I couldn’t find any pictures on the computer of him working on the trench or planting anything, so here he is rototilling.

Lots of nice dirt, huh? I don’t know if it’s just me, but it seems like the dirt this year has been especially nice. Usually the soil just seems like clumps of clay, albeit maybe thinned a little by the compost we put in. Usually when I dig my garden, even after the major clumps have been broken up, there are still thousands of little tiny balls of clay. Whenever I wanted to plant something, especially seeds straight into my garden, it was annoying because I couldn’t seem to get a handful of dirt to “cover seeds 1/2″–only little clumps of clay. This year, perhaps due to the way the ground thawed and the not a lot/not too little amount of rain we got, the texture of the dirt seems finer. Yay for soil that isn’t wet, clay-packed clumps!

Deirdre has been his Helper, bringing up glasses of cold water to him throughout the day–she takes his glass out of the freezer, puts ice cubes and water in it, and goes trodding up the hill to give it to him, quite happily. Owen was helping the other day by hauling buckets of dirt from where Dad was digging in the trench, along the “trench” up to the top of the garden where they were depositing it. Don’t ask me where or what for. Mom asked Dad that evening what he had Owen doing to get him so tired out because he had said, “I’m tired. I’m going to bed,” without going through the usual bedtime routine of a song. Owen keeps busy in his own way probably more than any of the other younger kids, but usually with playing: getting Caleb to finish his chores and come outside with him, getting Caleb and Deirdre to play a toy soldier game with him, getting Justin to go on a bike ride with him, etc. Doing work is even more exhausting!

Earlier on, when Dad was digging up ground with a mattock that hadn’t been dug previously, he had a bunch of us come help beat out the sod. He was trying to get it all dug before the rain came. Evan, Justin, Owen, Caleb and Deirdre and I helped–Caleb and Deirdre helped by dumping wet leaves over the sod pile that Dad was making, and picking up a few rocks out of the garden. Evan haaaaates to beat out sod; he thinks it’s unbearably tedious and pointless-seeming, and the pile never seems to get smaller. To me, the work has a sort of rhythm to it. But I always disliked mattocking up ground, which Evan much prefers. So, when Dad heard him say that, they switched places. Evan mattocked much faster than Dad had, and I daresay Dad beat out the sod faster.

Today Dad told me I should get my camera. Mom relayed the message to me; I was surprised, wondering what Dad wanted me to take a picture of. As it was repeated to me that I “should get my camera” I figured he was telling me I had left it somewhere. I asked “Where is it?” He replied “I don’t know!” LOL. Ooookay. Mom correctly understood his meaning; he had something I should take a picture of. Something Mysterious. So we followed him outside as he walked back up to the garden, with a shovel, to show us the intriguing thing. “You found buried treasure?” Mom asked him. “I don’t know, that’s what we’re going to find out!” he replied. As we walked up the hill I scanned the garden, looking for anything out of the ordinary. I almost walked past it–Mom saw it first. It was a pile of dirt at the edge of his packed-down “trench”.

“I saw it move,” Mom remarked. Dad laughed; moving was exactly what he had seen it do, and the reason why he brought us up there. “This pile of dirt wasn’t here yesterday! And there’s some kind of creature in it, and we’re going to find out what it is,” he said. He made sure I would be able to take several pictures with my camera. He was afraid whatever it was might run up his leg.

“I saw it move right there, and right there, and right there,” he said. That made me wonder whether there were lots of little babies in there, or one thing moving around, the same thing that implicitly seemed in his mind. He and Mom hypothesized about what might be in it: “What kind of creature do you think it is?” Mom asked. “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably groundhogs,” Mom said. “I’m thinking something more gross than that,” Dad said. After contemplating for a few more moments, the moment of truth had arrived. He pushed the shovel into the ground, digging down slightly underneath the dirt pile. The shovel came up and he turned the dirt over with no event; he spread it out carefully with the shovel, but still nothing was appearing. Nothing was there, after all. (I just knew, what with making sure I had my camera and talking about what could be in it, it was going to be anticlimatic.) Nothing that is, except for a little hole down in the dirt, the means of its escape. So Dad began to dig out chunks in the direction the tunnel went, hoping to catch it. Each time he dug, another little hole appeared, indicating the route of the tunnel. It was following the trench upwards Mom, ever the voice of reason, said that the critter (probably a mole or vole) had long since disappeared along the tunnel and was now probably in Timbuktu for all Dad could do to catch it (though she didn’t say it quite like that . “What, you think he can dig faster than I can dig?” Dad asked. “No, I think he already had tunnels dug all along here, and he’d be way out in the garden by now.” After a couple of digs the tunnel turned off toward the garden; when Dad saw that, he stopped digging. He wasn’t happy about all the potatoes it would be eating, though.

I also have been working in mine and Deirdre’s shared garden, and planting seeds, although not lately. The plants were pretty much decided by Deirdre. I don’t enjoy gardening enough for it to be something I feel like I would want to spend a lot of time doing, for my own sake alone (although I have other years). But it somehow seems to have a little more point to it when I’m helping Deirdre–she enjoys “having a garden”. She picked out any BLUE flowers she saw (which were forget-me-not and bachelor’s button), a peach foxglove that we couldn’t do because it was a perennial, a pale yellow California poppy, pink and purple and white cosmos (“Oooh, I think these are beautiful!” Deirdre said) pink and purple poppies, pink and purple zinnias (the next best thing after blue is pink and purple), as well as some other things I can’t remember at the moment. She also wanted to grow lettuce. That is the Thing to Grow, you know; the boys always grow lettuce.

