over the hills smiling, flying through pastures, talking to those creatures like I did when I was young, sometime, somewhere when I let it all go and threw myself to the wind again, someone nudged me in the ribs, her face wide in a smile, curls springing out from underneath her cap, eyes big and brown looking at me with anticipation, with excitement, with creativity and energy.

She opened her smile to say,  “Hi there.”

And I saw my reflection: my hair a wreck, my jeans worn at the knees, my sorrel horse beneath me, my skin kissed by the weather and I was not afraid of myself. I was not worried. I was not unsure or fragile or grasping at the right things.

I was doing it.

The right thing.

My favorite thing.

Just like her…

Just like me.

  • Listen to a song I wrote when I was 12 or 13: White Horses

It’s Friday and there’s a cat on my shoulder

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It’s Friday and I have a cat on my shoulder.

And now she’s on my lap.

And now she’s eating my computer keys.

Delicious.

It’s Friday and there is so much to get done, so much to do before a great weekend. See my little sister is coming to see our nephew (and me. I’d like to think she is coming to see me too). And so are my grams and gramps on their way to Arizona (didn’t think North Dakota was on the way to Arizona did ya?).

On the agenda is some baby snuggling, a massive consumption of cheese and wine and dips and tortilla chips and dessert and everything my little sister demands for her visits and my momma is sure to deliver. Also on the agenda is a break for me to torture little sister by asking questions about her boyfriends and parties and grades and what’s up with all of the flannel? (she is 21, but she is still my little sister you know).

Then I will ask to borrow her clothes and she will insist I don’t get them dirty and that I promptly return them for inspection. And then I will kiss her face with the dimply cheeks just like when she was a baby and promptly pick a playful punching fight where we fly around the kitchen knocking over chairs until I am laying flat on my back on the living room floor while she annoyingly performs some sadistic torture move that she learned in prison or something while I scream “Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!” and whine cause she gave me a bruise.

Cause little sister is way stronger than me.

Anyway it should be good.

But I’ve got work to do, people to get back to, music to practice, surfaces and socks to clean. A basement to organize. You know, grown up things to accomplish before I can relax this weekend.

And as I sit here hunched over my computer and look down to find a kitten purring and dozing on my lap who then promptly pops up, as if electrocuted, only to jump into my briefcase and check on the files to make sure they’re organized  I am suddenly jolted, like the kitten, by my life right now.

Because last night I ventured out into civilization to go to a restaurant, drink some wine and catch up with an old friend. And we got to talking about growing up and work and where we used to be and where we are right now.

As we were talking I recalled how I used to be in a classroom, then on the road two weeks a month, then on a stage somewhere, then in an office in the mountains, then in an office on the plains.  I used to be on my hands and knees helping to tile a bathroom shower and scrubbing saw dust off of the floor. I used to be overwhelmed at the thought of it all…all the responsibilities, all of the push and go and competitions and deadlines and waiting for the next step, waiting for my life to start.

And sometimes I feel like that still.

Sometimes.

But right now it is Friday and the pug has his head on my knee and the kitten has found a nice sunny spot to lay and the lab is out digging in the yard and the horses are grazing on a hill top way above the house and I can think of nowhere I would rather be.

And the jolt I was talking about…the jolt came when I realized I don’t give a damn about all of the above tasks mentioned.

Who am I?

Because at this moment there nothing else I would rather do than sit here with my coffee cup and rub a few bellies and bury my head in their fur and to hike to the hill and scratch a nose and thank these crazy pets for knowing always what life is really about.

And dirty socks be damned, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Oh, and while I am at it, I will give them all an extra treat to thank them, the animals, for understanding, somehow, that when husband is gone for the week it is perfectly acceptable to sleep in bed with me…and for never attempting this when husband is indeed here. I will always be perplexed and grateful for your intuition.

And thanks for helping me get all this work done.

Really. Thanks.

Happy weekend everyone.

Do something you love.

Kiss someone you love.

And lay in a sunny spot.

Oh, and by the way, little sister has never been to prison…

…I don’t think….

Winter, roundup and my neckerchief.

