So, we're a little behind on our Advent. But we're a little less behind today. We just finished our first two days of our Advent family worship. We talked about St. Nicholas, about how he saved some boys from being pickled by an evil innkeeper, and we discussed salvation and forgiveness of sins. We lit our first candle, and we sang together. Houdin knew today's Advent song, though none of the rest of us did. He has such a fine voice, that boy.
And then, we put the "ornament" on the Advent wreath. Only twenty days until Christmas!
Tomorrow, we will join some friends at the monastery for a celebration of St. Nicholas' day. The monastery is a new discovery of ours, and I really enjoy it. A simple yet dedicated service filled with more Scripture than I've heard in any church in years, the Greek monastery gives me a feeling of being connected to not just a Christ Jesus, but an historical Jesus, who dwelt among men. The deliberateness of the monastic service is comforting. While it is long and repetitive, it's also moving and thought-provoking. Afterwards tomorrow, I'm told, the children will gather around one of the monks and receive golden chocolate coins, cookies and stories about St. Nicholas. I'm looking forward to it.
Blessings!
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Baby steppin' to Christmas
Ms Booshay's little Christmas meme really did give me a bit of a jump start. Now, little by little, I'm warming my engine and getting into the Christmas spirit. It started that little autofill feature that, well, um...autofills the title field of my blog entry. I started to type "Christmas Meme," and, lo and behold, I already *have* an entry titled "Christmas Meme." Inspired me to go back and read my entries from last holiday. And you know what? We actually enjoyed Christmas last year, even on a budget only a bit less strict than this year's budget.
And the thing about those entries is that they serve as a reminder. For several years now, I've worked in the mail order department of a local cheesehouse (hi, Ashley!). The past two years, I headed up the mail order operation. Last year, I was miserable. I missed my family, we didn't do our traditional stuff, and I felt like Christmas just kind of rushed on without me. I vowed that I would never let that happen again.
And so, while it's very financially tenuous right now, I'm thankful that I'm, once again, a stay-at-home mom during the Christmas season. That's very important to me. After all, Bard will be seventeen in just two short months. While I hope she plans to stay at home for as long as she wants to, I know that my holiday seasons with her at home are numbered.
Monet and Sweetheart did some gift shopping for me. They spent their "free money" that their Illinois grandpa gave them to buy me treasures from the thrift store. Sweetheart is anxious to get them wrapped, but I told her to wait, that we'll soon get all of our Christmas decorations out and she can wrap them then. She knows that there will be meager offerings this Christmas, and she says she doesn't mind. As long as her stocking is full, she says, and she gets a couple of coloring books, that will be fine. I do know that I bought her a few little goodies at the thrift store, and she'll be pleased with them: a soft cotton quilt, a mosquito net for her bed and a hand-embroidered pillow case with a cute little kitty in a basket. She'll be happy.
Tonight, I prepared some holiday foods--a gallon of eggnog and a pan of homemade vanilla caramels. The eggnog is chilling in the fridge while the caramel loaf is cooling just a few feet from where I type, waiting to be set enough to be cut into pieces and wrapped in wax paper. Later, I'll make dozens of batches of hard candy--watemelon and wintergreen and spearmint and cinnamon and root beer and butter rum and cherry. Lucky for me, I bought a dozen or more jars of the oils last year and I still have them in my spice drawer, so the only outlay I have for that is corn syrup.
Making hard candy was originally Bard's idea. We were trying to think of a good gift for Grandma, and Bard thought of the hard candy, which she thought we could break into pieces and pour into a huge jar. Her idea was inspired by one of Grandma's hobbies--stained glass making. We've made the candy every year since, filling a large jar as full as we can with every flavor we can find. The first year we made it, I added the cinnamon oil too soon ended up with oil burns on my face. I was red for days. I've learned since then, and am much more patient when it comes to adding the oils.
We'll also make butter toffee, pulled molassass taffy and fudge. And this year, for our neighbors' Christmas gifts, Houdin and I will make peppermint cheesecakes, presented on platters found at the thrift store.
For tonight, though, I think we'll put on our jammies and settle in for a couple of our favorite Christmas movies.
Tidings!
And the thing about those entries is that they serve as a reminder. For several years now, I've worked in the mail order department of a local cheesehouse (hi, Ashley!). The past two years, I headed up the mail order operation. Last year, I was miserable. I missed my family, we didn't do our traditional stuff, and I felt like Christmas just kind of rushed on without me. I vowed that I would never let that happen again.
And so, while it's very financially tenuous right now, I'm thankful that I'm, once again, a stay-at-home mom during the Christmas season. That's very important to me. After all, Bard will be seventeen in just two short months. While I hope she plans to stay at home for as long as she wants to, I know that my holiday seasons with her at home are numbered.
Monet and Sweetheart did some gift shopping for me. They spent their "free money" that their Illinois grandpa gave them to buy me treasures from the thrift store. Sweetheart is anxious to get them wrapped, but I told her to wait, that we'll soon get all of our Christmas decorations out and she can wrap them then. She knows that there will be meager offerings this Christmas, and she says she doesn't mind. As long as her stocking is full, she says, and she gets a couple of coloring books, that will be fine. I do know that I bought her a few little goodies at the thrift store, and she'll be pleased with them: a soft cotton quilt, a mosquito net for her bed and a hand-embroidered pillow case with a cute little kitty in a basket. She'll be happy.
Tonight, I prepared some holiday foods--a gallon of eggnog and a pan of homemade vanilla caramels. The eggnog is chilling in the fridge while the caramel loaf is cooling just a few feet from where I type, waiting to be set enough to be cut into pieces and wrapped in wax paper. Later, I'll make dozens of batches of hard candy--watemelon and wintergreen and spearmint and cinnamon and root beer and butter rum and cherry. Lucky for me, I bought a dozen or more jars of the oils last year and I still have them in my spice drawer, so the only outlay I have for that is corn syrup.
