Momentum

Posted on May 4, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Momentum. Forward motion. Moving.

I have been thinking about the act quite a bit lately as I have been guiding my car through back roads and highways, my feet along cattle trails and off to cut my own path. The act of moving forward, in any capacity, whether it’s walking, riding or driving, is what I envision the stream of consciousness to look like: sweaty, breathing, flushed, meandering or running in a straight line following a bird, a path, a rainbow or nothing in particular.

Because there is something about covering ground that propels not only your body, but your mind. It frees it up a bit, opens it. And even when there is somewhere else to be, a dot at the end of the map, a destination, there is something about the space between point A and point B that takes on a life of its own entirely–the space where you can’t go anywhere but forward. Where time ticks away with the miles.

I drove across the state on Tuesday. 350 or so miles from the northeast corner to west. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining and the wind was blowing across the flat landscape. The road I was following was completely unfamiliar to me as I headed in the direction of home. I had my radio blaring familiar music, music that I could sing along with and softly I mumbled through words I have forgotten only to crescendo as I was reminded of the ones I always knew. I rolled down the windows. I sipped coffee. I adjusted and readjusted my visor and my sunglasses. I put a stick of gum in my mouth.

My mind wandered and I found myself back on all of the unfamiliar roads I have traveled during the time I was on the road with work and music. In pieces those moments flashed in and out of my memory–the toll booths on my way from Fargo to Chicago in the early daylight hours, my eyes heavy from the unexpected miles. The long stretches of yellow lines on the interstate in Kansas. The blacktop backroads on my way to a small Wisconsin college town. The bridges that confused me in Green Bay. The antelope infested stretch in South Dakota. The mountains that unexpectedly jutted out as I hit Boise. The white-out road that welcomed me home to North Dakota and forced me to spend one spring night in my car along the interstate.

While I remembered parts of my life that weren’t significant enough to make it out of my mouth and into stories to friends and family, the miles carried me forward and turned me onto a highway I have taken home hundreds of times. And while I sped between its straight lines it was as if someone was playing DJ and handpicking the soundtrack that came through the car speakers and into my conscious to help me replay the events I moved away from and back into during the time I spent on the pavement that stretched out in front of me. Pavement I haven’t been on for years. The songs and the road and the setting sun bounced off of my aviator glasses as I thought of beer, coffeehouse gigs, sidewalks in my college town, movie theatre trips to pass the time, crying from pure loneliness, a future naively hopeful and wanting so bad to be somewhere else.

My tires hummed along as I watched the sun dip down a little further, changing from gold to pink to red and I thought about the idea of wishing to be gone. How I used to exist in that thought, in that wish, so passionately. Driving toward the horizon I suddenly felt a little uneasy, like I needed to begin constructing plans for what was next. That I couldn’t just move through the miles thinking about what could have been, but concentrate on what is now and what could be so great.

I started constructing plans for what was next. Ideas passed through my mind like a slide show, progressing with each mile marker, playing themselves out as the sky turned from red to black and headlights flashed in my eyes. But by the time the landscape started to roll a bit, after I crossed the big lake and the road began to wind the unease calmed and I settled into my thoughts, sorted them out in my head, planted some and let others fly away when I flung open the doors of my car to breathe in the familiar air of the ranch–wet grass and dirt and horse hair.

When my husband and I moved to the ranch when we were first married, we weren’t ready to be here. We weren’t ready to plant our lives. We had more to see, more to do and be. We didn’t understand yet that we did not have to hang up our wings to exist on this landscape.

And the best thing we could do for ourselves make the decision to leave. Because time was always something we understood. Time and the knowledge that only we have the power to change the way we feel, the way we live.

So we left. That dream we had since we were twelve or thirteen was staring us in the face, but our arms weren’t open, so we left it there, alone.

To know that you can always move, to know that you have an option of a road, an option of your feet to take you where you don’t even know you need to go is one of the greatest freedoms. That is what my husband taught me.

That is what we taught each other.

That we can always move. That we have hands to hold and feet and roads that are there to lead us anywhere we want to go.

And those hands, those feet, that longing to fly, those same roads brought us back here. When we were ready. When we understood that sometimes freedom isn’t always about leaving…

sometimes freedom is choosing to stay.

The life we chose.

Posted on April 4, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Husband stopped the pickup yesterday as another spring snow storm came rolling over the horizon. He stopped along the road where the horses were working on an alfalfa bale that pops plopped down to keep them content through the last of this harsh weather.

We were on our way somewhere, to drop something off. To pick something up. But husband stopped in his tracks and while I sat waiting in the passenger seat watching the clouds turn a deep, menacing blue, without a word husband flung his door open and marched out in the wind and dropping temperatures.