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13

Ok, ok, it’s officially that time of year. I just looked at my calendar and promptly felt guilty for making fun of friends and family and all of the department stores around me who were eagerly rolling out the Christmas wreathes, wrapping, lights, tinsel, candy canes, enticing seasonal sales and the waving, inflatable Santas, snowmen and baby penguins my momma would love to shoot with her B.B. Gun (that is, if we were dumb enough to allow her to touch a weapon, which we are not. So your Santas are safe).

Yes, the calendar says there are only six more weekends until the birthday of sweet baby Jesus, but there are many other clues around here that indicate there is no denying winter and we might as well get used to dressing in layers so thick we can eat all the kneophla we want, hat hair, maneuvering through tasks with mitten hands, car starters and for the not so fortunate, trips outside to start the vehicle in our robe and slippers at 6 am.

As I stare out the window of our cozy abode, I am made well aware of one of those signs—the second snow storm. See the second snow usually comes after the first snow has melted and we are all feeling really great about ourselves and convincing each other that yes, 55 degree weather, although it has never happened before, could indeed stay around until well into December.

And we were really lucky last weekend, because that is what we had. Beautiful, glorious, sun shining November weather.

The perfect weather for the first sign of the shift in seasons, and that is my favorite. Roundup.

Yes, roundup–a time to gather all of the cows and calves to get ready for the sale.

And for those of you who are thinking right now about cowboys whooping and hollering with bull whips and chaps moving cows effortlessly down the slopes of steep mountains, through raging rivers in the bright sunshine of the dessert, looking all handsome and regal and then breaking for a lunch served off of the back of a chuckwagon, coffee in tin cups, grits and a slab of said beef on accompanying plate before riding off into the sunset, the cattle in a perfect line moving effortlessly over the horizon, I’m going to have to tell you to stop right here.

Yup, stop reading this garbage if you want to keep that Hollywood image, because although roundup may look like that at those million dollar operations (and in Texas, where everything looks like the movies) I have made a promise to tell it like it is folks.

Now don’t get me wrong, around here there is adventure, there are fast horses, and water and cows in lines moving over the horizon…just most of the time the horses are fast to get to the cows that are moving over the wrong horizon and crossing the wrong creek.

When I was growing up, roundup was a big deal for me. It meant getting up early, bundling up in my chaps and warm jacket and thick socks and eating some toast before heading out to meet the neighbor girls who came over with their dad and their horses and their pink beanies and mittens to help. And we would take directions from our fathers as we trailed behind the line of cattle that the men would gather from deep in the coulees, the tops of hills, thick brush and creek beds.

And the neighbor girls and my sister and I would feel important and successful and extremely helpful as we pushed these cattle, hollering our favorite cow moving sound effects like “yip yip,” “Hya,” “c’mon cows” while we moved them along through the gate and into the pen.

Back then it was easy. It was fun. There was very little drama.

Because we were nine and ten and oblivious.

But time moves on and things change and now the real cowboy, my pops, has this to work with.

And only this:

Because while poor husband is working on the weekdays at a job that helps pay for my sweet neckerchiefs and giant glasses, ensuring that I look as much like Napolean Dynamite as possible, I am free to be around.

You know, that’s why I’m here.

To help.

So last Thursday, after assessing the situation, pops had a plan to wait for more help in the evening before we attempted to gather all 120 cow and calf pairs. But as the days grow increasingly shorter (another one of those signs of the season change) he realized that an hour and a half might not be enough time to get the job done.

So he came over to my place with a new plan and full confidence in his fully-grown daughter. We were going to get the cows in ourselves. All of them.

And why not? We had all day, and what a beautiful day it was.

So I put on my long underwear (it was a beautiful day, but still ND in November, so you know, gotta layer up), my beanie, my neckerchief, my long jacket (with my name embroidered on the chest, you know, just in case I got lost out there)  and my mittens, and headed out the door and into the Wild West.

Having forgotten over the summer how restricting it is to have all of your fingers crammed together under leather and fuzz with only a single thumb out to fend for itself, I quickly regretted the mittens. But pops and me and my mittens headed out to the hills and toward the cattle sunning themselves by road, grazing unaware, mooing and chewing and, apparently contemplating ways to make this really difficult for the real cowboy and the alien looking creature on the horse heading toward them.