Making hard candy was originally Bard's idea. We were trying to think of a good gift for Grandma, and Bard thought of the hard candy, which she thought we could break into pieces and pour into a huge jar. Her idea was inspired by one of Grandma's hobbies--stained glass making. We've made the candy every year since, filling a large jar as full as we can with every flavor we can find. The first year we made it, I added the cinnamon oil too soon ended up with oil burns on my face. I was red for days. I've learned since then, and am much more patient when it comes to adding the oils.
We'll also make butter toffee, pulled molassass taffy and fudge. And this year, for our neighbors' Christmas gifts, Houdin and I will make peppermint cheesecakes, presented on platters found at the thrift store.
For tonight, though, I think we'll put on our jammies and settle in for a couple of our favorite Christmas movies.
Tidings!
Another Christmas Meme
The five senses of Christmas.
According to you.
I saw this over at Quiet Life and thought it would be a nice pick-me-up.
Christmas favorites...
Sight: Candles lit all around the piano room while the Christmas tree glitters in the corner. Seeing our children asleep under the tree, their faces illuminated by the tree's twinkling lights--it's a family tradition to spend one night there.
Sound: Our Christmas playlist, with Nat King Cole, Sting, Barenaked Ladies, Steven Curtis Chapman, The Three Stooges, Danny Kay and many others.
Smells: The fresh tree, cookies baking, nutmeg
Things to Touch: Freshly laundered Christmas pajamas.
Taste: Homemade caramels, White Trash, fudge, shortbread and Tasha Tudor's cutout cookies.
Wow. That actually did make me feel better. Now I can't wait to make some goodies this week.
According to you.
I saw this over at Quiet Life and thought it would be a nice pick-me-up.
Christmas favorites...
Sight: Candles lit all around the piano room while the Christmas tree glitters in the corner. Seeing our children asleep under the tree, their faces illuminated by the tree's twinkling lights--it's a family tradition to spend one night there.
Sound: Our Christmas playlist, with Nat King Cole, Sting, Barenaked Ladies, Steven Curtis Chapman, The Three Stooges, Danny Kay and many others.
Smells: The fresh tree, cookies baking, nutmeg
Things to Touch: Freshly laundered Christmas pajamas.
Taste: Homemade caramels, White Trash, fudge, shortbread and Tasha Tudor's cutout cookies.
Wow. That actually did make me feel better. Now I can't wait to make some goodies this week.
In which I am a spoiled brat
Bah, humbug.
I finally convinced myself to shut down the computer and turn off the lights at around 4:00 this morning. Bo was asleep sideways on the bed, having spread out there right after we returned home from grocery shopping. He fell into a deep, snoring sleep shortly thereafter. I didn't want to wake him, though I hated the idea of sleeping sideways on the bed, especially since the corner of the fitted sheet had come dislodged from the corner of the bed. But I grabbed my trusty down pillow and knee-walked across the mattress, dropping my pillow somewhere around Bo's feet. Just as I was about to rest my head, Bo stirred, rose, and immediately began pulling the sheet back into place. I rose, too, and did my part, and then I curled up on my side of the bed and waited for sunrise.
As if the alarm wouldn't have come early enough, the phone rang obnoxiously at 7:00 a.m. When the phone rings at either 6:30 or 7:00, I always know that it will be an Amish neighbor. For some reason, they like to make all of their phone calls during hours when most people wouldn't think of calling another human being. Not late at night, but early in the morning, though I've also had calls from young Amish girls as late as midnight. I always feel guilty when I answer an Amish phone call, because I feel like I should be awake and milking cows or something, so I probably talk faster than I normally do, and I doubt that I make much sense. But that's what you get when you call me at 7 a.m.
After the phone conversation, I debated about whether I should go back to sleep or get up, since my alarm was set to explode in just a short 45 minutes. While I debated, I rested my eyes, then the decision was made for me.
When the whiny, nagging alarm clock started screaming at me, I slammed the snooze bar, even though John Tesh says that's a very, very bad thing to do. I couldn't help it. Why is it that I had to force myself to sleep at 3:30 in the morning, but when it comes to 7:45, I fight to stay in bed?
Again, the nagging alarm started its schpiel again, the internal arguing started. The sleepy me wanted to stay in bed and ask my husband to call my walking partner and tell her that I was sick. I was in no mood to walk, especially with the plummeting temperatures highlighting the fact that I don't know where my gloves are.
But the guilt-ridden me won over. I climbed out of bed, did no more than brush my teeth (I was still wearing my clothes which I slept in last night. That's truly depressing) and pull on some winter garb, forced myself into my husband's heatless Jeep and barrelled down the road.
Okay, okay. I'm glad I went, alright? I needed the walk, and I needed the talk. But I'm still dragging, and that idiotic guilt-ridden me won't let me take a nap. She keeps nit-picking me. "There are piles of laundry to do. The dusting needs done. Aren't you going to make Christmas cookies?" She's beginning to sound like my dad. Or my kids. Even more frighening, she sounds just like me. I have informed her, in no uncertain terms, that I am NOT in the Christmas spirit, that I have no interest in being merry and bright, that she can stick her glad tidings in her ear, and that I will most definitely NOT spend my evening making a popcorn garland while watching Will Ferrell act like an overgrown Elf.
After my walk, I hit the local thrift store and found a great papasan chair for $7, along with a stack of Bon Apetit magazines (ten cents each) and a fistful of vintage Christmas cards (also ten cents each). When I finally dragged my prodigal butt home, eleven-year-old Monet was waiting anxiously by the door for me to get out of the cold Jeep.