He walked past the paint mare and the gelding we call Tucker, notorious for checking pockets for treats.

He breezed by the two sorrels and the buckskin my father rides.

He dodged the blind mule who never bothers to dodge a thing and slid his hand across the back of Stormy the trail horse without pause even for an ear scratch for the old brother. Because husband was on his way. He had his eye on something, the one living and breathing thing he has missed most during the gray days spent shoveling snow and plowing through the ice and slush and mist and repairing things in this old house while looking out the window to the snow covered buttes, waiting patiently for the meltdown…

And I sat there in the passenger seat, looking out the window at what appeared before me the most quiet and impulsive moment in the home stretch of the longest winter.

As husband reached his cold hand out to scratch the nose of his bay horse, to wrap his arms around his neck, to smell that sweet horse smell I found myself holding my breath.

I imagined them saying things like:

“Well hello. Yeah, well I’ve missed you buddy. Lookin’ good. You’ve wintered well.

We’ll get out there soon, friend. Just waiting on the thaw.

We’ll be out there soon.

Just waiting on the sun.”

It wasn’t a long moment, but after I released my breath and watched the wind blow through the bay’s mane and husband’s scruffy hair rustle as he pulled down his hat and headed back to the road and to life’s schedule, I felt like I should turn away.

It was like watching old friends reunite after months apart. Friends who have grown up together and trusted one another with plans and secrets and sadness and the most happiness and respect a body can offer, but there wasn’t time to grab a drink or take a walk or do what both of them wanted to do so badly and that was catch up.

Go back to the old days when the grass was green.

The meet-up on Saturday that occurred along the pink road that winds down through the coulees and up to the deep blue horizon was one my favorite moments since I have moved back here, very nearing a year ago now. Because it has been a rough winter. There has been a hard frost, some deep snow, days without power, things that need to be fixed and storms that have kept us from grocery stores and big events and far away friends. And I have been reminded of what we have given up to live out here surrounded by dirt roads without the conveniences of sidewalks, gas stations, fancy restaurants, gym memberships, dozens of latte flavors, late night shopping runs and constant plows and garbage service.

Oh, yes, I have missed those things at times when the winter nights came early and stretched on into the mornings. I have felt far away from my friends and isolated when the snow covered my windows and the morning called for shoveling and more snow and another day at home.

But as I watched that man, the one I have known since I was just a little girl, the one who walked with me down the halls of high school and somewhere along the line became my husband and unpacked all of my things and my heart on to this landscape, I didn’t wonder if we did the right thing. I didn’t see a man overwhelmed with the burdens of the weather and isolation. I didn’t see resentment or loneliness or a husband charged with making sacrifices for a wife he loves because this is what she wanted.

I have worried about this.

We have talked about this.

But no. As he stepped out of that vehicle on his own terms I saw hope and ambition and love and admiration, a little bit of crazy and all of the reasons that brought me back home.

I saw him in a quiet moment where he was his best self. He was the man he had envisioned.

And his heart was unpacked too.

Yes, when we live up here we give up some things. We let loose some perfection, deal with the messes, brush off the mud that enters your home on your boots, fix things that break with more broken things and lean in against the winter with the promise of spring.

These are the tests you must pass to survive.

So on Sunday the clouds rolled in and there was more to repair, more things to fix as the sky spit and looked like it would make good on the promise of more snow, a spring delay…

But on Saturday husband opened the door and reached out his hand to the life I chose. The life he chose. The life we have out here together.

And the clouds rolled on past as the storm blew over, the day’s repairs were accomplished and the sun shines today.

I married the right man.

The grass is green under that white and brown.

Things will break and be fixed again.

We’re in the right place.

Play like a man.

Posted on March 25, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Husband folds my underwear in perfectly neat little squares. Husband cooks me bacon on Sunday morning while I wait impatiently in the adjoining room because he knows that I cannot be trusted alone with bacon. Husband ventures out in the cold spring air to push the snow away from the house.

Husband makes me drink Theraflu when I have a cold, even though it makes me gag and whine the entire duration of the illness. Husband unclogs my hair-ball from the shower drain and has never said a word about it really.

Husband reminds me to put the lid on the toilet when I’m done because he is genuinely concerned there is a possibility I will drop something, like my toothbrush or a bath towel in there…

Husband’s most usually right.

Husband doesn’t get mad when I forget to check the pockets of his jeans before I send them through the washer and dryer…along with his pocketknife, dollar bills, lists, pens, wrenches and other super important work things I didn’t notice.

Husband thinks I look pathetic in the morning with my head buried under the pillows and no matter how much I tell him he NEEDS to wake me up when he leaves for work at 5:30 am he claims he just can’t do it. I’m too pathetic and he’s too sweet so he puts his socks on in the dark and leaves me a cup of coffee in the pot for when I actually do rise (not quite shining).