I had her help plant some things. It was tedious going. I brought up a ruler for spacing them; not so as to rigidly follow it, but to get an idea. (Some people would be better at mentally invisioning how much an inch, or 2-3 inches, are. Myself, I feel like I can on a piece of paper or a flat surface, but on the lumpy garden ground it gets all changed around.) Originally I showed Deirdre with my fingers about how far apart they should be, and let her drop them down at her discretion. But (predictably) then this happened: me saying, “No, don’t put it that close–a little farther. They should all be about the same amount apart, see you were putting them like that before and now you’re putting them really close. Put more dirt on it than that. Some kinds of seeds only need a tiny bit of dirt, but this kind needs more…” Tedium overwhelmeth. I found that it worked best to have a sort of system: First we make a “row” with the ruler or yardstick, imprinting it on its side in the soil. Then I dump out some seeds into my hand, and Deirdre carefully picks one out and drops it into the spot I point to, and covers over them. (Or in this case, does it all by herself.)

(In those pictures she is planting either bachelor’s button or forget-me-not.)

Picking out the seeds wasn’t tedious to her–I think with some kids picking the seeds one-by-one out of the package (or my hand) would be mind-numbing and they’d rather just sprinkle the seeds. But Deirdre preferred putting them in one-by-one; each one was like an individual little “person” to her. She didn’t have the “Oh-no-my-seed-has-disappeared-into-the-dirt-so-now-it’s-gone” mindset, either, like I always did. When I dropped a seed down and it seemed to just disappear into the soil, it always seemed to me as if it really had disappeared, so even though I knew it wasn’t true, I always wanted to put in more seeds to make up for the ones that “weren’t really there” except they were of course. (The games my mind plays with itself, I’m telling you!) Deirdre, on the other hand, knew her little seed was right where she dropped it and was very good at spotting them, to boot. Sometimes when I had accidentally dropped a seed and wasn’t going to worry about finding it, Deirdre would peer at the ground and say, “There it is!”

She found an earthworm–not a hard thing to find, only I wouldn’t pick it up and cuddle it in my hands like she does. She likes earthworms, and thinks they’re funny. At one point she was scared/grossed out by all kinds of bugs and creepy crawly things, although (at one point at least) she still thought earthworms were funny even while she was shuddering. Now she has the latter amusement without the former revulsion.

Most recently I planted a whole bunch of morning glories along the chicken fence, and some cosmos, zinnia and feverfew seeds in mine and Deirdre’s garden. The morning glories I planted were ‘Scarlett O’Hara’ (a red one), ‘Grandpa Ott’s’ (purple), ‘Glacier Star’ (light blue), ‘Early Call’ (various colors and the only kind which wasn’t labeled “heirloom”) and a bush morning glory, ‘Blue Ensign’. I planted them in batches, doing more every day until I had planted them all along the side of the fence where the chickenyard gate is. I was surprised at how fast they sprouted–7-10 days, it’s supposed to be. The first little ‘Blue Ensigns’ were sprouting in two days! The others rapidly followed. In fact, any that didn’t sprout in a couple days haven’t sprouted at all.

My main enemy is the rooster that hangs around outside the fence–”Ooster”, the little kids call him–and the hens anytime they get out. There’s all that freshly dug dirt, and I must’ve dug it just for them to scratch in! And what did I do but encourage them by feeding them all the grubs I found in it. It was really more the hen in that case. Any time I tried to feed Ooster one when he seemed hungry (because he is an outcast now, so he can’t eat at the feeders when the other chickens do), it took him a while to realize I was offering him food. The hen, on the other hand, saw or heard me digging from the other side of the fence and decided to hang around. She kept craning her neck down and up and all around, peering through the fence; in other words, she noticed I was digging ground up and was looking for good bugs to eat. The other hens were pretty much oblivious. After I had fed her a good number of grubs, she started pacing back and forth, looking for a way to get out of the fence. So, being nice and accomodating, I let her out (that was before I was planting any morning glories). Then the other chickens wondered what they were missing, although not for long. Mr. Rooster in particular (the black one, presently the “Head Honcho”, not the one that hangs around outside the fence) kept staring in our direction, and came over to check out what was happening. He was interested to see if I had any food; a large part of his friendliness involves always checking to see if you have any food. I can’t remember if I found any for him, but at any rate he didn’t get obsessed about it like that one hen did, and in a little bit wandered away, with the hens around him following.

The hen that I let out of the fence, meanwhile, was pecking up little bugs and grubs and earthworms, which the little kids claim the chickens won’t eat (and usually it seems they don’t) like mad. Then wallowing in the dirt started to seem more appealing than pecking up tasty morsels, so she commenced to do that. She settled herself comfortably into the dirt while scratching away with her feet to make a nice cozy spot for her to settle into. Chickens like to get down in the dirt on hot days; there’s a certain spot where we used to dig for things in the dirt (actually just about right on the other side of the fence from where I was digging) that they have taken advantage of. They just love to get in there, which after months and years of chicken-scratching is deeper than it used to be, and get comfortable in the dirt. Often a whole bunch of them get in there together, sometimes a rooster with his hens, scratching at the dirt every now and then to nestle themselves in a little deeper.

Anyway, I know this post is already very picture intensive, but I couldn’t resist putting these pictures in as well.

The end of that jolly time was when the outcast rooster-who-hangs-around-outside-the-house decided to jump on her to mate. She squawked quite loudly and indignantly, and in her flusterment (or more like it, to get away from the rooster) flew up onto the fence and back inside.

. . . Justin and Owen made snow boulders!

Owen is usually the first of the little kids to go outside. He is what I call the “Great-Day Heralder”, because he’s always on the lookout for Great Days and proclaims them with much enthusiasm. On such a day, he’ll say as he washes breakfast dishes, “Boy it looks like a great day out there, I’m gonna try to finish these dishes extra fast so I can go out there.” After he finishes dishes he usually goes out for a little bit to see how it is out there. He comes back in exclaiming, “GREAT day out there! It’s a great day out there! Man, it’s such a GREAT day out there, Hammie [Caleb] want to come out with me after I’m done with my homeschooling?” Caleb usually makes a non-committal noise like “Mmmm…” Owen usually has to badger him about it to get him to come out, but once he does they both have a great time out there.