"Guess what! Guess what! We have a Christmas tree!" I gave him my standard "I'm-the-confused-mother" look and he elaborated. My walking buddy, Kim, who knows that money, the very root of all possible evils, is very tight for us and that, so far, a Christmas tree has not been in the cards for the Thicket household, delivered a Christmas tree while I was gone. Now it's here, in my house, waiting to be decorated and loved. I have no idea where she got it, but there it is.
That certainly changes things.
Now I *have* to make Christmas cookies, pull out the Elf DVD and mix up some eggnog.
Heck, we might even string some popcorn garlands.
May your days be merry and bright.
I finally convinced myself to shut down the computer and turn off the lights at around 4:00 this morning. Bo was asleep sideways on the bed, having spread out there right after we returned home from grocery shopping. He fell into a deep, snoring sleep shortly thereafter. I didn't want to wake him, though I hated the idea of sleeping sideways on the bed, especially since the corner of the fitted sheet had come dislodged from the corner of the bed. But I grabbed my trusty down pillow and knee-walked across the mattress, dropping my pillow somewhere around Bo's feet. Just as I was about to rest my head, Bo stirred, rose, and immediately began pulling the sheet back into place. I rose, too, and did my part, and then I curled up on my side of the bed and waited for sunrise.
As if the alarm wouldn't have come early enough, the phone rang obnoxiously at 7:00 a.m. When the phone rings at either 6:30 or 7:00, I always know that it will be an Amish neighbor. For some reason, they like to make all of their phone calls during hours when most people wouldn't think of calling another human being. Not late at night, but early in the morning, though I've also had calls from young Amish girls as late as midnight. I always feel guilty when I answer an Amish phone call, because I feel like I should be awake and milking cows or something, so I probably talk faster than I normally do, and I doubt that I make much sense. But that's what you get when you call me at 7 a.m.
After the phone conversation, I debated about whether I should go back to sleep or get up, since my alarm was set to explode in just a short 45 minutes. While I debated, I rested my eyes, then the decision was made for me.
When the whiny, nagging alarm clock started screaming at me, I slammed the snooze bar, even though John Tesh says that's a very, very bad thing to do. I couldn't help it. Why is it that I had to force myself to sleep at 3:30 in the morning, but when it comes to 7:45, I fight to stay in bed?
Again, the nagging alarm started its schpiel again, the internal arguing started. The sleepy me wanted to stay in bed and ask my husband to call my walking partner and tell her that I was sick. I was in no mood to walk, especially with the plummeting temperatures highlighting the fact that I don't know where my gloves are.
But the guilt-ridden me won over. I climbed out of bed, did no more than brush my teeth (I was still wearing my clothes which I slept in last night. That's truly depressing) and pull on some winter garb, forced myself into my husband's heatless Jeep and barrelled down the road.
Okay, okay. I'm glad I went, alright? I needed the walk, and I needed the talk. But I'm still dragging, and that idiotic guilt-ridden me won't let me take a nap. She keeps nit-picking me. "There are piles of laundry to do. The dusting needs done. Aren't you going to make Christmas cookies?" She's beginning to sound like my dad. Or my kids. Even more frighening, she sounds just like me. I have informed her, in no uncertain terms, that I am NOT in the Christmas spirit, that I have no interest in being merry and bright, that she can stick her glad tidings in her ear, and that I will most definitely NOT spend my evening making a popcorn garland while watching Will Ferrell act like an overgrown Elf.
After my walk, I hit the local thrift store and found a great papasan chair for $7, along with a stack of Bon Apetit magazines (ten cents each) and a fistful of vintage Christmas cards (also ten cents each). When I finally dragged my prodigal butt home, eleven-year-old Monet was waiting anxiously by the door for me to get out of the cold Jeep.
"Guess what! Guess what! We have a Christmas tree!" I gave him my standard "I'm-the-confused-mother" look and he elaborated. My walking buddy, Kim, who knows that money, the very root of all possible evils, is very tight for us and that, so far, a Christmas tree has not been in the cards for the Thicket household, delivered a Christmas tree while I was gone. Now it's here, in my house, waiting to be decorated and loved. I have no idea where she got it, but there it is.
That certainly changes things.
Now I *have* to make Christmas cookies, pull out the Elf DVD and mix up some eggnog.
Heck, we might even string some popcorn garlands.
May your days be merry and bright.
Just breathe
I don't know why I'm awake at 1:30 in the morning, listening to my husband's peaceful breathing as he sleeps this night away.
I don't know why I was awake at 1:30 yesterday morning.
Or 3:30.
Or 5:30.
But I was. And I am. And the only explanation that I can think of is that I'm thinking of too much. Verily, I say unto you, I have a lot on my mind.
Basically, I ache. My body aches, my mind aches. My psyche and my ego and my spirit all ache. And the completely sucky thing about it is that I don't feel that I can really write it all down publicly, that I can tick each thing off, one by one, and explain it so that it makes sense. It doesn't make sense. Instead, I just sit here feeling discouraged, disillusioned and confused. As far as I can figure, I'm sitting here trying to dull the ache that keeps stabbing at me by avoiding everything. Even sleep.
Which is kind of ironic, because for the past two days, I've seen very little reason to even get out of bed. Yesterday, I stayed in my room until 3 o'clock in the afternoon, shuffling back and forth between computer, pillow and blanky, potty, pillow and blanky and computer. At 1 o'clock, my seven-year-old delivered two hot dogs on too-big sub sandwich buns after I begged my sixteen-year-old to make me something. Anything. I wolfed them down greedily and returned to my mind-numbing non-activities.