And while pops ensured me this would be a piece of cake, I obliviously (did I mention I was on a high dosage of cold medication) snapped action shots as the cattle appeared to cooperate before giving each other secret-code bovine handshakes and promptly splitting off into four or five groups, each group heading for a different gate.

No group heading for the right gate.

So while most of our cattle moving is done slowly and surely, cow-whispering style, it was clear that method was not going to get the job done. Especially with one real cowboy and one woman on medication who was warm enough thanks the layers and mittens, but really, wasn’t quite what you would call quick, you know, thanks to the layers and mittens.

But despite the bundling and meds, we had to kick it in gear and run for the north hill to head off the first group, then to the south gate to head off the second and down to the creek bed to get the scragglers, and to the east clearing and back again.

The horses were sweating.

Now I was sweating.

Pops was calm, cool and collected.

Because, look, the cows are headed toward the dam, all of them, and he was sure they would gather there and take a little drink and then we would move them toward the home pasture and into the corrals.

No problem.

And there I was, back in my familiar position, behind the trail as pops walked atop the nearest hill, along the adjacent brush patch, plugging up the open spots and reading the cattle’s minds, anticipating their next move…

So I took off my mittens, snapped another picture and took a deep breath. Almost done. But as we made it to the dam, the cows’ next move became apparent.

And it wasn’t hanging out to take a drink.

It was breaking into a trot past the water and off into the bur oak trees and thorns and brush that grows wild and thick up the steepest hills around the watering hole, some of the gnarliest hills on the place.

Head groggy, perspiration dripping from my beanie, my congested mind hadn’t wrapped around this new turn of events as pops flew up the hill, calmly telling me to stay put, to watch the opening so the cattle wouldn’t turn back.

And as I sat there on a horse that doesn’t like to be left alone, we watched as the cattle moved out of the brush and to the top of the hill and turned to the west instead of back north. And when convinced by pops to move in the right direction, another batch poked through the trees and moved to the east while pops was busy correcting a couple strays.

And then I couldn’t see anything, but if you have never heard cattle moving through the brush after having been separated from their calves, I’ll tell you something, it’s the definition of ruckus: bellering, tree branches snapping, leaves crunching.

Ruckus.

And then no pops.

Where was pops?

I was transported back to my childhood when I would be left on a hill somewhere to wait and my dad would be out of site for what I was sure was hours and I would play through the worst case scenarios in my head: he got bucked off, he broke his leg or cracked his head open on a rock and I would have to find him and try to lift him back on his horse and get him to the hospital and, and, oh Lord, let him appear over the hill. Oh Lord, oh dear, oh man…oh

Oh, ok, there he is. He’s coming back.

Back with part of the herd and a sweaty, panting horse.

So, to make a story that is getting quite long a bit shorter, I’ll break it down for ya:

We moved the the cattle he managed to acquire quite effortlessly to the barnyard.


Pops switched horses.
We went back to get the rest.
We got the rest.
I got off to get the gate just as the cows were approaching their destination.
The cows saw me and turned a different direction.
My horse stepped on his reins.
My reins broke.
Some cows got away.
Pops got them in.

Pops got them in.
They were all in.
We high fived.

I unsaddled, went in the house, made a sandwich and took some more DayQuil.

I looked just like that...only without the fur.

Oh, and I made pops a sandwich too. And we talked about the ride and looked out the window of my kitchen where we could watch the bovines settling in, taking a bite of hay, a lick of salt and pooping everywhere. And as they were rehashing the events of the day I am sure they were feeling a bit defeated as they thought this time, this time, they were sure to make the great escape.

But, cattle or human, you can’t escape it.

Winter's here, and that's no bull...

So slap on your beanie and mittens. You can borrow my neckerchief if you need to, but you might as well hunker down.

Merry Christmas.

Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the pug

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You know when your husband nudges you in the morning and so sweetly says “time to get up” and  you barely open your eyes enough to squeek pathetically back “I don’t wanna” and then in a huff roll over to finish that dream about Matthew McConaughey?