On this particular day–New Year’s day–Justin was the one who came out with Owen, though Caleb came out a little later. Owen was going out to try out the snow. As he was getting ready to walk out, Justin said to him, “Tell me if it’s good for making a snowman.” Owen came back in a little later, saying, “Justin it’s GREAT for making a snowman, if you want to come out.” Justin stayed at the computer without making any response, and Owen was a little impatient. He came into the dining room and said, “Well Justin, ARE you going to come out? Oh yeah I forgot, just because I said you could doesn’t mean you’re going to.” Of course, Justin was the one who said to tell him if the snow was good for making snowmen, and he did come out.

When I looked out the door window a while later, Justin and Owen were together rolling up a huge snowball on the front lawn. Justin has done this before–he’s not much of a one to moderate. If the snow’s good for rolling up snow, he’s not just going to roll up some medium-sized ball. He’s going to roll up a HUGE ball because–why stop rolling? The snow was wet enough that it rolled right up like a blanket, as you can see.

But then comes the invariable trouble of not being able to push it any further when it gets really big. Justin and Owen hadn’t pushed it very far around the lawn before they were struggling to roll it. Part of the problem is not having good traction. When it gets big enough, you have to put more heft lower down on it to get it to roll over. But when you put your hands down low at the angle you need to be at, it’s harder to get traction. In the picture below, they were trying to push it sideways–not downhill as it had been going–which also makes it more difficult. The snow smooths out in the way it’s being rolled, and to get it going another direction you need to use more force. I came over to help them, but with no success.

So they had to leave it there how it was. They did roll up another ball and put it on top for the middle section of the snowman, but they never gave it a head. (By the way, the snow ball in the first picture is the same one as in the second two pictures, although it looks a lot bigger in the first!)

When I looked out the upstairs hall window later on, I saw both of them, small in the distance, trodding up the hill. I assumed they were going to go sledding. We always go sledding on that hill, and there is hardly a day with snow suitable for sledding that Owen doesn’t go up and take advantage of it–especially if Caleb or Justin is out there with him. But I noticed they had no sled with them, and as I continued to watch, Justin started to roll up another ball. It started out very small. . .

And got bigger…

And bigger…

And BIGGER . . .

. . . till it was a Snow Boulder. And then they got ready to roll it!

The Snow Boulder began rolling down the hill, as they ran after it . . .

. . . only to crumble apart at the bottom.

Oh well!

They went over to “Strawberry Hill” (there used to be an especially lot of wild strawberries there in the summer) to make a Snow Boulder over there. The hill they are on is part of the same hill they were on before, but lower down and on the north side (left when you are facing up toward the woods). The line of bare trees you see is the edge of our property.

Here’s Justin, setting to work rolling it up.

But as you can see, this one fell apart as well.

“Let’s do one over there next,” Justin said (I can’t remember exactly what he was saying, but it was something to that effect), looking across to the other side of the hill. They used to be to the left of the path, towards our neighbors L; they walked over to the right of the path, towards our neighbors W on the other side, near where the gardens are in the summer. Here is Justin rolling up Snow Boulder number #4:

Once it got big, it was awkward to move again. But it was only downhill, after all, so they managed it.

They tried to make the Snow Boulder a little more smooth and round. Then Justin pushed it into the (empty) pond, which it was now directly across from.

After a brief moment of repose on the ruins of the No-Longer Snow Boulder, they got back to business.

Justin was feeling hot, so he took off his coat. The sun was coming out from behind the clouds, too, as you might be able to tell from the way the snow looks.

Then he started to roll up the fifth Snow Boulder.

See how fast it gets so big?

It’s heading toward the apple tree (that is, the apple tree that is several yards to the right of the small apple tree sapling you can see in the far right of the photo–out of the picture).

These pictures are so you can see the layers of snow it rolls up into, especially when you keep rolling it the same direction, which I think Justin did with this one–he may have rolled it more diagonally as it went along, but he didn’t roll it back and forth like with the other ones.

Here Caleb sits atop the apple tree branch that the snow boulder ended up under.

Meanwhile, the clouds were breaking apart and moving around quite rapidly. (Justin and Owen were too preoccupied with what they were doing to notice the drama in the sky, but it distracted me for several moments.)

While I was standing there by the apple tree taking pictures of Caleb and the clouds, Justin and Owen walked back up the pathway they created . . .

. . . and soon rolled another Snow Boulder down.

There goes Snow Boulder #6!

This is what the sky looked like then.

Snow Boulder #6 found its resting spot at the edge of where the barn used to be.

Justin and Owen were staring off to the hill opposite our house, across the road. They were joking about rolling snow boulders down there, and that’s what they’re laughing about here.

But of course they couldn’t make them on the hill across the road. “I know, let’s go make them in the Secret Garden and the woods,” Justin said. (The Secret Garden, as we misleadingly call it, is an area of trees with a path leading up to the woods.) They all went trodding off along the Secret Garden path, on to make more and more Snow Boulders in the regions beyond. But I was getting tired of taking pictures, and needed to be doing something else, so after a parting shot of them walking away and one last picture of the breaking-apart-to-blue-sky clouds (as well as a short movie to show how fast the clouds were moving–I wish I could post that), I went inside.

I asked them later if they ever did wind up making Snow Boulders in the woods. (At that point I didn’t remember for sure whether they had planned on doing it in the woods or just the Secret Garden.) “Oh yes, we made tons in the woods,” was their reply. Titi then interjected to describe how it was almost surreal taking a walk in the woods–there were Snow Boulders all over the place, popping up around every corner, she said, as if some giants had been having a snowball fight!