At 3, I dragged myself out of bed to go to my children's choral concert. I wanted to be there, but I didn't want to go. Fortunately, I dressed. I didn't shower. I didn't really care. I made a lame attempt at straightening my hair, which made me even more depressed. Several times during the evening, I was angered, insulted, offended and hurt. But did I say anything? No. I just ingested it. I think I'll just keep sucking it all down until it boils out of me, exploding like a faulty pressure-cooker, scalding everyone within range. Thank God for my husband, who listened sympathicially to my intolerant snobbery. How did I end up with such a gem? Why did he get such a raw deal?
Today, I stayed in bed until almost 2. I spent a lot of time crying and questioning God. Questioning the very existence of God. If there is a God, and I somehow still think there is, even though I don't think He exists the way we think He exists, I don't think He operates the way we think He operates. He doesn't listen to prayers. Or at least He doesn't answer them. Not mine, anyway. That's coming from me. The eternal optimist. Miss "there-has-to-be-a-way." From the time I was a tadpole, I believed that God would answer my prayers, that He saw the little-girl me kneeling by the window and gazing up at the stars, praying fervently, looking for a sign, even though her own parents never taught her how to pray.
But I never got a pony. And my mother never quit being abusive. And my parents did divorce. And my body still aches. And people still depress me. And...
And I'm thinking a lot of other awful things that I can't say right now. But I can say that I've spent the past couple of weeks feeling pretty discouraged. And I can't even write about it. But I just need to say this one thing aloud.
I'm very unhappy right now.
So if you happened to stumble upon this unhappy piece of writing, and you're very unhappy, too, I can do for you want I can't do for myself. I can hope. And I can pray for you. And I can believe that things are going to get better for you. I really can. Isn't that just certifiably insane? Maybe that's what this whole human-interaction thing is all about, that the very people that you desperately need to lift you up and hold you close against them simply can't do that. They just don't have it in them. But some person, sitting in front of a glowing computer screen on some other contininent, or maybe just in a different house minutes down the road from you, or out in the middle of an African jungle, can pray for your desires, can breath hope into those oxygen-deprived corners of your life. And maybe you'll feel new life, and you won't even know why. But tonight, it's because I'm here, praying for you when I don't know how to pray for myself.
And maybe someone can do the same for me. Maybe tomorrow (today), I'll wake up refreshed, ready to run three miles. Ready to decorate for Christmas. Ready to make cookies, and do laundry, and cook meals, and have conversations with my kids. Maybe, for a moment or two, I'll feel attractive, and I'll feel worthy, and I'll feel like my problems aren't as bad as all that, even though nothing else will have changed. I'll just have fresh oxygen, fresh air in my lungs, from out of nowhere.
All we have to do is keep breathing.
So take a deep breath, my friend. I'm breathing, too.
I don't know why I was awake at 1:30 yesterday morning.
Or 3:30.
Or 5:30.
But I was. And I am. And the only explanation that I can think of is that I'm thinking of too much. Verily, I say unto you, I have a lot on my mind.
Basically, I ache. My body aches, my mind aches. My psyche and my ego and my spirit all ache. And the completely sucky thing about it is that I don't feel that I can really write it all down publicly, that I can tick each thing off, one by one, and explain it so that it makes sense. It doesn't make sense. Instead, I just sit here feeling discouraged, disillusioned and confused. As far as I can figure, I'm sitting here trying to dull the ache that keeps stabbing at me by avoiding everything. Even sleep.
Which is kind of ironic, because for the past two days, I've seen very little reason to even get out of bed. Yesterday, I stayed in my room until 3 o'clock in the afternoon, shuffling back and forth between computer, pillow and blanky, potty, pillow and blanky and computer. At 1 o'clock, my seven-year-old delivered two hot dogs on too-big sub sandwich buns after I begged my sixteen-year-old to make me something. Anything. I wolfed them down greedily and returned to my mind-numbing non-activities.
At 3, I dragged myself out of bed to go to my children's choral concert. I wanted to be there, but I didn't want to go. Fortunately, I dressed. I didn't shower. I didn't really care. I made a lame attempt at straightening my hair, which made me even more depressed. Several times during the evening, I was angered, insulted, offended and hurt. But did I say anything? No. I just ingested it. I think I'll just keep sucking it all down until it boils out of me, exploding like a faulty pressure-cooker, scalding everyone within range. Thank God for my husband, who listened sympathicially to my intolerant snobbery. How did I end up with such a gem? Why did he get such a raw deal?
Today, I stayed in bed until almost 2. I spent a lot of time crying and questioning God. Questioning the very existence of God. If there is a God, and I somehow still think there is, even though I don't think He exists the way we think He exists, I don't think He operates the way we think He operates. He doesn't listen to prayers. Or at least He doesn't answer them. Not mine, anyway. That's coming from me. The eternal optimist. Miss "there-has-to-be-a-way." From the time I was a tadpole, I believed that God would answer my prayers, that He saw the little-girl me kneeling by the window and gazing up at the stars, praying fervently, looking for a sign, even though her own parents never taught her how to pray.
But I never got a pony. And my mother never quit being abusive. And my parents did divorce. And my body still aches. And people still depress me. And...
And I'm thinking a lot of other awful things that I can't say right now. But I can say that I've spent the past couple of weeks feeling pretty discouraged. And I can't even write about it. But I just need to say this one thing aloud.
I'm very unhappy right now.
So if you happened to stumble upon this unhappy piece of writing, and you're very unhappy, too, I can do for you want I can't do for myself. I can hope. And I can pray for you. And I can believe that things are going to get better for you. I really can. Isn't that just certifiably insane? Maybe that's what this whole human-interaction thing is all about, that the very people that you desperately need to lift you up and hold you close against them simply can't do that. They just don't have it in them. But some person, sitting in front of a glowing computer screen on some other contininent, or maybe just in a different house minutes down the road from you, or out in the middle of an African jungle, can pray for your desires, can breath hope into those oxygen-deprived corners of your life. And maybe you'll feel new life, and you won't even know why. But tonight, it's because I'm here, praying for you when I don't know how to pray for myself.