And then your alarm goes off, but not loud enough for it to rouse you from your coma and most definitely not loud enough to prompt you to throw the covers off and take on that meeting you so bravely scheduled for 8:00 am.

So when you finally peel back those eyelids you panic as you notice that you have exactly three minutes to shower, feed the dogs, round up the cats, find your pants, tame your hair, make the coffee (because coffee is essential) and drive thirty miles to town.

And in the frantic search for your pants, you curse your compassionate heart as the baby kitten you so gallantly saved from an immanent death, in her desperate plea for attention, attempts to climb up your exposed leg drawing a fair amount of blood as you dash to the basement for the laundry you left in the dryer.

Then on the way back up the stairs one of those hornets, (you know what they look like) the ones that have been threatening to swoop in from the sky and sting you all season, finally makes good on his promise and smacks you a good one right on the bare, pant-less, ass.

Yup. Not even on the nice fleshy part you have been growing all summer with beer and hot dogs and fried things, but the underside, the tender side that never had a chance.

And it stings. Oh lord it stings.

So you whimper a bit, and hold your hand over the violated flesh and stop only to find the little bastard and squish it in all your rage…

But you don’t have time to cry. Or to find ointment.

You have to get your pants on dammit…

…and round up the herd so you can bring home the bacon.

Yeah, I may have had one of those mornings…once or twice….

And I would take this time to complain, but it could have been much worse.

I could have been the pug.

The pug, whose passion is too big for his short, stubby body and who curses the day he was put into a stumpy dog outfit with short legs, a curly tail and a nose that has so much to give to the world, if only it were just a little more practically designed…like for smelling.

Or breathing.

But he gets by. No, he doesn’t let his body, which is much better suited for napping than for chasing wild animals around the ranch, get in his way. Because in his mind he is 110 pounds of fierce muscle and pure instinct.

Pure, animalistic, instinct.

See when the people are away, you know, earning the money that pays for their kibble, the dogs…well…

…there is so much to do out here when no one is watching….

Like chase squirrels.

Bark at the horses.

Dig giant holes.

Watch TV.

Chew on my favorite shoe.

Eat poop…all kinds of poop.

Swim.

Roll in poop.

Show the cows a thing or two about who is boss.

Run after deer with high hopes of bringing home a leg or two…

Eat poop…and…well you get the idea.

So while I was suffering through that meeting and trying to balance comfortably on one butt cheek, I imagine the pups were doing all of the above, having the time of times, a day of days, taking it all in so they could tell me about it when I got home (cause they were a little worried about me I am sure, the way I stormed out of the place)

But when I got home….the pug was gone.

But the pug is usually gone.

Cause his best friend lives at my mom and pop’s about a mile down the road and he takes that trek, against my wishes, every day. Sometimes two or three times.

Yeah, he’s in big, big trouble most of the time. So I wasn’t particularly worried as the lab and I went out for our usual walk,  just like the old days when he was the only dog. And it was kinda nice, but I didn’t tell the pug.

Cause he was gone.

Anyway, on my way home it was getting pretty dark and from across the coulees I could hear the pug yelping.

But I wasn’t worried. I figured he was being dramatic as his BFF was playing a little too rough. So I continued on my merry way, thinking about dinner, thinking about my bed, and thankfully, not thinking about my wasp sting. And when I arrived home refreshed from the beauty of the evening, a flush in my face, my lab loyally  by my side, I asked husband if he has seen the pug lately.

Have you seen this guy? 2 feet tall, 35 pounds of pure muscle, black hair, brown eyes.

“Nope.” He replied. Also, not concerned

“Well, I think he’s at mom and pop’s. He’ll be ok until morning. I am ttttiiiiirrreeeddd….and did I tell you that a wasp stung my bare butt today?”

I pulled down my pants to show off the evidence.

“Good Lord,” said husband.

“Good night,” said me.

And we snuggled down in bed proud that we were finally turning in before 11:00 pm and happy that we were going to finally get that full night sleep we deserve.

The lights went out, the pillow went over my head, my eye lids closed, Matthew McConaughey appeared again and….