Today, it was a sunny day out and the chicken got out to enjoy the sunshine just like people do. The little chicken got out where the wheelbarrow was missing. (Ed: A up-turned wheelbarrow was put by a portion of the fence that is broken down to prevent escapees, but apparently it was missing.) I heard some “buk-buk-buk”ings, and some I thought were in the chicken fence, one in the out of the chicken fence. (I thought like three were in the fence and three were out of the fence.) I was looking around for the one that was out of the chicken fence, then I finally saw it in Mom’s garden. A chicken! Then I said, “Bad chicken!”

It was digging in Mom’s garden so I thought it was gonna lay some EGGS there. So I thought it was a she but then I said he after that so then it WAS a he…so…I just got jumbled up. As soon as Cadie told me that when she was outside she said “Wait it IS a he so why did you think it was laying eggs?” The chicken was on the stump that Temmy’s truck backs into, and went over near to the fence. Then as soon as Cadie got on her shoes and sweaters she went outside and chased it into the fence. Actually she didn’t really chase it in, it flew into the fence its own way. Then I shut the fence and Cadie locked it. The end, heh heh. Why’s I said ‘heh heh’ is because usually at the end of a story they don’t say “the end”, so, “heh heh”! At least most books I read.

 English Muffins * Bagels

Cream cheese * Homemade Jam

Dried figs * Dried Apricots * Dates * Oranges

Hot Chocolate * Soda pop * Cider

Caramel Nut Popcorn * Cheese popcorn 

Tex-Mex Dip * Cheese Ball * Onion Dip

Various cheeses, crackers, & chips

Pepperoni, marinated artichokes, roasted red peppers, olives, dill pickles

Blueberry pudding  * Mocha Chocolate Trifle

Oatmeal cookies  * Ice cream

Black-bottom Cheesecake Cups   

* Exported from MasterCook *

                               Cheese Ball

Recipe By     :
Serving Size  : 56    Preparation Time :0:00
Categories    : Appetizers And Dips             Cheese
                Christmas                       Volume 2

  Amount  Measure       Ingredient — Preparation Method
——–  ————  ——————————–
  8              ounce  sharp or extra sharp cheddar — (8-10)
  8              ounce  cream cheese — softened
  1                cup  walnuts

Chop walnuts in food processor and put on a dinner plate.

Grate cheese in food processor. Set aside.

Insert chopping blade in food processor. Cut cream cheese into 8 pieces.
Put in food processor along with reserved cheddar. Buzz till blended.

Scrape out on top of nuts. Form into ball by rolling on top of walnuts.
Per serving (estimated by author):0.1 bread, 0.3 meat, 0.7 fat.

Description:
  "We make two of these every year for our Christmas party. We sometimes
  also have it as a meal on a really hot, muggy evening when no one
  wants to cook."
Yield:
  "3 1/2 cups"

                                    – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - –

Per Serving (excluding unknown items): 28 Calories; 3g Fat (83.1% calories
from fat); 1g Protein; trace Carbohydrate; trace Dietary Fiber; 4mg
Cholesterol; 12mg Sodium.  Exchanges: 0 Grain(Starch); 0 Lean Meat; 1/2
Fat.

NOTES : To soften cream cheese: unwrap and microwave on high for
        15 seconds.

Nutr. Assoc. : 0 0 0

                     
* Exported from MasterCook *

                               Tex Mex Dip

Recipe By     :
Serving Size  : 12    Preparation Time :0:00
Categories    : Appetizers and Dips             Beans
                Beef                            Christmas
                Ground Meat                     Mexican

  Amount  Measure       Ingredient — Preparation Method
——–  ————  ——————————–
  1              pound  90% lean ground beef
  1        8 ounce can  tomato sauce
  1           teaspoon  chili powder
  1           teaspoon  cumin
                        salt — to taste
  1       16 ounce can  refried beans
  1       16 ounce can  refried beans
     1/8         pound  shredded lettuce — (1/2 cups)
  6             ounces  shredded cheddar cheese — ( 1 1/2 cups)
     1/2           can  olives
  1       16 ounce carton  sour cream

 In large skillet, brown ground beef; drain. tomato sauce and seasonings.
Cook and stir over medium heat 10-15 minutes.

Spread beans on bottom of a 12" pizza pan. Arrange layers of seasoned
ground beef and cheese over beans. It can be refrigerated at this point.
When ready to serve, heat in oven until cheese is melted. Top with
lettuce, sour cream, and olives as desired. Serve with tortilla chips.
Feeds 12 snackers.

Source:
  "Old El Paso magazine ad"
                                    – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - –

Per Serving (excluding unknown items): 307 Calories; 18g Fat (52.2%
calories from fat); 20g Protein; 17g Carboh
ydrate; 4g Dietary Fiber; 63mg
Cholesterol; 583mg Sodium.  Exchanges: 1 Grain(Starch); 2 Lean Meat; 1/2
Vegetable; 0 Fruit; 0 Non-Fat Milk; 2 1/2 Fat.

Nutr. Assoc. : 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

                     
* Exported from MasterCook *

                          Mocha-Chocolate Trifle

Recipe By     :
Serving Size  : 32    Preparation Time :0:00
Categories    : Cakes                           Chocolate
                Desserts                        Lowfat and Lovin’ It
                Make-Ahead                      Other Desserts
                Volume 5

  Amount  Measure       Ingredient — Preparation Method
——–  ————  ——————————–
  2       (18.25-ounce) packages  Betty Crocker® Devil’s Food Cake with
                        Pudding mix — (light or reduced fat if possible)
  2 2/3           cups  water
     1/4           cup  vegetable oil
  4                     eggs
                        Cooking spray
  6               cups  skim milk — (make sure it’s cold)
  2       (5.9-ounce) packages  chocolate instant pudding and pie filling
     1/2           cup  Kahlúa — (coffee-flavored liqueur)
     1/2           cup  strong brewed coffee
  2       (8-ounce) cartons  frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping — thawed
  1                cup  reduced-fat chocolate toffee crisp bars
                        (such as Hershey’s Sweet Escapes) — chopped (about 8 bars)
                           

Earlier in the day or the day before: Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Combine first 4 ingredients in a large bowl; beat at medium speed of a
mixer until well-blended. Spoon batter into 2 13 × 9-inch baking pans
coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes or until a
wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pans 10 minutes on
a wire rack; remove from pans. Cool completely on a wire rack.