And maybe someone can do the same for me. Maybe tomorrow (today), I'll wake up refreshed, ready to run three miles. Ready to decorate for Christmas. Ready to make cookies, and do laundry, and cook meals, and have conversations with my kids. Maybe, for a moment or two, I'll feel attractive, and I'll feel worthy, and I'll feel like my problems aren't as bad as all that, even though nothing else will have changed. I'll just have fresh oxygen, fresh air in my lungs, from out of nowhere.
All we have to do is keep breathing.
So take a deep breath, my friend. I'm breathing, too.
Japanese IQ Test
Thanks to Rachel, I now know that I can hold a steady job in Japan, because I passed the Japanese IQ Test. Got some time to waste? Here's the best place to do it. :-)
I did solve this puzzle, by the way, so it is possible. Fair enough, it *is* the most brain power I've used all day.
I did solve this puzzle, by the way, so it is possible. Fair enough, it *is* the most brain power I've used all day.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
The Turkeys
It was an experiment, really.
I wanted to see if we could successfully raise turkeys for our Thanksgiving feast. I'm not a big turkey fan myself, but Bo and the children eat it up. For the past several years, we've cooked our Thanksgiving bird on the charcoal grill, a tradition that has served us well. So, while I'd be content with mashed potatoes and homemade cranberry sauce on my plate, I know my family would prefer some meat.
I picked up the turkeys from the grain mill early in the year. I think it was around April. I believe we started with ten or twelve, but we lost a few right away. It seems that turkeys like to die almost immediately after being born, and continue to want to die until they're about six weeks old. After that, killing them is virtually impossible. I let them loose in the barnyard, and off they went, happily devouring everything in sight. They kept most of the bugs out of my garden. Then again, they kept the tomatoes out of my garden, too. Next year, that will need to be remedied.
When people would come to visit and see the large birds waddling around my yard, they would generally make two comments. The first was always in reference to the fate of these beasts.
"Will you eat them for Thanksgiving?"
When I answered affirmatively, there would always be an awe in the response. Sometimes it was a positive awe. "Really? Wow! That's pretty cool!"
Sometimes it was more along the lines of a sympathetic kind of "awwwww...."
"You're really going to kill them and eat them for dinner?" the guest would ask.
"Yup," I would affirm.
"Will you be able to eat them now that they've been your pets?" the guest would ask.
"Yup," I would repeat.
Turkeys, I would tell them, are not exactly pets. Yes, they do get into the dog food occasionally, but that does not make them dogs. Yes, the black lab does chase them fairly often, but that does not make them cats.
Still, to be fair, I did feel that it would be a little difficult to see them go to the Big Platter in the Sky, because I truly did like them. In more than a food relationship kind of way, that is. I enjoyed watching them grow, watching them scamper across the yard, seeing them come when I would call them with a bucketful of goodies, and I was grateful for their apple orchard cleanup duties--devouring all of the falls and the nasty worms along with them.
And that leads me to the second statement people would make about turkeys.
"They're pretty stupid, aren't they?"
I've heard that said, but, honestly, I don't believe it. I tend to think they're more on the trusting and naive side, more calm and tame, more curious and persistent than chickens. I've heard stories of them standing in the rain with their beaks in the air, drowning because they didn't have the sense to keep from doing so.
I never saw that.
What I saw was a group of birds who knew how to find food and water, who knew where to roost at night, who recognized the sound of the garage door opening and made their way quickly to try to get in before it closed so they could raid the dog food dish or all kinds of tasty scraps.
So when the day came to load the five birds into the feed sacks and tote them across town for their Big Day, I did feel a bit sad. I talked to them all the way there, trying to assure them that it would be okay. I don't know who I was trying to kid. I don't think the turkeys bought it.
When it was time to load my feathered friends into the killing cones, I bowed my head and said a prayer of thanks, reminding myself that it's hypocritical to refuse to butcher my own turkeys yet eat or serve inhumanely raised, trash-fed birds that are mass butchered in slaughterhouses after having never seen the light of day. It was hard to watch the lifeblood drain from my turkeys' bodies, puffs of white escaping their nostrils, indicating to me that they were still hanging on in that cold morning air. It reminded me of the snowy winter days when I would test the temperature by sniffing hard, trying to make my own nostrils stick together, forcing hot air from my open mouth to determine whether I could see my breath. As Big Tom breathed his last steamy breaths that morning, I thanked him for his life, and I was grateful that he'd lived a very good one, devouring my tomatoes, swiss chard, green peppers, eggplants and even our carved pumpkins.
Aside from Tom, we butchered four other turkeys that day. Tom was the biggest, weighing in at 20 pounds. The other four, their gray feathers a dark contrast to Tom's whiteness, were each around 17 pounds. I had a hand in every step of their processing, from loading them into the cones, to removing their feathers, to pulling them from the ice water bath and dropping them into their individual bags.
There's a certain maturity that comes when you produce your own food, especially when you raise and butcher your own meat. The mystery is removed. The fear is irradicated. It's not the horribly messy, disgusting process you would imagine it is. It's fairly clean, straightforward and simple. There is a process (thus the term "processing") that everyone in the family, no matter the age, can participate in. You become intimately acquainted with your meal. You become much more grateful for it. You become more aware of what it takes to live, to thrive. I think it may be part of the problem in our culture, part of what's missing. We aren't acquainted with our food anymore.
Tom, being the largest of the turkeys, traveled with us to my inlaws house via a big cooler full of icewater in the back of the minivan. Once there, he became our second Thanksgiving dinner, a small gathering of my parents-in-law, my children, Bo and I. His cavity was filled with fresh herbs, lemons, garlic and onions, and he was basted with apple juice as he browned for hours over indirect heat on the charcoal grill, Bo faithfully tending him all along the way.
