Thanksgiving: A recap.
Yup, that about sums it up.
Another successful holiday at the ranch…
…here’s to a speedy recovery…
Turkey Hangover
3
Tag Archives: Veeder Ranch
Cowboy Cooks Apple Strudel (For Supper)
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.
Winter, roundup and my neckerchief.
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.
Ten Commandments for the Hunting Widow
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.
If you came for a visit today…
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!
Part of my heart is in Texas
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.
Bring it on, Winter. Bring. It. On.
It’s a long way from Texas to North Dakota.
And it turns out, an entirely different world once we made it home.
See, I wanted to tell you all about my trip down south today. I wanted to give you the details about how it felt to see one of the younger members of the Kitten Caboodle Club get married to her best friend and how much we laughed and cried and how the warm Texas sun shone on our faces and life was great and warm and green.
But in true North Dakotan fashion, this urgent weather report gets precedence over any other topic of conversation. I’ll save that story for tomorrow…
and hold that memory of 80+ weather with me for a few months, because it’s a long way from 80 here.
We touched down in North Dakota yesterday afternoon and the first full on blizzard of the year greeted us with open arms.
“Welcome Home!” said the weather as it pelted ice chunks at our exposed, tender Texas kissed flesh and we ran with heads down to our car and shivered and said things like,
“Wow, it’s freezing”
“Holy shit.”
“I almost blew over.”
“This sucks.”
That’s the thing about North Dakota. The snow alone is not so bad. In fact the snow alone is pleasant and peaceful and turns the landscape into a lovely snow globe as we put our arms around one another and let the light of the fireplace (or, if you roll like us, the TV flickering one of our favorite westerns) lull us to a blissful, cozy sleep wrapped up warm in our homes.
Yes, snow is accepted and welcomed in this form.
But sometimes it brings its BFF along for the ride (Wind. You heard of him?) You know, just for theatrical effect. And then all hell breaks loose.
Hold on to your tails!
That is what’s going on outside my window today as I sent husband out on the roads to work— a few pounds heavier due to the seventeen pieces of clothing he pulled over his body.
And for the sake of drama, which I clearly know something about, let’s count the items of clothing that made up his work outfit here, just to be sure:
1. underwear
2. long underwear pants
3. long underwear turtleneck shirt
4. socks
5. work pants
6. long sleeved shirt
7. buttoned up work shirt
8. vest
9. winter coat
10. Carhart coveralls
11. scarf
12. beanie (we call winter caps beanies. Is that weird?)
13. hard hat
14. gloves
15. boots resembling those that Buzz Aldrin wore on his quest to the moon
16. face mask
and
17. a big, goofy smile (cause he likes the drama of the storm too…and I wanted to make it to my estimated 17 items)
Yes, this outfit may sound excessive and it may bring to mind Ralphie’s little brother in “A Christmas Story.” But I tell you what, I bet husband is still cold with a wind that is shaking this tiny house this morning and working really hard to “sting the toes and bite the nose…” I mean, sitting here I am tempted to put on my beanie and mittens just out of sympathy.
I can guarantee every farmer, every rancher, every oilfield worker and every mom with kids who actually got to stay home from school today (because this is the first storm of the season and we’re not used to it yet) every office worker and every retiree is glued to the weather report today.
And thanks to the Internet, we don’t have to wait for the noon news to get the updates. We can obsess minute by minute and watch the storm pass over us in the form of a little green blob on our computer screen.
For example:
A weather update taken from www.wunderground.com
Mostly cloudy. Snow likely in the morning…then slight chance of snow in the afternoon. Blowing and drifting snow in the morning…then areas of blowing and drifting snow in the afternoon. Visibility one quarter mile or less at times. Windy. Snow accumulation up to 1 inch. Total snow accumulation 2 to 5 inches. Highs in the mid 30s. Northwest winds 25 to 35 mph with gusts to around 55 mph. Chance of snow 60 percent
Keep it together man!
And one from www.weather.com
A Blizzard Warning has been issued.
Expect low temperatures (below 20°F) and winds of 35+ mph. Also expect sufficient falling and/or blowing snow that reduces visibility to 1/4 mile or less.
And just to add salt to the wound, they have added this cute little “Climate Comparison” application on The Weather Channel website that features the 80 degree temperature in Acapulco, Mexico today.