“Rrriiinnnnggg, rriiinnnngggg…”

Oh shit, someone’s calling. Something’s happening. Something’s wrong. My sister’s in labor (this was pre-baby…she’s not having another one, don’t be crazy). We won a million dollars. We lost a million dollars. There’s an alien invasion….

“Uhhh, hello.” I said meekly when I finally found the phone.

“Ummm, yeah. Hi Jess? Dad here.”

Oh, phew…ok it’s dad. Not the aliens. Now for the terrible, terrible news. What happened. Who do I have to take to the hospital?

“Oh, hi dad, ” I said shakely.

“Yeah, hi. Ummm, well, yeah. You know your little black dog? The little one?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

“Yeah, well he’s over here and he found a porcupine….yeah… a porcupine. And I think he lost. I think the pug lost the battle, cause there are quills all over his face and in his butt. I feel really bad and don’t think I can hold him down by myself to get them out. I think you guys better come over here and help me.”

Now here I’ll admit I experienced a wave of relief knowing that no human was missing a limb and no babies were being born and no flying saucers were coming down to suck out our brains today…

But when the relief passed: Seriously? Seriously? Chug. Chug the pug. What the hell were you thinking?

“Ok dad, we’ll be right over. Sorry bout that. So sorry. Just thought I could get him tomorrow. Oh gosh. Sorry. We’ll be right over.”

After the moans and groans of husband cursing the day the pug was born and giving me a brief but stern lecture on how he was my dog and I should keep a better eye on him and that he just can’t go frolicking around anywhere he choses, he pulled on his clothes and his manly slippers and drove us over to the scene.

Oh, and I was expecting a scene. Because for how much passion and delusion that pug possesses, this was sure to do him in. In my mind pug was going to look like a dog shaped porcupine, quills protruding and spiking out from all angles, the pug limping and gasping and saying his last goodbyes.

But by the time we arrived, my very favorite pops had already removed the quills from the pug’s face and the only evidence of the apocalyptic encounter was left in about 85 good sized quills poked into his butt (I guess it wasn’t the day to be a butt).

And I felt for him as my mom paced back and forth as if this was one of her grandchildren who was enduring this hateful, quill removing procedure. I told mom to keep it together as husband put on his gloves, pops held the pug down and I shook my head and tried to calm the little dog down, pluck after yelp, pluck after yelp, by saying things in my sweet calming voice like:

“It’s ok, you stupid dog, this is what happens when you run away…oh poor puppy, puppy, if you would have stayed home like a good boy you could be snoring safe and sound right now…dumb dog, dumb, dumb dog….what made you think you were going to win that fight…oh poor puppy…poor dog…wish your brain was bigger, wish you would listen…sweet pug, oh pug, calm down…bet you learned your lesson there….puppy, puppy.”

20 minutes, hundreds of deprecating, but sweetly spoken words, and 85 quills later, the pug was free from the pain of his seemingly smart and brave-at-the-time adventure.

And because I thought the situation so grim and the hour so late  and my mind so groggy, I didn’t grab my camera…hence there is little evidence except for the emotional scars and the photos of the actual quills we pulled from the pug’s butt.

He survived.

So, once the pug was released from what he was sure was the end of days, I helped the boys clean up and looked around to find that the little dog had cowered and slunk and sulked his way right up to my mom’s lap. On the couch. In the house where dogs are not allowed. And both had their dramatic, sad faces plastered on.

And as I grabbed him up to take his wounded pride and wounded butt home, I was just a little disappointed that he stole my thunder. Cause that blew my wasp stung ass right out of the water there.

Yeah, sometimes that short little snorty nose leads you up the wrong tree.

And sometimes, just like momma says, there will be days like this.

I guess that’s why God invented band aids.

And moms and dads.

Hope your day was free of stings and pokes.

If you came for a visit today…

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This is what I saw when I looked out my kitchen window this morning…

And if you would have pulled into the yard for a visit, you would have found a crazy haired woman in a white robe with eye crusties kneeling down on the gravel road with a camera slammed against her face.

That’s what you would have witnessed.

Good morning!