The final result? Not bad. It wasn't all I had hoped for, but it wasn't a failure. I think he could have been more flavorful and a bit more tender (sorry, Tom. I still love you), but he was juicy enough. Probably from all of those tomatoes.
I think it was a good experiment. I'll definitely do it again next Spring. Until then, we'll feast on the other four turkeys who are waiting patiently in the freezer for Christmas, Easter and summer picnics.
I think we'll try experimenting with a big, fat piggy next. A freezer full of nitrate-free pork would make my family very, very happy.
It's a simple life. And a very good one at that.
Unless, I suppose, you're a turkey.
I wanted to see if we could successfully raise turkeys for our Thanksgiving feast. I'm not a big turkey fan myself, but Bo and the children eat it up. For the past several years, we've cooked our Thanksgiving bird on the charcoal grill, a tradition that has served us well. So, while I'd be content with mashed potatoes and homemade cranberry sauce on my plate, I know my family would prefer some meat.
I picked up the turkeys from the grain mill early in the year. I think it was around April. I believe we started with ten or twelve, but we lost a few right away. It seems that turkeys like to die almost immediately after being born, and continue to want to die until they're about six weeks old. After that, killing them is virtually impossible. I let them loose in the barnyard, and off they went, happily devouring everything in sight. They kept most of the bugs out of my garden. Then again, they kept the tomatoes out of my garden, too. Next year, that will need to be remedied.
When people would come to visit and see the large birds waddling around my yard, they would generally make two comments. The first was always in reference to the fate of these beasts.
"Will you eat them for Thanksgiving?"
When I answered affirmatively, there would always be an awe in the response. Sometimes it was a positive awe. "Really? Wow! That's pretty cool!"
Sometimes it was more along the lines of a sympathetic kind of "awwwww...."
"You're really going to kill them and eat them for dinner?" the guest would ask.
"Yup," I would affirm.
"Will you be able to eat them now that they've been your pets?" the guest would ask.
"Yup," I would repeat.
Turkeys, I would tell them, are not exactly pets. Yes, they do get into the dog food occasionally, but that does not make them dogs. Yes, the black lab does chase them fairly often, but that does not make them cats.
Still, to be fair, I did feel that it would be a little difficult to see them go to the Big Platter in the Sky, because I truly did like them. In more than a food relationship kind of way, that is. I enjoyed watching them grow, watching them scamper across the yard, seeing them come when I would call them with a bucketful of goodies, and I was grateful for their apple orchard cleanup duties--devouring all of the falls and the nasty worms along with them.
And that leads me to the second statement people would make about turkeys.
"They're pretty stupid, aren't they?"
I've heard that said, but, honestly, I don't believe it. I tend to think they're more on the trusting and naive side, more calm and tame, more curious and persistent than chickens. I've heard stories of them standing in the rain with their beaks in the air, drowning because they didn't have the sense to keep from doing so.
I never saw that.
What I saw was a group of birds who knew how to find food and water, who knew where to roost at night, who recognized the sound of the garage door opening and made their way quickly to try to get in before it closed so they could raid the dog food dish or all kinds of tasty scraps.
So when the day came to load the five birds into the feed sacks and tote them across town for their Big Day, I did feel a bit sad. I talked to them all the way there, trying to assure them that it would be okay. I don't know who I was trying to kid. I don't think the turkeys bought it.
When it was time to load my feathered friends into the killing cones, I bowed my head and said a prayer of thanks, reminding myself that it's hypocritical to refuse to butcher my own turkeys yet eat or serve inhumanely raised, trash-fed birds that are mass butchered in slaughterhouses after having never seen the light of day. It was hard to watch the lifeblood drain from my turkeys' bodies, puffs of white escaping their nostrils, indicating to me that they were still hanging on in that cold morning air. It reminded me of the snowy winter days when I would test the temperature by sniffing hard, trying to make my own nostrils stick together, forcing hot air from my open mouth to determine whether I could see my breath. As Big Tom breathed his last steamy breaths that morning, I thanked him for his life, and I was grateful that he'd lived a very good one, devouring my tomatoes, swiss chard, green peppers, eggplants and even our carved pumpkins.
Aside from Tom, we butchered four other turkeys that day. Tom was the biggest, weighing in at 20 pounds. The other four, their gray feathers a dark contrast to Tom's whiteness, were each around 17 pounds. I had a hand in every step of their processing, from loading them into the cones, to removing their feathers, to pulling them from the ice water bath and dropping them into their individual bags.
There's a certain maturity that comes when you produce your own food, especially when you raise and butcher your own meat. The mystery is removed. The fear is irradicated. It's not the horribly messy, disgusting process you would imagine it is. It's fairly clean, straightforward and simple. There is a process (thus the term "processing") that everyone in the family, no matter the age, can participate in. You become intimately acquainted with your meal. You become much more grateful for it. You become more aware of what it takes to live, to thrive. I think it may be part of the problem in our culture, part of what's missing. We aren't acquainted with our food anymore.
Tom, being the largest of the turkeys, traveled with us to my inlaws house via a big cooler full of icewater in the back of the minivan. Once there, he became our second Thanksgiving dinner, a small gathering of my parents-in-law, my children, Bo and I. His cavity was filled with fresh herbs, lemons, garlic and onions, and he was basted with apple juice as he browned for hours over indirect heat on the charcoal grill, Bo faithfully tending him all along the way.
The final result? Not bad. It wasn't all I had hoped for, but it wasn't a failure. I think he could have been more flavorful and a bit more tender (sorry, Tom. I still love you), but he was juicy enough. Probably from all of those tomatoes.