Husband fixes drippy faucets…by ripping the entire shower apart and putting it back together with beautiful new tile.

Husband lets the cats sit on the desk to look out the window at the birds…breaking every rule he has about cats.

Husband folds my underwear in neat little squares…did I mention this already?

Did I mention husband needs a break?

Yes. Husband needs a break.

Not just any break. A real break. A break complete with a big pickup hitched up to a horse trailer pulling big boy toys off into the wild blue yonder as the speakers howl out Johnny Cash and his little brother hits the gas and hands him a big bag of Cheetos and a candy bar and promises him a glass or two of whiskey on the rocks when they get to that yonder he’s been talking about for weeks.

And so it was yesterday evening as I pulled into the drive and witnessed the Redneck Extravaganza that appeared as two grown men morphed into excited and giddy young boys pushing and craning and squeezing two fancy snowmobiles into our horsetrailer. A horsetrailer that has hauled livestock and horses and home renovation supplies and all of our earthly possessions all over the country and still, no matter what, continues to boast a nice, unmovable layer of poop residue on the floor.

I will tell you, I had to take photos, because this piece of ranch equipment wasn’t meant to haul anything this shiny. Nothing this expensive.

I also had to take photos in case this was the last time I ever saw husband again–with so many reasons for him to never return home and so many ways he could be lethally injured riding this machine as fast as it can go up and down mountains without a voice of reason nearby to tell him to watch out for: avalanches, huge hidden rocks, man-eating raptors, grizzly bears, fences that could decapitate him, mountain caves covered in snow that could swallow him up, poisonous berries, aliens, and most dangerous of all, himself.

No. There would be nobody there to save him from the reckless teenager I know exists in that man-sized body of his–the one who used to drive 115 miles per hour down country roads in his Thunderbird during a blizzard to see a girl he might have liked a little, the kid who has been known to climb to the top of the highest cliff and do a backflip on his way down to the un-navigated water below, the boy who used to ride all over the badlands on the back of his three-wheeler, jumping cliffs and climbing buttes and more than occasionally landing on, crushing and dislocating countless bones along the way, the kid who…oh forget it…I can’t talk about this anymore…I need to take a break to check our insurance policy…

O.K. Anyway, husband has been working really hard these last few months. And although it doesn’t look like it at the ranch, Western North Dakota is a happening place right now due to the booming oil industry and husband works right in the thick of it. And he’s really good at his job.

So good and dedicated that lately he’s been working nearly 12 hour days only to come home to a wife who has an issue with a drippy faucet, burned the Hamburger Helper to his favorite pan, forgot that we don’t have a garbage disposal and left the lights on in his pickup, draining the battery while galavanting around the ranch…again.

Sssooorrryyyaaa...

Yes, with a wife like this it’s a good thing God granted men the unfaltering ability to play. Like really play. Have you ever noticed this about the species? When men get together they DO things. They hunt. They fish. They play basketball, cards or football. They ride things like 4-wheelers, motorcycles, snowmobiles or boats around. They ski or snowboard or grab a hockey puck and stick and practice their slap-shot. And if they can’t do these things in real life, they do it in the form of video games, watch other guys do it on TV or talk about all the times they have done the above activities together…and who got hurt along the way.

I admire this about men. I admire the play. I admire how they can just let it all go, the faucet, the clogged drain, the one-eyed pug that cost him a fortune, and go to a place to let loose in friendship and brotherhood and good old fashioned fun. And they don’t make excuses. They don’t justify. They don’t prioritize or time themselves or feel guilty about it. They just play.

So anyway, this weekend it’s just me, the cats, the lab and the one-eyed pug in a cone holding down the fort while husband is out inventing new ways to hurt himself and mom and pops are headed to visit my grandparents in Arizona.

The definition of pathetic...

And I don’t mind, as long as there are no more blizzards, power outages, porcupine encounters, coyote incidents or alien invasions while the troops are gone everything will be fine.

Anyway, I have a list a mile long that I have been meaning to get to that requires me to get up at the crack of dawn to check pockets, fold my underwear, unclog the sink, take out the garbage, caulk the newly tiled shower, close the lid on the toilet seat and spend some time with bacon…

Bacon+Me=lack of self control, guilty, fat-laden, salty, happiness

But when I’m finished not doing all of the above (except, of course, the bacon part…) I think I might take husband’s lead and start on the other list–you know, the one that requires me to paint my toenails, watch movies that feature a man named Matthew McConaughey, play my guitar and sing really loud, venture into town to listen to other people do the same thing while kicking back a cocktail, eat cereal and popcorn for supper, catch up on all of my Glamour and People magazines, practice my sweet dance moves without scrutiny from onlookers and critics, eat cereal and popcorn for lunch, watch movies that feature a woman named Julia Roberts, tie up the phone-line chatting up my girlfriends, let the pug and the cats sleep in my bed, avoid the laundry at all costs…

…and not feel the least big guilty about it.