Then, if you would have come in for a cup of coffee, you would have found this…

…then we would laugh and take another picture and I would get dressed already and we would go out for a walk and find this…

…and this…

And we would marvel at how quickly the snow is melting today…

Then we would chase these guys off the road and give them a good talking to about paying attention and we would ask them if they were aware of the season for crying out loud?

After that dramatic encounter, we would catch our breath and pull it together and go inside for another cup of coffee. Then you would sit down and in about 4.5 seconds you would look down to find this on your lap…

…you would say “ahhh” and I would take another picture…


Speaking of pictures, have you seen my new nephew? No? Well then…

With that you would say things like “adorable,” “cutest baby ever,” “he looks just like you,” and “I really should be going.”

And on your way home if you were heading for the interstate through the badlands your eyes would widen and your heart would quicken and you would smile wide and real because this is what you would see along the side of the road and right outside the window of your snazzy car…

 

Yes, that is what would happen if you stopped over for a visit today and were brave enough not to run for the hills when you caught a glimpse of me in my morning outfit.

See ya soon!

Cowboy Cooks Noodles and Crunchies

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Today in Cowboy’s Kitchen we feature a long-standing German tradition in Cowboy’s family. It is a special treat his momma makes him when he is over for a visit.

It is “I love you so much I’m  gonna fatten you up” food.

It is weird.

Just weird enough to win my mom and pops over when Cowboy prepared this for them when we were dating….you know, back in the day.

So we invited them over for a taste, because my momma claims that Cowboy hasn’t made this particular dish for her in “a hundred years.”

Now I will list the four reasons this dish has stood the test of time and has won mothers and girlfriends over for generations (and now that I’m thinking about it, probably won some women husbands as well)…

Because it is:

1. Mostly white
2. Buttery
3. Fried
4. Carb loaded

Perfect for that slimming waistline and to keep you warm in the unexpected weather.

It is also really great because it sure isn’t fancy. You probably all have these items fully stocked in your cupboards and fridges as we speak.

But before we begin, Cowboy would like to express his embarrassment. Because due to the blizzard, we don’t have the good booze.

Hence, his drink of choice tonight….Svedka Vodka…(Cowboy says he got this on sale)

Ummm…ok…

Swedish vodka
+
German Food

It’s a blending of cultures…just like us.

Also, Cowboy decided after last time we needed some good music to set the proper frame of mind.

Now playing: Fred Eaglesmith…

…with a splash of Red Bull

Our little kitchen is rockin’

Rock.  ‘N.

First things first:

Cowboy says you don’t cut anything, not even a potato, until the knife is sharp enough to shave with.

I waited a good fifteen minutes while this went on…and on…

…and on…

So much preparation.

Whew…deep breath as I remember Cowboy’s motto: “No bitch’n in the kitchen.”

Lesson learned.

Here we go.

Cowboy Cooks Homemade Noodles and Crunchies

The simple cast of characters:

  • 3 cups flour
  • 1 1/2 sticks butter
  • 4 potatoes
  • 1 cup milk
  • 1 egg
  • 4 slices bread or 4 buns
  • sprinkle of salt

See what I’m saying about the carbs….
and the white…

Oh, and a side of meat….cause this is a Cowboy’s kitchen after all.

*Note: Cowboy usually serves this dish with a side of deer or breakfast sausage of some sort. Here is where I admit that I was put in charge of thawing out the meat and I unintentionally forgot that our ancient microwave doesn’t have a proper defrost setting and proceeded to cook the sausage until it took on the consistency of a rubber mask.

Anyway, we had to resort to the ham slab that brother in law brought us.

Another lesson learned.

Step One: The Potatoes

  • Peel 4  medium sized potatoes (or more, depending on how gaunt your guests are)
  • Cut potatoes into bite sized pieces (the actual size depends on how big your guests’ mouths are…)
  • Place cut potatoes in boiling water with “three to four twists on a sea salt grinder.”(But before you do, quickly add a ½ tablespoon of butter to the boiling water. And be quiet about it cause it’s Cowboy’s secret ingredient)
  • Boil for 10-15 minutes

Now step outside and call a couple coyotes (seriously, that is what he did)…what did I say about Cowboy’s methods? Slow and steady, it’s about the process.

The Red Bull doesn’t even budge this.