I think it was a good experiment. I'll definitely do it again next Spring. Until then, we'll feast on the other four turkeys who are waiting patiently in the freezer for Christmas, Easter and summer picnics.
I think we'll try experimenting with a big, fat piggy next. A freezer full of nitrate-free pork would make my family very, very happy.
It's a simple life. And a very good one at that.
Unless, I suppose, you're a turkey.
Eggnog
We just returned from our grocery outing, and I was pleased to find this recipe in my inbox. I've been buying eggnog from a local whole-milk dairy (not homogenized but still pasteurized) and wanted to make my own eggnog using raw milk. My friend Kathy is a big raw milk and slow foods advocate, so I knew that if I asked her for an eggnog recipe, she'd have one. And, as I expected, she delivered. Very timely, since we just loaded eight gallon jars of milky white goodness into our fridge.
Kathy writes: "We lapped up my Dad's Eggnog for years on Christmas Eve until we heard about raw egg scares in the 80's. Then cholesterol aversion.....sigh....
I missed it so that when our family was young, I even made a tofu version in our vegan days!!
What goes around comes around..now I confidently make it as a special Christmas treasure for our immediate family and others. Naturally-raised farm fresh ingredients give me assurance that I am giving a wholesome food, as well as a treat to my family. It's a Good Life."
Dad's Eggnog
Beat 6 egg whites stiff.
Gradually add 3/4 C sugar to whites.
Beat 6 egg yolks till thick and lemony. Fold into egg whites.
Add:
1 pint of cream
1 pint of milk (can add more milk for thinner eggnog)
brandy or flavoring to taste
Liberal dashes of nutmeg in each glass
Makes 15 servings
Kathy writes: "We lapped up my Dad's Eggnog for years on Christmas Eve until we heard about raw egg scares in the 80's. Then cholesterol aversion.....sigh....
I missed it so that when our family was young, I even made a tofu version in our vegan days!!
What goes around comes around..now I confidently make it as a special Christmas treasure for our immediate family and others. Naturally-raised farm fresh ingredients give me assurance that I am giving a wholesome food, as well as a treat to my family. It's a Good Life."
Dad's Eggnog
Beat 6 egg whites stiff.
Gradually add 3/4 C sugar to whites.
Beat 6 egg yolks till thick and lemony. Fold into egg whites.
Add:
1 pint of cream
1 pint of milk (can add more milk for thinner eggnog)
brandy or flavoring to taste
Liberal dashes of nutmeg in each glass
Makes 15 servings
Bard's Choir
Bard's touring choir travels both nationally and internationally, singing for and exploring other cultures. This photo is from last night's holiday concert. Bard is in the top row, first from the right. 
Sweetheart's choir
Here's Sweetheart's choir, the youngest group out of the entire society. Sweetheart is in the second row, fourth from the right. This is her first year in the choral society's children's choir.
The Wal-Mart You Don't Know
This article may make you think twice before shopping at Wal*Mart. I fear that someday, if we aren't careful, companies like Wal*Mart may completely decide what we use, wear and eat.
A Christmas Story House
A Christmas Story House is open for tours! The Ohio house used in the movie A Christmas Story has been restored to it's movie glory, complete with leg lamp. I'm so lucky to live in Ohio. :-)
Friday, December 01, 2006
Running progress
When I looked out the window this morning, I knew I was going to have to make a choice. Yesterday, I'd made plans with my walking partner, Kim, to do the Couch Potato to 5K routine, and this morning, it was raining. A quick check of the forecast told me that the rain would increase and the winds were going to be gusting mightily. Not the best day for running. But I decided I wanted to do it anyway.
I called Kim.
"I figured it would be you," she said. We talked about the rain, and I said I'd like to just go ahead and do it, that I had to travel into town, where we walk, anyway, and it was only a half-hour of getting wet. Why not?
So we met, and I felt ready, though my legs and a few other muscles were still pretty sore from my jogging stint Wednesday morning. We walked for five minutes, then we jogged for sixty seconds...and then, I just couldn't get my breath back. I felt like I was going to vomit. I don't know why, but I just couldn't get my body to cooperate. We walked our prescribed ninety seconds, Kim strolling beside me, not even breathing hard, and at the end of ninety seconds, I still hadn't regained control of my breathing. But we set off, and I ran another sixty seconds. It was awful, and then it was even more difficult for me to get my breathing back to a steady rate.
So we decided to just walk, and I was glad for that, but I felt badly for dragging Kim out to the trail under false pretenses. The rain was really coming down, and I'd abandonned my raincoat hood, so my hair was sticking to my head in heavy, cold ringlets. Time to get a bob.
We walked out usual distance, and then we started back. At one point, she asked if I wanted to try jogging again, so we did, and this time, it was really a breeze. I don't know what the difference was, but I was glad I did it. I'm disappointed that I didn't do the whole routine, but I'm glad I got out and ran.
One of the things I love most about walking with Kim is the conversation. We always end up talking about something good, whether it's books, movies, relationships, religion, politics, whatever. And I don't feel judged or threatened or bothered by our conversations (except that I think I tend to dominate and talk to much. Who knew?), so even though we didn't run, I was blessed by her presence and our discussions.
We plan to try again tomorrow. I think I may just have to stick to the walking, because my legs are still trying to recover from my first day of running, and I'm sporting two pretty new blisters, one on each foot.
It sure was easier putting all this weight on.
I called Kim.
"I figured it would be you," she said. We talked about the rain, and I said I'd like to just go ahead and do it, that I had to travel into town, where we walk, anyway, and it was only a half-hour of getting wet. Why not?