When cake is completely cool, combine milk and pudding mix in a medium
bowl; prepare according to package directions.

Tear half of cake into pieces; place in a 6-quart bowl or trifle dish ( or
2 3-quart bowls). Combine Kahlua and coffee. Pour half of Kahlúa mixture
over cake pieces; top with half of pudding, whipped topping, and chocolate
bars. Repeat procedure with remaining cake, Kahlúa mixture, pudding,
whipped topping, and chocolate bars. Cover; chill at least 4 hours.

Serving Size: about 1 cup

Description:
  "This spectacular dessert serves a crowd and can be made ahead of
  time."
Source:
  "Cooking Light, April 1998, p.150"
Copyright:
  "© Cooking Light"
T(Chill Time):
  "4:00"
                                    – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - –

Per Serving (excluding unknown items): 296 Calories; 9g Fat (27.0%
calories from fat); 4g Protein; 48g Carbohydrate; 1g Dietary Fiber; 35mg
Cholesterol; 448mg Sodium.  Exchanges: 1/2 Lean Meat; 0 Non-Fat Milk; 1
1/2 Fat; 3 Other Carbohydrates.

NOTES : Must chill at least 4 hours

Nutr. Assoc. : 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 2349 0 5289 0 0

                     
* Exported from MasterCook *

              Blueberry Pudding for a 15×10 pan, reduced fat

Recipe By     :Kathleen Purdy
Serving Size  : 18    Preparation Time :0:00
Categories    : Desserts                        Fruit
                Fruit Desserts                  Kids’ Cooking
                Make-Ahead                      Use it Up
                Volume 2

  Amount  Measure       Ingredient — Preparation Method
——–  ————  ——————————–
  2       12 ounce boxes  vanilla wafers
  5       4 serving packages  sugar-free vanilla pudding and pie filling — *see Note
  9               cups  1% low-fat milk
  12              cups  frozen blueberries
  3 3/8           cups  Cool Whip Lite®

Prepare pudding with milk according to package directions. Put a layer of
vanilla wafers on the bottom of the pan. Add 1 1/2 (4 cup) bags of
blueberries. Then add half the pudding. Repeat. Spread cool whip over the
top of the pudding. Serve immediately.

Description:
  "A re-invention of the Nilla wafer Banana Pudding recipe, using frozen
  blueberries instead.
"
Yield:
  "1 15×10 pan"

                                    – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - –

Per Serving (excluding unknown items): 401 Calories; 11g Fat (24.0%
calories from fat); 6g Protein; 70g Carbohydrate; 4g Dietary Fiber; 5mg
Cholesterol; 698mg Sodium.  Exchanges: 1 Fruit; 1/2 Non-Fat Milk; 2 Fat; 3
1/2 Other Carbohydrates.

NOTES : Should be 10 cups of milk, but try it with 9 and see how
        it comes out.
        * If you use instant pudding you must serve immediately.
        If you use regular pudding you can make earlier in the day
        and refrigerate.

Nutr. Assoc. : 0 0 0 0 0

                     
* Exported from MasterCook *

                      Caramel Popcorn, triple batch

Recipe By     :
Serving Size  : 24    Preparation Time :0:00
Categories    : Christmas                       Desserts
                Grains and Cereals              Lowfat and Lovin’ It
                Make-Ahead                      Other Desserts
                Volume 5

  Amount  Measure       Ingredient — Preparation Method
——–  ————  ——————————–
  24              cups  popcorn, air-popped — (from 1 cup raw kernels)
  1 1/2           cups  chopped nuts — optional (see notes)
  3               cups  light brown sugar — packed
  1 1/2           cups  corn syrup
  3        tablespoons  butter
     3/4      teaspoon  baking soda

Split it up and make it in two batches.

Preheat oven to 300º. Spread popcorn and nuts, if using, on a baking sheet
with sides and set aside.

In a heavy medium saucepan, combine sugar, corn syrup, butter and salt;
bring to a boil over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally to dissolve
the sugar. Clip a candy thermometer to the pan and cook until the mixture
reaches 250º and is at the hard-ball stage (when a bit of syrup dropped
into ice water forms a hard ball). This will take two to three minutes.

Remove pan from the heat and immediately stir in the baking soda. Pour the
mixture over the reserved popcorn and nuts, stirring until most of the
kernels are coated.

Bake the popcorn for 15 minutes. Stir, coating any kernels that were not
coated at the beginning. Bake 5 to 10 minutes longer, or until amber.
(Longer baking produces a deeper caramel color and flavor.) Let cool for 2
minutes, or until the caramel has almost hardened. Gently break up large
clumps and let cool completely.

Source:
  "Eating Well, 11/94 p. 64"
Yield:
  "1 1/2 gallons"
                                    – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - –

Per Serving (excluding unknown items): 224 Calories; 7g Fat (25.7%
calories from fat); 2g Protein; 41g Carbohydrate; 2g Dietary Fiber; 4mg
Cholesterol; 87mg Sodium.  Exchanges: 1/2 Grain(Starch); 0 Lean Meat; 1
Fat; 2 Other Carbohydrates.