I hope you will all make like a man and do the same…

or at least your version of it…

…and for the love of Martha, watch out for avalanches.

For a lifetime…

Posted on February 14, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I suppose you haven’t noticed that it’s Valentine’s Day today have you? I suppose you haven’t heard the announcements blaring from your T.V. or examined the varieties of chocolate and pink and red things at the store.

I may or may not have caught the hint. So ok, good morning. Happy Valentine’s Day. It’s beautiful out here at the ranch this morning. The snow has been melting all weekend, and although it has left behind slush and mud and water, a lot of water, in its wake, it has also exposed some dirt, some patches of earth, glorious earth, that just days ago resembled nothing other than a frozen tundra.

And I love the way it’s making me feel, all refreshed and new. Hell, I was so into the idea of a spring day that I whipped out my vacuum yesterday and even cleaned a window or two…and maybe a toilet. Oh, and it’s making the animals feel fabulous too. The dogs have been soaking up the sun, lapping up the melt with their pink tongues, horses on the hills are laying on their sides in an open spot of ground letting the sun warm their furry bodies, the deer are rejoicing in the relief of the snow drifts and the coyotes are howling a good morning tune to me as I type this.

The dogs are howling back.

It’s a perfect morning to be celebrating love and all those mushy things…

…and so I am thinking about love and all those mushy things and what it means to me this year. Because it’s Valentines Day. And because I have been thinking about this relationship I have with husband lately because I have been working on planning our 10-year class reunion.

What? When did that happen?

And as soon as I got over the shock that this year will be the year we gather with our old classmates and attempt to explain what the hell we are all doing now and how the hell we got there and why we do or do not have little ones attached to our hips or loves attached to our arms, I realized, shockingly, that my love has been attached to mine for a good thirteen to fourteen years, give or take.

Almost half my life.

And that little piece of information has held my interest lately. Because not only does it mean that I caught husband’s eye during a time in my life when my mouth was full of braces with the little purple rubber band things and I hadn’t yet mastered the art of my hair and my favorite accessory was a smiley face necklace. And if he could fall in love with me then, I think I’m out of the woods when my hair turns a bit more gray and I start wearing Spanks. At least I hope. But it also means if all goes well and we stay healthy and relatively sane throughout the course of our lives, husband and I, at the end of it all, will have spent a lifetime together.

Young FFA love.(Future Farmers of America, for those of you who don't recognize the acronym) Good Lord.

Really, thinking back on it, it already feels like we have, because how much of your life do you recall before you hit twelve years old? I suppose that’s the high school sweetheart thing that we crazies who found love early and held on tight for whatever reasons have that maybe can’t be explained or rationalized to our friends. Yeah, we stay out of the loop when asked for dating advice and take the phone calls about commitment and then try to explain ourselves.

But how do you explain why anyone holds on so tight–through adolescence, through breakups and make-ups and graduation and college parties and living in separate cities and working long hours and giving a ring and a promise out loud…a promise you had been making to each other when your age ended in teen and you had no idea what “I promise” and “forever” really meant.

No idea.

My grandparents on my mom’s side have been married over fifty years. They met and fell in love in high school and married soon after. Their lives took them across the country, across the ocean and back again. Their love gave them four beautiful daughters, eleven grandchildren and now six great-grandchildren. And they are two of the most influential people in my life when it comes to living with purpose and loving one another (and those around you) with everything you possess.

I have the privilege of being very close to them. They spent their autumns after retirement living and taking care of this very house down the road from my childhood home. And the summer after I graduated from college, the summer I was getting ready to marry husband, a boy I fell in love with who turned into a man with a ring, I lived with these high school sweethearts in their home in Minnesota.

And I am so glad I did, because what I witnessed gave me hope for lasting, true and honest love.

Lifetime love.

Between those walls and behind the windows that faced the lake, the sweethearts kept a quiet routine. My grandmother would take her coffee into bed in the morning and catch up on the news in the nightgown my grandfather no doubt bought her for Christmas that December. My grandfather would dress and read the paper, maybe out in the living room, or on the lawn on a sunny day. After the news and coffee, my grandfather would most likely make a list of what needed to get done that day—mow the lawn, fix a light switch, clean the boat—and my grandmother would work in her garden, get ready to meet friends in town to play bridge, or take a swim or a walk and be home in time to fix her love some lunch and make dinner plans.