Bitches.
Anyway, I could go on and on about what it feels like here as I sip hot coffee from my favorite cup, wrap up in a blanket and blow on my hands to thaw them out, but I think you need to see this for yourself.
So I have risked my life for you lovely readers. I have braved the blizzard to give you the promised play by play of life at the ranch.
Bring it on winter. Bring. It. On.
Because I love you.
But for those of you who are looking at this and thinking:
Why...
...oh why...
...oh why?
...oh sweet kibble why?
I have to tell you there is something about the remarkable weather changes that we experience here in the north that we all secretly love. Because it is so over-the-top. Because it is so predictably unpredictable. Because we know that now we have a perfect excuse to get together and snuggle up and hunker down under one roof and eat our soups and plan for Thanksgiving and then Christmas and wait it out with the people who we have in our lives for this very purpose.
To keep us warm on cold days.
Then we can count on them to fall in right behind our fresh footprints in the snow when the wind dies and the sledding and snowman and snow angel making is perfect.
And we know they won’t be mad when we throw a snowball at their head.
In fact, we can expect to get a bigger one smashed back at ours.
And we will laugh together knowing that we’ll be warm again soon, because in North Dakota, the only thing you can count on is a change of weather.
See, I just heard the weatherman say pleasant weather tomorrow.
Sunshine.
It will probably be 70 degrees, or at least 50, and it will take us three minutes to forget this.
Because that’s how we roll in NoDak. If it doesn’t kill ya, it’s just another story of survival to tell at coffee.
Can we go inside now?
I won a contest? What the heck.
So I have spent a great deal of my life, especially in my musical career, talking to people about North Dakota. I love to tell its story to the unsuspecting who think there is nothing up here but a couple horses and some fields.
“You have running water up there?” ”
“Electricity?”
“Damn, it sure is cold up there isn’t it?”
Yes. Yes. And Yes are the answers.
But I love to find those people pleasantly surprised when they get to really hear about this place—about the badlands, the economy, the people, the beautiful weather and the fact that we may not have everything, but we know exactly who we are.
I’ve said this before, but I truly have a love affair with Western North Dakota. So when I moved back to the ranch for the second time in my life I felt like a kid again. It was like I was rediscovering this wonderland that I somehow forgot about when I was out on my own trying to discover myself. After traveling the country singing for my supper, I saw this place with fresh eyes and for what it was to me when I was eight or nine or ten–natural, raw, adventurous, beautiful, wild, cowboy country. I immersed myself in it. And don’t plan to stop.
Because when I was seventeen I left the comfort of this little oasis with a couple songs in my pocket and a dream of an education and coming back to the ranch to make a living and start a family and write and love and live and create and sing and keep the place alive.
And now my dreams are coming true. And I am so thankful.
Hense all the photographs, all the musings…all the plans.
And it seems like others are intrigued as well, because in my enthusiasm about my new found old life, I submitted one of my many photographs to the North Dakota Governor’s Photo Contest in an attempt to share my point of view and take a look at others’.
And I won.
I won a contest.
What the heck?
But I’m pretty damn thrilled.
And it turns out others are thrilled for me and are spreading the word.
So I’d like to give a shout out to Grand Forks, the community of my alma mater, the University of North Dakota, for giving me get the guts and brains to go out in this world and do what I want on my terms. And thanks for claiming me to this day.
Thanks Watford City for growing me up, sending me off, and taking me back. No matter what.
And thanks North Dakota for letting me love you so.
And loving me back.
Sharing a snapshot of life on the ranch
Jessie Veeder Scofield’s photo, which is part of a larger plan for the future of the family ranch, wins state contest
October 21, 2010. Grand Forks Herald
North Dakota Governor's Contest Winning Photograph
Jessie Veeder Scofield is in love with western North Dakota. It’s her home, and for years, she’s been singing and writing about it. After earning a degree at UND, touring as a musician and marrying her cowboy, she’s back on her family ranch 30 miles south of Watford City.
And she’s won the top prize in the North Dakota Governor’s Photo Contest with a picture of her cowboy husband on one of the west’s most treasured landmarks, the Maah Daah Hey Trail. A favorite of horseback riders, hikers and bicyclists, it winds 97 miles, beginning 20 miles south of Watford City, through the Badlands and gently rolling prairie, to Sully Creek State Park south of Medora, N.D.