Now, while you’re waiting, and after the coyote call, begin the noodles. And be prepared to impress your big mouthed guests (or your future wife or husband or mother in law). Cause this is what I call seriously homemade.

Step 2: The Noodles

  • Using the one hand egg crack technique, crack one egg into a liquid measuring cup
  • Whisk with fork
  • Add a little salt
  • Add 1 cup of milk to the egg, whisk again and pour into a bowl
  • Now add a handful and a half  of flour to the mixture and stir

Cowboy says dough is all about the feel, not precise measurements…

  • So…stir and add flour until the dough is knead-able
  • Then sprinkle a bit of flour on your surface to avoid stick
  • Knead the dough while continuing to sprinkle flour on the mix, adding flour as you knead to help roll the dough out evenly



  • Using a rolling pin, roll out the dough until it’s about 1/8th of an inch thick

Here you can see Cowboy showing off a little by tossing the dough in the air. You can do this too, if you want.

But if you’re like me and don’t really like the idea of cleaning dough off of the ceiling and shampooing it out of you and your guest’s hair, you can skip it…a rolling pin will do fine.

  • Now cut the dough into strips, about 1 inch wide

Cowboy uses a pizza cutter cause he’s not the type of guy who is opposed to new technology. If you want to do it old school, use a knife.

  • Then cut the dough again the opposite direction, creating nice little rectangles
  • Now check your potatoes to make sure they are on their way to being done
  • Add the noodles to the boiling potatoes and cook for about 10 minutes (the noodles will float when they are done)

Also a really great excuse to use his man sized spatula.

Uff da.

Step 3: The Crunchies

Now for the best part….the crunchies. You were wondering about these weren’t ya!

  • While cooking the noodles, melt 1 1/2 sticks of butter in a pan (Cowboy prefers cast iron…typical) and melt completely

While the butter is melting, tear apart bread or buns into bite sized pieces.(It’s ok if they are stale and old, this is what you do with that stuff)

  • Now welcome you’re guests because they bring wine
  • Add the bread to the butter and fry, stirring occasionally, until the bread pieces are golden brown and “crunchy”
     Crunchy.
    Get it? 

    Note: some of the crunchies may be a little black and that’s ok because it adds a rustic flavor. But just be sure not to burn them to a char, I warn you. That’ll really piss you off.

  • Remove from heat.

Step 4: Pull it Together

  • Strain noodle and potato mixture and put in a serving bowl
  • Add crunchies to the potato and noodle mix
  • Stir with your favorite big spoon

Step 5: Sit Down and Eat

Now don’t forget that meat…any kind of meat, cause it aint a meal unless there’s meat—no matter the butter and carbohydrates.

Oh, and I added my own touch to this meal…snarky napkins.

Just had-ta.

Weirdly delicious isn’t it?

Told ya!

Ahhh, it just doesn’t matter how much Red Bull you consume, the carbs always win.

The carbs always win.

Now lay back and enjoy your coma. You earned it.

Part of my heart is in Texas

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Part of my heart is in Texas.

So I went there this weekend. To gather with family, to get lost in Dallas (a few times), to eat real, delicious, southern cooking, to laugh so hard I peed a little, to hug, to sweat in the humidity and curse the weather as my hair grew to twice its size, to sing, to enjoy wine surrounded by people who share the same bone structure, skin tone and fuzzy hair and most importantly to witness one of my younger cousins get married to her best friend.

And it was fantastic.

And bananas.

Because after an early morning wake up call letting us know the grandson/nephew was on his way and a 12 hour wait for his arrival, he entered this world just in time for us to get a quick snuggle, some photos and to pack and catch our plane.

250 miles away.

Because it’s a long wagon train outa here.

So as we were saying goodbye to our newest member, we were getting ready to welcome the next.

And, in case you were wondering, you can’t die of sleep deprivation or not bathing for three days in a row.

I know. I’ve tried.

(ahh, travel by plane).

But it was so worth it.

Because Texas, sweet Texas, North Dakota’s tanner, bigger breasted sister, was as sparkly and shiny as ever. With its big blue sky and rolling thunderheads, simply sophisticated stone houses, sexy drawl and cowboys with starched pants.