So we met, and I felt ready, though my legs and a few other muscles were still pretty sore from my jogging stint Wednesday morning. We walked for five minutes, then we jogged for sixty seconds...and then, I just couldn't get my breath back. I felt like I was going to vomit. I don't know why, but I just couldn't get my body to cooperate. We walked our prescribed ninety seconds, Kim strolling beside me, not even breathing hard, and at the end of ninety seconds, I still hadn't regained control of my breathing. But we set off, and I ran another sixty seconds. It was awful, and then it was even more difficult for me to get my breathing back to a steady rate.
So we decided to just walk, and I was glad for that, but I felt badly for dragging Kim out to the trail under false pretenses. The rain was really coming down, and I'd abandonned my raincoat hood, so my hair was sticking to my head in heavy, cold ringlets. Time to get a bob.
We walked out usual distance, and then we started back. At one point, she asked if I wanted to try jogging again, so we did, and this time, it was really a breeze. I don't know what the difference was, but I was glad I did it. I'm disappointed that I didn't do the whole routine, but I'm glad I got out and ran.
One of the things I love most about walking with Kim is the conversation. We always end up talking about something good, whether it's books, movies, relationships, religion, politics, whatever. And I don't feel judged or threatened or bothered by our conversations (except that I think I tend to dominate and talk to much. Who knew?), so even though we didn't run, I was blessed by her presence and our discussions.
We plan to try again tomorrow. I think I may just have to stick to the walking, because my legs are still trying to recover from my first day of running, and I'm sporting two pretty new blisters, one on each foot.
It sure was easier putting all this weight on.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Getting Fit
For the past six weeks or so, I've been walking two to three times a week with Kim, my walking buddy and new good friend. I've been so blessed by our time together, and have seen a difference in my body as well as my energy level. We walk about three miles a couple of times a week. It feels good to get out and get exercise, to look in the mirror and know that things are getting *better,* that they're firming up instead of sagging down.
While in Chicago over the Thanksgiving holiday, my husband Bo's family along with all of the inlaws and grandchildren took our traditional Turkey Walk. We begin early, rousted from our beds by my father-in-laws incessant gobbling, his imitation of a sick turkey, and take a brisk Thanksgiving morning stroll through one of my inlaws local parks.
This year, there was a run being held at the same park where we were walking.
As I watched these runners pass us, and watched them cross the finish line, saw their fit, lithe bodies pushing themselves to complete a physical goal, I was inspired.
So, this morning, I decided to begin training for a 5K.
Yes, I, who hasn't run since high school track, am making a commitment to begin a regular running routine.
This morning, in the rain (see how dedicated I am?), I began the Couch Potato to 5K training program.
And I survived.
Actually, I more than survived. I feel great. Yes, it was work, even though it's supposed to be the very, very simple first week, but I'm so glad I did it. I just hope I can oust myself from bed on Saturday morning to do it again. Kim and I walk on Friday morning, so I'll still get my walk in, but I don't want to push too hard, so I'll wait until Saturday to do the 5K program again.
The jogging was hard. I found that, after I got to about 45 seconds of jogging, I was dying, looking habitually at my stopwatch at just that time and every few seconds afterwards until I got to sixty seconds. A minute and a half was just enough time to get my breathing back to steady.
It's supposed to take about 8 weeks to complete the program. That means by the end of January, I should be regularly running three miles, three times a week.
I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, here's the first four weeks' training schedule:
Week One:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 60 seconds of jogging and 90 seconds of walking for a total of 20 minutes.
Week Two:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 90 seconds of jogging and two minutes of walking for a total of 20 minutes.
Week Three:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then do two repetitions of the following:
Jog 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Walk 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Jog 400 yards (or 3 minutes)
Walk 400 yards (or three minutes)
Week Four:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then:
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Walk 1/4 mile (or 2-1/2 minutes)
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
While in Chicago over the Thanksgiving holiday, my husband Bo's family along with all of the inlaws and grandchildren took our traditional Turkey Walk. We begin early, rousted from our beds by my father-in-laws incessant gobbling, his imitation of a sick turkey, and take a brisk Thanksgiving morning stroll through one of my inlaws local parks.
This year, there was a run being held at the same park where we were walking.
As I watched these runners pass us, and watched them cross the finish line, saw their fit, lithe bodies pushing themselves to complete a physical goal, I was inspired.
So, this morning, I decided to begin training for a 5K.
Yes, I, who hasn't run since high school track, am making a commitment to begin a regular running routine.
This morning, in the rain (see how dedicated I am?), I began the Couch Potato to 5K training program.
And I survived.
Actually, I more than survived. I feel great. Yes, it was work, even though it's supposed to be the very, very simple first week, but I'm so glad I did it. I just hope I can oust myself from bed on Saturday morning to do it again. Kim and I walk on Friday morning, so I'll still get my walk in, but I don't want to push too hard, so I'll wait until Saturday to do the 5K program again.
The jogging was hard. I found that, after I got to about 45 seconds of jogging, I was dying, looking habitually at my stopwatch at just that time and every few seconds afterwards until I got to sixty seconds. A minute and a half was just enough time to get my breathing back to steady.
It's supposed to take about 8 weeks to complete the program. That means by the end of January, I should be regularly running three miles, three times a week.
I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, here's the first four weeks' training schedule:
Week One:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 60 seconds of jogging and 90 seconds of walking for a total of 20 minutes.
Week Two:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 90 seconds of jogging and two minutes of walking for a total of 20 minutes.
Week Three:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then do two repetitions of the following:
Jog 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Walk 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Jog 400 yards (or 3 minutes)
Walk 400 yards (or three minutes)
Week Four:
Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then:
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Walk 1/4 mile (or 2-1/2 minutes)
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
I 'm Spring
| You Belong in Spring |
 Optimistic, lively, and almost always happy with the world... You can truly appreciate the blooming nature of spring. Whether you're planting flowers or dyeing Easter eggs, spring is definitely your season! |
Descending
Here are Bo, the Baby and I coming back down from the dune. It's much easier than going up.
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