And perhaps this isn’t or hasn’t always been true of their life together, as both of them were working parents raising four children in the city, but since I can remember the two of them always sat down to eat with each other. That was one thing that always struck me as important. Also, my grandfather generally always drives and always fills the gas. My grandmother has her own checking account, knows exactly how to fix her husband’s perfect sandwich and always comments to her girls, her grandkids, about how handsome her husband is, how lucky she is to have him…and then quickly adds, “he’s a pretty lucky guy too, I’m not so bad myself.”

And in the winter of their lives together, this carries on. I am sure my mother has much more to say about the relationship of her parents, the affection, the adoration, the breakfast in bed and the chivalry. But as their grandchild their love for one another has been a gift to me.

Because it has taught me (and bear with me here because I think it is especially important on this hyped up day with all of the pink hearts dangling above our heads and jewelry commercials blaring through the speakers) that love, long term love, even if it began in the fragile and naïve stages of your life, isn’t about the red roses or the diamond ring, although my grandfather has shown that those gestures are important too, especially on days like these…

…in fact, as I sit here I imagine that down there in Arizona, where my grandparents are making their winter home, my grandpa has ordered up some flowers and perhaps even made his sweetheart breakfast in bed.

And my grandmother probably has dinner reservations for tonight.

They’ve had practice with this holiday and these types of celebrations are important to them…

But after the holiday and the grand gestures, their love is about a bit of something else…

…it is about genuine affection and knowing when to put mayo on his sandwich, or taking a moment to make him a sandwich at all. It is about space to play your bridge game and take a swim or a walk or a book club date and the trust that there is someone at home with the light on. It is knowing when to stop the tears and when to just wipe them up when they fall. It is holding hands and making decisions based on what makes you feel good, together, and what allows you to soak up the sun and laugh at the rain.

It is about worrying about the same things while one of you is designated to hold it together. It is about being proud of each other. It is about small gestures done to make the other’s life a little easier—coffee in the morning, a full tank of gas, perfectly folded underwear, compromising on the type of milk to keep in the fridge.

It’s about complete and utter confidence…in yourself…in each other.

And although I don’t doubt my grandparents have had their fair share of hard times, I am going to go ahead and take a wild guess that they have made the conscious choice to make sure they have just as many good times to make up for it.

That’s the way they are. That’s how their love goes.

And thanks to them, I have hope that my love can go that way too…

…from braces to gray hair…

…for a lifetime.

Pizza Cook-off: Cowboy vs. Cowgirl

Posted on February 4, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

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.

Cowboy Cooks Apple Strudel (For Supper)

Posted on November 17, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

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!”

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.

Here we go again.

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…

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.

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.

Ten Commandments for the Hunting Widow

Posted on November 8, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Ok ladies. Happy Monday. And if you’re reading this I would like to congratulate you. Because it seems you have, if only by the hair of your chinny, chin, survived the opening weekend of deer hunting season.

Now if you’re here and have in no way been affected by this phenomenal holiday that turns perfectly decent, shirts tucked in, clean shaven, soaped up Midwestern boys into growly, whiskey drinking, scratchy bearded, poker playing, primitive manly men, then revel in the fact that for the next two weeks you do not have to negotiate outings into civilization with your man based on whether or not he has indeed “filled his tag.”

And I am well aware that some of you womanly women get right in there and play like the boys do, taking no prisoners, leaving it all behind for the love of the sport. To you I tip my blaze orange Elmer Fudd hat and say, “Long live the sportswoman.” We’ll have to get together soon over wine and venison and hash out the hunt.

But for those lovely females who have uttered the words “hunting widow” in the last few days, or ever in your married or dating lives for that matter, I would like to offer you something here.

I would like to get up on my pedestal (or kitchen chair, or the railing of my deck, or my tiny desk) and tell you that “widow” does not have to be a word in your vocabulary. No, not yet. You too can enjoy the pure, animalistic, back to nature experience of the hunt with your man in all his glory. And you can love it. Or at least tolerate it. All you have to do is put on your sports bra and your wedgie free undies and gear up for a purely carnal experience and get back to the basics of man. If anything the experience may help you gain some clarity on the weird male behavior your love will be exhibiting for the next couple weeks.

So for the benefit of females everywhere who have a hankering to see what it’s all about, I have consulted with the manly men around me and have taken some hard learned lessons from my years of experience walking silently behind the most serious sportsmen in the county to come up with the following:

The Ten Commandments of Deer Hunting with your Man

Yup, that's me, that's my deer, that's my man, that's my denim jacket and that's my neckerchief.

1. Thou shalt not wear swishy pants

2. Thou shalt not call any animal “cute” or “adorable.” You are now the predator, the fluffy critters with the big, beautiful eyes, are the prey. You heard me. Predator. Prey.