Veeder Scofield said she snapped the photo of her husband, Chad Scofield, during a trail ride on Chad’s birthday. In the snapshot, a horse waits in the background as Chad leans against a fencepost, head down, smiling, in his cowboy hat and chaps.
“He has this natural laid-back vibe about him, and he just photographs well,” Jessie said. “I think that’s why it worked really well.”
The North Dakota Department of Tourism will take Jessie’s photo and the others from the annual contest for amateur photographers, and use them to promote North Dakota.
That is fitting because Jessie has picked up a camera in recent months to illustrate her blog, which is one way she’s promoting the establishment of a ranch vacation property on her family’s 3,000-acre ranch, homesteaded by her great-great-grandfather, Ben Veeder, in 1915.
Jessie and Chad want to make a life and a living in western North Dakota. They see the ranch and the beauty that surrounds it as their heritage and their future, she said.
“I’ve been in love with it all my life,” she said, “taking so many pictures and writing about it and singing about it. I grew up helping on the ranch, riding horses. I was lucky enough to marry someone who has the same interests.”
Jessie may be best known in the Grand Forks area as a singer/songwriter. During her years at UND, she often performed in public. She recorded her first CD, “This Road” in 2000 when she was 16. Her other recordings, “A Place to Belong” (2005) and “Jessie Veeder Live at Outlaws” (2007) are available on iTunes. (For more about her music, go to www.sonicbids.com/jessieveeder/.)
As a young girl, Jessie attended a rural school about 15 miles from her home. She went to Watford City occasionally for band practice, and that’s when she met Chad. They dated in high school, attended UND together and married in 2006.
She grew up performing with her father, rancher Gene Veeder, a folk singer. By the time she was 10, she was playing the guitar and doing some soloing. At UND, she took marketing and public relations classes, and kept singing, getting picked up by a music agent in Nashville, Tenn., and touring colleges all over the Midwest. After graduation in 2005 with a communications degree through the honors program, she toured full time. Chad finished his psychology degree at University of Montana.
After their marriage, they lived at the ranch, technically anyway. She spent most of her time touring and Chad worked in the oilfields. Jessie said she loved being on the road and met many great people there.
“But it was one of those gigs where you could have gone on and on with that lifestyle for a good number of years, and it’s hard to make a living like that,” she said. “There were other things that I wanted to do as well, more than be on the road by myself all the time.”
She and her father still perform from time to time, including at Medora, but her focus is on the family ranch. After living in Dickinson, N.D., for a time, she and Chad are living in a little house her grandfather built, about a mile down the road from her parents,
Watford City is a growing community with lots of opportunity, she said.
“A lot of my girlfriends are moving back and starting their families, so it’s a great time to come back,” she said.
She’s taking a lot of photos these days for the website and blog about the ranch vacation property, which she envisions with cabins for visitors, offering riding, hiking and biking trails. She hopes to use music, hers and others, as another way to draw visitors. But what she’s put online already is drawing a lot of interest, she said.
“With that blog, I started documenting a lot of our lifestyle and what is around me. It really got me into photography again. I’ve had interest from people all over the world. They’re really following what we’re doing and interested in it, which is really encouraging,” she said.
Veeder Scofield said she hopes to have a visitor cabin open on the ranch by next summer, depending on how things go.
“We’re just happy to be living in the place we’re living and I just like to celebrate it and sing about it, and I’m glad other people like it as well,” she said.
Reach Tobin at (701) 780-1134; (800) 477-6572, ext. 134; or send e-mail to ptobin@gfherald.com.
Link to the above article: Grand Forks Herald Article
Link to my hometown newspaper: McKenzie County Farmer
Discover my great state: North Dakota Tourism
Love Ya!
If only the night would wait…
The night.
Slowly it sweeps over us, peeking out from behind the horizon, warning that another day will soon be gone–that time has passed us once again.
That it always wins.
We scramble to get the chores done, our dinners served and dishes cleaned.
Our babies bathed and tucked in tight.
And as we sing the first few lines of a familiar lullaby, the black cloak is draped and the moon rises outside our windows so humble, so unassuming that we often miss it as our eyes grow heavy and our breath evens out and the weight of the darkness creeps over our roofs.