And as what appeared to be the North’s version of the Clampetts rolled into the Dallas airport, we were greeted by family from South Dakota and a cousin who flew the coop to Miami (and believe me, you could tell who came from where) and we all crammed into a baby blue mini-van with high hopes of making it into the city with help from the GPS systems loaded on our fancy cell phones (which turned out to be no help at all actually), the sweet Texas hospitality kicked in.

Upon hearing phrases like “you know,” “yah, sure” and my classic and irreplaceable “uff da” (yes, that actually comes out of my mouth despite my better judgment), the self-assured, tan Texans asked, “Where ya’ll from?”

And I responded more proudly than ever.

See I haven’t tried to hide my less sexy, less mysterious, less cool and less sultry and “Northern Drawl” for years. Because I learned my lesson about what happens when I try to fake it—it just creeps back in there in full force when I get excited…and I am a passionate woman, so it’s no use.

It’s all a part of growing up.

Anyway, as the lovely, accent free voice on the GPS took us just past the hotel, but not quite to the door about five times, sending us floundering back onto the jam packed interstate, multiple opinions flying, we finally decided to abandon technology and use the instincts we were born with to find the front door of the hotel.

And as we filed in, one by one, in all of our disheveled, sleep deprived, shell-shocked glory, there stood our beautiful southerly relatives with smiles as big as their Lone Star State waiting with open arms.

And yes, they were tan and clean cut and polished and starched and just a bit more fancy than what came out of that mini-van….

Yes, they looked like Texas. And they were representing well.

I’m afraid to say what we looked like.

But it didn’t matter, because right there in that hotel lobby, hugging the new babies, meeting the spouses for the second or third time, talking about the trip and making plans for the weekend, it was like we had never left one another.

It was like just yesterday we were all sleeping side by side in the basement of our grandparent’s house, searching for Easter eggs in the gumbo hills, falling in the black mud of the crick below the house, making snow men from our gramma’s bread dough, putting on productions of the Wizard of Oz and forcing all of the adults to watch as we did interpretive dances to “The Wind Beneath My Wings”….wait maybe that was just me.

And the truth is, it has been years. It has been years and miles and roads and states and plans and haircuts and schools and jobs and marriages and funerals and plans that have made us.

Plans that have broken us.

It has been years.

But we relive memories of our time at the ranch whenever we get together to make new ones. Because those memories we created as young as four and five and six have bound us together, all of us, the Kitten Caboodle Club, for life.

And as I watched my baby cousin, the one who used to run around the kiddie pool in her “wimming woot” with the hole cut out of the tummy, the one with dark brown ringlets and bright blue eyes, the girl who peed her pants and stepped in cactus every time we made our trek up to pots and pans, the girl who would stuff peas up her nose and put olives on her fingers at the dinner table every holiday, who was always laughing, always smiling, always had room for more love and life, walk down the aisle to join her man, the man she will start a whole new life with, all I could do is wish for her….

….to keep home, our home, in her heart and make a life for her children that is as wonderfully full of love and adventure and passion and imagination as our young lives were.

Because as much as this place, this landscape means to me, it means just as much to the people that surrounded me in that church that day. They were all seeing our little cousin in her white gown the way they remembered her–running wild at the ranch…ribbons and curls and cactus and excited laughter echoing off of the buttes and down the pink road.

And we may never be able to cram in on the couch at Christmastime in this little house like we did when we were munchkins.

We won’t ever all be able to all sleep together on gramma’s bed. We haven’t been that small for years. We may never even all be in the room together again…even this time we were missing one of the clan. And as time keeps ticking, we will utter each other’s names in phone calls and family updates and catch up with birthday cards and emails and an occasional call.

But it won’t matter.

It won’t matter at all.

Because we were lucky enough to spend our childhood in a magical place that has given us somewhere to pick up where we left off. No matter the time. No matter the distance.

It will always be here for you cousins.

I will do the best I can.

Because part of my heart is in Texas, another part in Miami, and Fargo, at South Dakota State University and just down the road and wherever my family may make their lives.

And the rest is here, waiting for you anytime you need it.