NOTES : Use pecans, walnuts or macadamia nuts. To roast nuts:
        preheat oven to 350º. Spread the nuts in a pie pan or
        shallow baking dish and bake for 5 to 10 minutes, or until
        golden and fragrant.

Nutr. Assoc. : 0 0 0 0 0 0

                     
* Exported from MasterCook *

                    Cape Cod Oatmeal Cookies, doubled

Recipe By     :Marion Cunningham
Serving Size  : 140   Preparation Time :0:00
Categories    : Christmas                       Cookies
                Desserts                        Heritage
                Purdy                           Volume 4

  Amount  Measure       Ingredient — Preparation Method
——–  ————  ——————————–
  3               cups  flour
  1           teaspoon  baking soda
  2          teaspoons  cinnamon
  1           teaspoon  salt
  2                     egg — lightly beaten
  2               cups  sugar
  1                cup  vegetable shortening
  1                cup  butter — melted (see note)
  2        tablespoons  molasses
     1/2           cup  milk
  3 1/2           cups  rolled oats
  1                cup  raisins
  1             &nb
sp;  cup  chopped nuts

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix the flour, baking soda, cinnamon and salt
together in a large bowl. Stir in remaining ingredients. Arrange by
teaspoonfuls on ungreased cookie sheets and bake until the edges are
brown, about 10 to 12 minutes.

Description:
  "A fine, chewy oatmeal cookie, wholesome and nourishing."
Source:
  "The Fannie Farmer Cookbook, 12th edition"
Copyright:
  "1979"
Yield:
  "140 cookies"
                                    – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - –

Per Serving (excluding unknown items): 65 Calories; 4g Fat (48.8% calories
from fat); 1g Protein; 8g Carbohydrate; trace Dietary Fiber; 7mg
Cholesterol; 40mg Sodium.  Exchanges: 0 Grain(Starch); 0 Lean Meat; 0
Fruit; 0 Non-Fat Milk; 1/2 Fat; 0 Other Carbohydrates.

NOTES : The 13th edition says oil OR butter, but we like it better
        with both–it’s a moister cookie.

Nutr. Assoc. : 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

                     
* Exported from MasterCook *

                       Black-bottom Cheesecake Cups

Recipe By     :Cooking Light, Sept. 1995, page 109
Serving Size  : 36    Preparation Time :0:00
Categories    : Cakes                           Chocolate
                Desserts                        Heritage
                Kosher                          Lowfat and Lovin’ It
                Purdy                           Tea Party
                Volume 3

  Amount  Measure       Ingredient — Preparation Method
——–  ————  ——————————–
  3               cups  all-purpose flour
  1 1/2           cups  sugar
     2/3           cup  unsweetened cocoa
  2        tablespoons  instant espresso granules — See note
  2          teaspoons  baking soda
  1           teaspoon  salt
  2               cups  water
     2/3           cup  Homemade Prune Butter
  2        tablespoons  white vinegar
  4          teaspoons  vanilla extract
  2       8 ounce packages  nonfat cream cheese — (2 packages), softened
  1                cup  sifted powdered sugar
  2                     eggs
                        Vegetable cooking spray
  1                cup  chocolate chips
     1/2           cup  chopped almonds

Combine first 6 ingredients in a large bowl.

Combine water, prune butter, vinegar, and vanilla; stir well. Add to dry
ingredients, stirring with a wire whisk until blended; set chocolate
batter aside.

Beat cream cheese in a bowl at medium speed of a mixer until smooth. Add
powdered sugar and eggs, and beat until well-blended; set cream cheese
mixture aside.
 
Place 36 paper muffin cup liners in muffin cups; coat liners with cooking
spray.

Divide chocolate batter evenly among cups; spoon cream cheese mixture
evenly on top of chocolate batter in each cup. Sprinkle chocolate morsels
and almonds over cream cheese mixture.

Bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in
center comes out clean. Let cool in pans 5 minutes on a wire rack; remove
from pans, and let cool completely on wire rack. Yield: 3 dozen (serving
size: 1 cheesecake cup).

Description:
  "A brownie-like cake with a cheesecake topping, crowned with chocolate
  chips and chopped almonds."
Yield:
  "3 dozen"
T(Bakes in oven):
  "0:25"
                                    – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - –

Per Serving (excluding unknown items): 149 Calories; 4g Fat (21.2%
calories from fat); 4g Protein; 26g Carbohydrate; 1g Dietary Fiber; 13mg
Cholesterol; 205mg Sodium.  Exchanges: 1/2 Grain(Starch); 1/2 Lean Meat;
1/2 Fat; 1 Other Carbohydrates.

Serving Ideas : Good for toddler birthdays and tea parties.

NOTES : If instant espresso is not available, use double the
        amount of regular or decaf instant coffee. Instead of
        Homemade Prune Butter, you can use Lekvar Prune Butter.

Nutr. Assoc. : 0 0 0 403 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

                     
* Exported from MasterCook *

                          Homemade Prune Butter

Recipe By     :Cooking Light, Sept. 1995, p. 108
Serving Size  : 1     Preparation Time :0:00
Categories    : Food Processor Cooking          Fruit Desserts
                Kosher                      &n
bsp;   Lowfat and Lovin’ It
                Quick And Easy                  Volume 3

  Amount  Measure       Ingredient — Preparation Method
——–  ————  ——————————–
     1/3           cup  pitted prunes
  1           teaspoon  sugar
  2          teaspoons  light corn syrup
  2        tablespoons  water

Combine prunes, sugar, and corn syrup in a food processor; process 5
seconds. With processor on, slowly add water through food chute; process
until mixture is smooth, scraping sides of bowl frequently.