And when the moon makes its way up to center sky, the wind grows calm under its rays, the grass stoops low and the night creatures with eyes that flash from the hillsides and from deep in the brush make plans for an unnoticed life.
So the civilized turn in, shut doors, move locks and draw curtains, hoping this time, tonight, to keep the quiet out.
But out here the quiet is loud…
…so loud…
Because once the last of the coyotes finish their star serenade, they laugh as they leave us with nothing.
Nothing but the silence that envelops us and screams the things we cannot be, the places we will never go, the people we will never hold, the words we should have never said…
..the words we should have delivered instead.
So we reach for our loves, pull covers up tight, curse at the clocks and turn on our TVs to drown out the calm…the silence.
We whisper.
Our words prick the air.
We squeeze our eyes tight against it.
And under this blanket of black we lay on our backs and fight the dark with thoughs of the morning…
…and dream of the things we could be…
…if only the night would wait.
Rust, roots and time passed
There is a place on the ranch my family affectionately refers to as “Pots and Pans.” It is a big hill south of the little farmhouse that juts out over a stock dam and provides a fantastic view of the entire 3,000-acre ranch. It is a landmark, much like the special places many ranching and farming folks label with weird names and use to explain to each other where they spotted that stray cow, shot the big buck or where the truck broke down.
But Pots and Pans is special, if not especially weird. I wish I could tell you the proper origin of where on earth anyone got the idea to drag to the top of this hill old kettles, teapots, cheese graters, pie pans and flour sifters, but I have no idea the reasoning behind it. I always thought it was my grandmother, but maybe not. I suppose someone told me along the way, but I forgot.
Either way, to my cousins and I this place was an oasis of mystery, a far away land where, if you reached the top after gathering all of your little sisters and one little brother, packed the juice boxes and fruit rollups into your Smurf lunchbox and you all made it to the destination without a run-in with a cactus or someone peeing their pants, you could be transported back to a time where these antique contraptions were used to prepare meals and serve twelve children who once lived not too far from this very homestead.
And if we made it there, you know, after the twelve-hundred mile trek to the top, we sucked the fresh air into our small lungs, counted our followers to make sure none were stuck in the mud somewhere, and proceeded to pretend…
…pretend that I was the mom and my only boy cousin at the time finally didn’t have to be dressed as a girl for once and got to be the dad and we were homesteaders who arrived by covered wagon and had staked our claim on this perfect spot after losing oxen and horses and my piano in a raging, roaring river (the flair for the dramatic runs in the family.)
And then it was time for a supper of clover bits and wild mushrooms and mud and rocks mixed together to form a lovely soup and after the meal we would proceed to plow the field and make pots out of the gumbo in the hills to sell in town and become rich.
We would carry on like this until someone would, indeed, pee their pants or find a cactus or fall down the hill and the little ones would need to be lugged home via piggyback. And when we finally made it home, we would rehash our adventures as the sun dropped down below the horizon and our eyes grew heavy.
See this homestead, this ranch, this vast landscape as you can imagine is home to millions of stories and ghosts of times spent breaking ground, building houses, having babies, losing mothers, purchasing the family’s first car and learning to drive, getting bucked off of new horses, harvesting the fields, and leaving blood, sweat and tears to soak into the ground and onto the backs of the animals that helped keep the place alive and machinery that did nothing but break down.
And the remains of these past lives, these generations spent struggling, loving, living and dying on this very landscape remain here not only in spirit, but also in the pieces left behind. The old cars that took their last drive to town have been drug to their designated graveyard to be used for parts on the replacement. The feed pickups that stranded my grandfather on evenings when the air hit thirty below and the sun had left hours ago accompany the cars and the tractors with faded red paint and threshing machines that resemble half sunken ships anchored in the rolling prairie waves.
As children we didn’t see these things as remains of a life lived hanging on to a place that struggled as much as it thrived, but as an infinite playground stretched out before us.
The old cars became ours as we imagined ourselves whizzing past wheat fields on our way to fancy parties in town. Sitting behind the wheel of the rusty feed trucks we were transported twenty years ahead where we ran our own operation and needed to stop for fuel, a cup of coffee and supplies at the local feed store.
The old threshing machine transported us to sea where my oldest cousin was the captain and we fought for first mate status as the wind whipped through our hair and the big storm threatened a capsize.
And when we were on safari, the augers were undiscovered dinosaurs that roamed the horizons of the ranch and were curious about these explorers on two legs.