3. Thou shalt not complain about having to pee, but will squat behind a proper bush if absolutely necessary (and be quiet about it). And while you’re at it, thou shalt wear enough warm clothes so you are not cold, and eat enough food so you are not hungry and do everything in your power to remain comfortable enough so you have nothing to complain about, because really, thou shalt not complain.

4. Thou shalt not be the first to comment on husband/boyfriends’ shortcomings with any weapon and will instead provide only positive reinforcement. I.G.: “Great shot hunny.” “Way to take your time! You’re so methodical, so patient!” “You butt looks great when you lean in like that.” And my favorite, a whispered, almost silent “wooo hooo…woo hooo” and high five accompanied by your greatest smile when he makes the kill.

5. Thou shalt not whine about how blaze orange and greenish/brownish camo are not your colors and wear the seven sizes too big clothing like Pamela Anderson would. Because if a sexy woman like you can’t pull off this color combo, no one can.

6. Thou shalt kick it in gear, power-walk style and show husband/boyfriend what it means to really get somewhere while increasing your heart rate, burning calories, and spending quality time with your man–because women invented multi-tasking for cyring out loud.

7. Thou shalt understand that while on the hunt it is perfectly acceptable to walk or sit for several hours in complete silence. And, sweet lover of the outdoorsman, this is not a time for discussion about what color to paint the kitchen walls or where you should send your unborn child to preschool or how much your dearly beloved spent on that gun slung across his back.

8.Thou shalt bring your own snacks and pay careful attention that the wrappers do not make crinkling noises and the food itself does not pack a crunch. If you must have a granola bar, bring it unwrapped for the love of venison. When man is on the trail of the big one, all he wants to eat is the big one. He is not thinking about and does not appreciate that Snickers bar or tortilla chip you are so loudly devouring.

9. Thou shalt accept the fact that while hunting there is no work on Monday, there is no house, there are no kids, there is no basement renovation or fence to build. Nothing. There is nothing but the following: Man. Woman. Beast. Hunt.

10. Thou shalt understand that if you cannot abide by the above nine commandments, thou will never again be invited along. Ever. Ever.

Which may or may not be a bad thing, you know, depending on how it all turns out.

And one more thing, before you grab that camo cap and pack the jerky, I invite you to read a previous piece of mine to get a clear description of what might happen even if you do everything wrong. Because he is your man after all, and you are his and he loves you and your over-active bladder, candy wrappers, poor circulation and everything in between–“Sneeek…Sneeeeeeek….” “Shhhhh…”

Now take off those swishy pants and go get ‘em girl. The view alone is worth it.

Part of my heart is in Texas

Posted on October 28, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

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.

Cowboy Cooks Knoephla

Posted on October 18, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Everybody loves to eat. Especially during this season of the cool down when we all want to give in to those animal instincts telling us to stock up and hibernate.

Yes, everyone loves food. Even those of us who have been known to use our ovens for storage have a dish we try to re-create from our childhood—grandmother’s oatmeal cookies, aunt’s pickles, mother’s secret homemade mac and cheese that turned out was just Velveeta with a little milk over fancy noodles.

And out here, where the coyotes howl outside our window, the grocery store is a good thirty miles away and delivery is not an option unless you are planning on paying a serious fee, we count on those familiar favorite recipes to bring us together around a dinner table, in one room, under the vast prairie sky.

Hey, just because we get more dirt on our clothes and poop on our shoes than the rest of civilization doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy a fine dining experience.

So we make our own.

Well, “we” may not be the most honest term here.

Because, like my good friend Napoleon Dynamite, I have some sweet skills…cat scouting skills, Internet surfing skills, guitar skills, horse hairdressing skills, and the most practiced and honed skill of all…eating. Passionate eating.

I am good at eating.

But not so good at cooking…unless I have specific instructions and an entire day and a half to plan it out and execute a recipe. And by then I’m usually too tired from the effort of it all and too full from sampling each ingredient that I have no wish to eat again for another solid, well….ummm….thirty to forty minutes.

It’s exhausting.

No, I have little patience for food that doesn’t come directly from a box.

So although I can’t provide you with life-changing recipes that you will pass on from generation to generation (unless you wish to pass down that mac and cheese recipe, then I’m all in), I can give you something better.

Yes, much, much better.

See I know someone who doesn’t say much. He’s skilled and handsome and very, very tolerant. An unlikely character who knows cooking because he honed his skills alongside a woman who honed her skills alongside a woman who put heart and flour and some of that wholesome German-Russian discipline into her food.

Yup, he knows cooking.

So I married him.

Oh, husband has recipes, secret recipes that he has sharpened and perfected and put his own, rugged twist on. He has them tucked up under his hat and they come out of him in all of this lovely, delicious and oh so soul warming, buttery and carbohydrate loaded food that makes me weak in the knees. And then I promptly lay down in bed, pull the covers over my head knowing that I could die in my sleep and my last meal would be the best meal of my life.