Description:
  "Used in Black-Bottom Cheesecake Cups"
Yield:
  "1/3 cup"
                                    – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - –

Per Serving (excluding unknown items): 55 Calories; 0g Fat (0.0% calories
from fat); 0g Protein; 15g Carbohydrate; 0g Dietary Fiber; 0mg
Cholesterol; 17mg Sodium.  Exchanges: 1 Other Carbohydrates.

Serving Ideas : Use in Black-Bottom Cheesecake Cups

Nutr. Assoc. : 0 0 0 0

You can bet that as soon as the little kids get wind that any berries are ripe, they’ll be up there in a flash to pick them. Justin had gone down to the house before me and spread the word. When I came down from the woods, there they were, picking strawberries in the field in the late afternoon sun.

(In other years, when I had seen the first berries, I’d pick some first and then go down and mention it casually to the little kids, seeing if Evan would say, as he often did, “Oh, of course, I already knew that!”, or if they’d all look at each other and say, “Berries? Ripe?” and zoom up there.) Owen asked me after supper, his face brightening at the thought, “Cadie, will you pick strawberries with us?” I said I would. When Deirdre found out everyone else was picking strawberries, of course she wanted to come too, so I took her along with me. Evan and Justin were also already up there, filling up little bowls with strawberries. “Oh, good, CadieÂ’s here!” Owen said when he saw me, and ran down to me. I was holding DeirdreÂ’s hand, and when she saw Owen, she extended her arm to him and said, “Owen, you hold my hand, too.” It makes her feel important to have two people hold her hands as she walks up the fields.

“No, silly, Owen has to go pick strawberries!” I said. “I’ll hold your hand!” Caleb said, who was also up there. Pretty soon, though, Deirdre broke away to go follow after me and pick strawberries.

“Evan’s finding tons and tons of berries, but I canÂ’t find any!” Owen complained to me. “You can just follow me around, and then whenever I find some, I’ll let you have some, too,” I offered him.

“Oh, sure!” he said.

He liked the idea, but he kept drifting away to find berries other places anyway. “Ohh….how come I can never find any berries?” he kept sighing to himself as he wandered around. But then the next minute I’d hear him calling out, “Oh, here’s some! Oh wow guys, thereÂ’s tons of strawberries over here! Oh, goody! Oh wow, thereÂ’s so many!” It sounded like he was actually picking more than I was!

I didn’t know where the big patches he was talking about were, because I only found one here and there. Wild strawberries don’t really grow in patches, unlike blueberries. Sometimes youÂ’ll find a whole bunch near each other, but that’s usually just because that place gets more sun. You just have to keep your eye on the ground as you go across the field, looking for a spot of red on the ground.

Since the grass was tall in the fields now, I would swipe my foot across the grasses as I went along, pushing them out of the way to see if there was a strawberry hiding underneath. Sometimes they bow their heads so close to the ground you have to look really closely to see the berries. You spot some strawberry leaves down there, and when you bend close you can see a bunch of dainty red berries hidden under the leaves. Each one is a morsel of pure, sweet, wonderful strawberry taste–much better than cultivated ones, in my opinion. You don’t know how good strawberries can taste until you’ve tasted a wild one. Each tiny berry has all the flavor of a cultivated one compressed in it, with more to spare. Not all of the strawberry plants have berries, though. I found many strawberry plants without berries for every one that did have berries. It is also very irksome when you find the perfect berry, one thatÂ’s so deep red and bulging your mouth waters to see it—and you turn it around and a bug has eaten out the whole other side of it. WeÂ’re not the only ones who like the taste of them! But thatÂ’s why everyone advises to get them sooner rather than later; theyÂ’re such soft, sweet berries, the bugs will eat them up in a flash. But still, after having eaten a really ripe berry, I want to wait until they get that good before I eat them.

All this time, Deirdre was following me around.

“What, Cadie?” she’d say whenever I stopped or made any sort of exclamation. “Oh!” I’d say. “What? What, Cadie?” Deirdre would inquire from behind me, persisting until I gave an answer. “Nothing, Deirdre, I just thought I saw a strawberry for a minute,” IÂ’d reply, and go on looking. But then I finally did find some. “Look, Deirdre!” I said. “What,” she said, toddling up to me, then, “Oh!” she cried as she saw them. “TheyÂ’re strawberries,” I said. “See them, down there?”

“Yeah,” she said, and wasted no time to pick one.

“Owen, Caleb!” I called. “I found some!”

“Oh, hooray!” Owen exclaimed, and he and Caleb galloped down to get them with big grins on their faces. “Oh Cadie, see how many I already got?” Owen asked me happily, showing me the scattering of berries over his tiny bowl. He was doing just fine on his own, so I stopped calling him. Caleb, on the other hand, could find hardly any without any help, and when he did he’d sound surprised: “Oh! I _found_ one!” So I’d call him and Deirdre when I found some, who would both come very eagerly. “Guys—Caleb, Deirdre! ThereÂ’s some down here!” I called to them one time. “Okay!” they chimed, and Caleb ran down to get them. “Deirdre, you coming?” I asked. She was still a ways up there. She got a little left behind sometimes, but we always waited up for her.

“Yes—I coming!” was the response. She kept on working her way through the tall weeds, coming down to us. “Should I come to you?” I asked her.

“Yeah,” she said. “Pit, me up, Cadie! Pit, me up!” (Pick me up.)

“Why?” I questioned her. “You can walk.”

“‘Cause, need, pit me up!” she insisted, using toddler circular reasoning. “But why do I need to pick you up?” I asked her. “‘Cause, need, pit me up!” I picked her up and brought her down to Caleb, who was surveying the berries.

“OhhÂ…yeah, I want to get that one!” he declared, pointing at his chosen berry. “I want, get it, too,” Deirdre piped up, making sure I didn’t forget about her. “You can have this one, Caleb, and you can have this one, Deirdre,” I said. “MmmmÂ… that was a good one!” Caleb said. Deirdre would always pick hers to put in the bowl, but Caleb usually ate them. And when Deirdre saw Caleb eat one, she changed her mind and ate it, too.