Yes, this place with its hidden treasures just over the hill, helped transport us into the lives of adventurers, circus performers, escaped convicts, performers and people who sometimes possessed the same characteristics and dreams of our mothers and fathers.
And as I was walking around the homestead last week, looking for the perfect location to build our new house, these memories of childhood adventures on this place came rushing back to me as I passed each piece of worn out machinery and each old car. We have been making plans to remove this “junk” from the place, and to most people who drive by, that is exactly what it is. It’s old junk that has to go.
But as I ran my hands over the bodies of my grandmother’s car, overcome by rust and my grandfather’s feed pickup with his work gloves still sitting on the seat and old farm papers stuck in the visor, I tried to imagine what those people I once knew looked like sitting behind the wheel in the prime of their lives while their vehicle glistened under the prairie sun, polished and new. I imagined my grandmother sitting in the middle of the old International next to her young husband, laughing as they drove down the reservation road to the river for a day of fishing.
I thought of my dad, taking his first drive to town on his own to play with his band while thinking to himself, “This is the life. This is freedom.”
And I remembered my grandpa, driving his feed pickup through the cattle in the winter, making tracks in the freshly fallen snow, yelling, “Come boss…come boss!” Bouncing along the rough landscape, the chains from the bale loader clinking on body of the vehicle and he would reach up in his visor and, magically, pull down a stick of gum, or some cookies, or a bar of candy to offer to the small grandchild in a purple beanie and matching mittens sitting beside him.
And as I missed him and felt a longing for my childhood, I huffed as I noticed that pieces of my life growing up here had made it to this graveyard as well.
The old Dodge pickup that had taken me to my first high school rodeo sat lonely and sunken in a bed of weeds. I opened its doors and found one of my dad’s old caps and smiled as I thought of learning to drive stick shift in that beast.
I walked down to the shop to find my very first car, a redish-pinkish Ford LTD purchased from my uncle for $1,000. It sat lonely, still wearing the stickers I placed on the steering wheel, the ridiculous amount of key chains dangling from the ignition, remnants of my high school memories hanging from the rearview mirror—a reflection on the girl I used to be, the girl I was when this ridiculous looking car drove me off of the ranch and into a world filled with heartache and drama and love and loss and change.
Nostalgic now, I looked up to Pots and Pans.
I had to be there. I had to see if some things never change. I wanted to pick up the pieces of my childhood and be transported once again to a time and place where I could be anything and my favorite partners in crime did not live hundreds of miles away from me.
I didn’t take the time to pack my fruit rollups into my lunchbox, because somehow the hill didn’t look as far away, it didn’t look as daunting.
So I ran. I ran past the dinosaurs, the pirate ship and the old cars that had taken me through so many lives. I disregarded the cactuses as my strong adult legs propelled me to the top. And as I sucked the air into my lungs I frantically searched around to find my favorite pieces. Where was the butter churn? The flour sifter? The old jar we used to catch grasshoppers?
They were gone. Gone. Pushed down the hill into the trees and washouts by the snow and water that drifted in with the wind and weather that comes with time passed.
And as I sat there, holding on tight to the worn out pots that had survived the time, I sucked back tears as I thought of the innocence that existed and laughed and screamed with joy going up and down this hill.
Wiping the tears, I looked out over the landscape that my great-great grandfather declared home, where pieces of him and his family are scattered, and I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed and restless with the responsibility of keeping this place here and alive for generations to come.
I took the air my ancestors once breathed into my lungs and closed my eyes to imagine my cousins running wildly through the grass…and their childish faces turned into the faces of their children…and their children’s faces turned into the faces of my unborn…
I opened my eyes, let loose the grip from the remains of Pots and Pans and let my feet carry me down from the peak of my childhood.
And when I reached the bottom, I turned around to look up at it—a sort of dramatic way of saying goodbye to the innocent life I once knew. And the hill looked back at me. It was no mountain, no daunting cliff or magnificent, looming piece of breathtaking landscape, nothing to make a postcard out of.
But in that moment, feet planted firmly in the place where my roots took hold and have refused to let go, I tilted my head back, put my hands on my hips and kicked the dirt in anticipation, because I knew I had found the view I wanted for the rest of my life.
A home under Pots and Pans.
Forever.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch... 