Ok, I’m a little dramatic perhaps, but he does cook….really, really well.

We can all thank his momma for this.

And you can thank me and number one skill—persuasion—for getting him to agree to let me follow him around our tiny kitchen and document his every move.

Yup, my mad skills come in handy.

So hold on to your ladles as I present to you the first installment of—

A Cowboy In the Kitchen: Recipes and philosophy from the epitome of man—the cowboy. Expect heartiness. Expect butter. Expect meat. Expect robust flavors. Expect bad grammar. Expect a mess.

But please, don’t expect diet food.

Our agreement? Husband gets to wear his hat and his fancy shirt, in all its polyester glory...

Today’s Recipe:

Homemade Knoephla Soup with Chicken (cause a cowboy’s gotta get his protein)

And before we go any further, the cowboy wants you to know that this doesn’t have to be pretty. And it ain’t gonna be quick. Soup is about the process; so hang in for the long haul and don’t get hung up on meticulous measuring. There will no measuring spoons or cups, but a lot of pinches, dashes and shakes.

The only spoon you need is your taste test spoon. Use it often for best results.

And last but not least…

The #1 rule of soup. You can always add to it, but you can’t take it back.

Mooooving right along.

Cast of characters:

A Cowboy
A good attitude (no bitchin’ in the kitchen)
3 to 5 ice cubes
Your favorite whiskey
Six chicken drumsticks or three chicken leg quarters, thawed
1 egg
1 cup milk
1/2 stick of butter
4 medium potatoes
6-8 green onions
4 large carrots
Half and Half
Chicken Base or Bouillon Cubes
Bay leaves
Rosemary
Basil
Parsley
Celery Salt
Thyme
Cilantro
Salt

(Yup, I know what you’re thinking, that’s a lot of spices. But, didn’t John Wayne say something about trust?) Anyway.

And finally…

One brother-in-law who will smell this from his camper in the yard and come over to see what’s cookin’

Step 1: Prepare

Put the ice cubes in your favorite glass
Pour desired amount of whiskey over the cubes
Take a drink

(This is not optional)

Step 2: The Broth

Put as much water in to the pot as you want soup broth. (Too much is better than not enough. A cowboy’s logic in the kitchen and in life. )
Place chicken and bay leaves into the water
Add a two fingered pinch of rosemary and a sprinkle of salt
Bring to a gentle boil
Continue boiling until the chicken is cooked through–approximately 1/2 hour, but the longer the better, as the point is to cook the flavor out of the chicken to create a tasty broth.

Now kick back in your favorite recliner, sip some more whiskey and wait.

Once the chicken is cooked to your liking, remove it from the pot and skim the excess fat off the top of the water

Season the broth with:
- A sprinkle of salt
- A pinch of minced garlic
- A couple shakes of basil
- A couple shakes of celery salt
- A pinch of thyme (Cowboy’s not sure what this is, but puts it in anyway ‘cause it sounds fancy)
- A generous couple shakes of parsley
- 3 tablespoons of chicken base (or several bullion cubes)

Waft the soup up to your nose to get a good whiff. Smells delicious. Add more seasoning if you wanna.

Stir.

And while you’re at it why don’t you take another sip of whiskey

Step 3: Soup contents

Remove the skin from the chicken and pull meat from the bone. Cut into bite sized pieces

Peel and dice four medium sized potatoes

Slice four large carrots

Dice 6-8 green onions

And…a half a stick of butter (optional. If you’re feeling diety, you can skip it, but it sure makes it tasty)

Add all above ingredients to the soup and continue cooking on low heat until the potatoes are tender. About 20 minutes.

mmmm…it smells good in here…I’m stttaaaarrrrvvvviiinnngggg…..

On a side note, this is what we have to work around...ridiculous.

In the meantime…the best part…

Step 4: The knoephla

Mix one egg with a cup of milk

Add a dash of salt and stir

Sprinkle flour on your counter or table to avoid stick

Add flour (about 3 to 4 cups) to the mixture and then knead the dough on the table until it no longer sticks to your hands and the consistency reminds you of play dough

Roll the dough out in to thin, round strips that look like small snakes

When the potatoes are done, using a kitchen scissors, clip off about ½ inch pieces of the dough and drop into soup mix

(you don’t have to use all of the dough, just put in as many as you like. Cowboy usually needs to upgrade to a bigger pot)

Cook kneophla until they float to the top of the soup mixture. About 10-15 minutes.

Step 5: The finale

When the knoephla pieces pop to the top of the mixture, take a little taste of the broth to see if it needs anything. Add more seasoning if you wanna.
Then, if you’re feeling too skinny, add to the mix a ½ pint of half and half. (c’mon you know you wanna) Heavy whipping cream also works, but we didn’t want to scare you off.

Say, “mmm.mmm.mmmm.”
Stir
Ladle into big boy sized bowls and serve with crackers and bread (because really, we need more carbs)

Time to eat!

Then leave the dishes for tomorrow and tip your hat down over your face and turn in for the night.

Agh, I’m exhausted.

We ate too much...

Cowboy says: “If it’s not the best soup you’ve ever eaten it’s because you missed the important ingredient…whiskey….or was that love? Yeah, love.

Repeat steps 1-5 adding more whiskey, which results, consequently, in more love.

Happy Kneophla to ya!

Heaven help the cat farmer…

Posted on October 15, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Ok, so I realize I am running a major risk of turning into one of those ladies….

But last night, after I had so clearly declared my feelings about the state of the cats in my life and posted it with authority and a couple necessary exclamation points for the world to see, feeling pretty free and right with the world and where I stand as far as cats are concerned, I headed out to the barn to practice taking pictures with my shiny, new fancy nancy, big girl camera.

I was glowing. This machine could quite possibly be the single most beautiful thing I have ever owned (besides the pug of course, but I don’t own him….no, that’s a free spirit there…free as the wind…and I’m pretty sure he owns me). Ok, the camera…yes, it’s more complicated than any woman I know. With more bells and whistles and mysterious features, not only is this contraption equipped to capture some undoubtedly precious moments, I am pretty sure, if I find the right button, it could very well send me back in time, or at least to the moon or something. Yes, my life is sure to be transformed with this little piece of magic…or, you know, allow me to capture an image in lowlight for starters.

Anyway, I was out gallivanting around, looking at the world from the other side of a lens that really, I’m not sure I’m worthy of owning. And as I was taking pictures of the inside of the barn, reveling in how beautiful old things can become when you spend enough money to be able to see them in high resolution (as opposed to the resolution of real life, which, as it turns out, sometimes doesn’t seem to compare…especially if you don’t wear the glasses you were prescribed), I heard it…

The lab, who had been hot on the trail of a mole or something heard it….

The pug,? Yes, of course the pug heard it…

“mew…”

Faint at first, I ignored it, certain it had to be the crazy cat from the house following me again. Cats take a while to learn a lesson.

I continued my quest for a Nobel Peace Prize winning photograph…

“…mew…mew…mew…”

Shrill, high pitched, panicky…

Ok, that’s not the noise of a creature I feed from a bowl.

But look at that magnificent spider web and those old horseshoes…

“…mew…mew…mew…”

Shit.

This is a plea for help. This is the sound of a creature that needs rescuing—this means business. And no doubt another house guest.

So, as you can imagine, even though I didn’t get around to making the pug the cape I promised him, the super-dog was all over this investigation.

Just call him the Cat Whisperer. Actually, I think his first book is scheduled for release this winter.

“mew…mew…mew…mew…”

It just couldn’t be ignored so off we went, the pug gallantly leaped through the window of the barn and landed nose to the ground toward the pathetic squeaks. And the lab, not to miss a good hunt, squeezed all 105 pounds of him right behind.

Well of course I couldn’t be left out, and going around to the door and out to the source of the “mews” would waste precious time, so I squeezed through too….you know, all of me…somehow…

Anyway, after the nose of the lab and the nose of the pug took them screaming through the barnyard, weaving in and out of the hay bales, very dramatically collecting burs and kicking up birds, I took two steps and looked down at my feet to discover what I had expected:

A tiny, fluffy, noisy, pathetic, desperately adorable, fit in the palm of my hand, kitten searching high and low for her momma, you know, in an old tire.

Oh, I’m no momma, and I couldn’t find one around anywhere, especially not in the tire, so, well you know what happened next.

I mean, how could you leave something like this out alone in the world?

Not possible.

So I swept her up and pulled her close to my face and said a few things like:

“Oh, hewo widdle kiddy kiddy…awen’t you the cutest widdle kiddy kiddy…whews yo mamma? Huh? Whews yo mamma?”

Yup, I was her.

I was that.

Crazy.

Cat.

Lady.

Crazy cat lady.

Fast or slow, punctuation or no punctuation, any way you dice it, it always spells:

C R A Z Y.

And that kitty kitty, I’m sure was glad to be saved.

It took me .5 seconds after that to get back to the house, which was not nearly enough time to concoct a story to tell husband about why oh why I was bringing yet another furry thing into our tiny, tiny home.

But as soon as I opened the door and sweetly presented our little gift from the cat gods (or from someone who is playing a dirty, nasty trick on me for ever having said an ill word toward the species) husband grabbed her up.

And when I began the inevitable photo shoot of the new addition?