Deirdre was very intent on picking the strawberries. Every time I found some strawberries, I’d pick the best looking ones and then go on. But Deirdre would stay behind and pick every single one until there was no more to be seen, very absorbed in it. One time I had found a strawberry for Deirdre to pick, but then all of a sudden she couldnÂ’t see it anymore. “Where ‘tawberry go? I wanna get ‘tawberry,” she said. I pointed it out to her. “It’s right there, Deirdre,” I said. “Oh,” she said, and very carefully picked it; as carefully as a toddler can, that is! It got smooshed, but that didn’t bother her–just so long as it got in the bowl like it was supposed to. When I gave her one to pick, it was important to her to get it in the bowl, because thatÂ’s what I did. The rest of the time, though, she just ate them. I gave her one to eat and asked, “Is it yummy?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Wanna, get ‘nother one!” And she was off to try to find another one.

Once we were all done picking the berries, we brought them down to the house and divided them up amongst ourselves. There was only enough picked for everybody to have a little bit, but some of the little kids made “strawberry shakes” by mushing them up with some milk, anyway. Deirdre gobbled hers up, and then said, “More ‘tawberries! C’I, have, more? Please, have, more, ‘tawberries?”

When the strawberries are gone, we look for blueberries and raspberries next, then blackberries–and then before you know it, it’s June again, and we’re looking for . . . strawberries!

Justin and Owen, pleased with the berries they picked

Let me tell you, whoever wrote “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” never had a more than few inches. First of all, you don’t walk, especially not up-hill. You have to march, lifting you knees so you have so much snow to drag your feet through. Well, it’s more of a trudge, because you can’t possible go quickly through knee deep snow. Okay, it’s an absaloute trudge, certainly nowhere near an enjoyable, relaxing little “walk”. And it isn’t always knee deep snow, either. Because of all of the wind, the snow has filled in all the un-evenness, meaning, of course, that sometimes the snow goes up the middle of your thigh. Try “walking” through THAT!

So while you’re trudging uphill through knee deep snow, one must also be grateful that it’s a toasted 21 F. I mean, with the wind like that, you couldn’t be out in temperatures much lower than 21 F, at least no where near comfortably. And it’s dreadfully cloudy and dark, even though it’s 11 o’clock in the morning. Walking in a Winter Wonderland? I don’t think so. It’s a cold trudge through a dreary, depressing, barren wasteland. Even the birds had the good common sense to stay quiet and in shelter. “Here to stay is the newbird”? Give me a break. We usually just get a flock of starlings at our bird-feeders, and there’s nothing new about starlings, they’re a year round pest. The air wasn’t even fresh. They only difference between between the air in my room and the air outside is that the air in my room was hot and dry, and outside it’s cold and dry.

That walk was one of the most miserable walks I’ve ever taken in my life. But, there was some good out of it, as there always is. I was very, very glad to be back in the house, which is a nice change from being absolutely sick of the house. But I’m still just wishing spring would hurry up and get here!!!

Life has been interesting. The weather has managed a good deal of subzero nights and some windy days as well. Then we’ve had some heavy snow falls, so life around here is becoming exceedingly house-bound. The unpacked snow outside is nearly up to my thighs. Wading is about all you can do, and this means nobody can effectively go outside to play, or get some fresh air and sunshine. Snow sits on the roofs and icicles hang everywhere. The upstairs window I can look out from where I sit at my computer is three-quarters or more blocked with this complete sheet of icicles all fused together. It’s like an ice wall.

At times it seems like the whole world is hunkered down against the snow and biting cold. In the morning I knock the solid ice out of the chicken’s water dish and fill it with hot water so it won’t freeze quite so fast. The chickens only venture out of their coop long enough to eat and drink. Mostly they spend their time inside standing around and looking miserable. They’ve stopped laying eggs, and a flock of starlings has taken up living inside the chicken coop, pooping all over things, and flying out like a whirlwind of feathers whenever I step inside.

Winter in these northern climes is when cabin fever sets in. I don’t think I suffer from this as badly as other people. If you’re outgoing and social, being stuck within the same four walls staring at the same bleak landscape outside can be a depression inducing experience. I, being introverted and a very focused person, can remained fixed on the task with which I am occupying myself, and not look up to consider the world outside, or the length of time it’s been since any pleasant weather has come around. Also it helps that I’ve been outside more than other people, and the cold weather doesn’t bother me as much.

This is not to say that things are exactly easy for me. Rather than being stuck indoors, what bothers me very much is the darkness of winter. The short days and long nights of winter are very grim. Forget about cold temperatures, or heaps of snow, what I find depressing is going out for my morning bike ride when it is still dark out. What is depressing is darkness coming at six in the evening . . . or earlier. The winter solstice is an important marker for me. It means daylight is coming back once again. Unfortunately, daylight at seven does not come for many, many more days. So I just plow ahead, counting off the days until the world is properly lit again.

I’m outside more than other people because I do snow shoveling, and I absolutely refuse to give up my thrice weekly bicycle ride. I don’t find snow shoveling unpleasant, though I usually do feel like I have better things to do with my time. It is a chance to get outside, but when the snow begins to fall too often, or in too large amounts, it begins to feel like an excessive waste of time. We have large drifts on either side of the driveway now.

Riding a bicycle in winter weather can be a miserable experience, but not so miserable as people might think. Cold temperatures are not the worst thing about riding a bicycle in the winter. With moderate bundling up I’ve found that riding a bicycle at zero Fahrenheit is an acceptable experience. Sub-zero is increasingly more uncomfortable, and I haven’t gone out in much lower than -15. What is worst about riding in the winter is when there is snow on the road, or when there is a stiff wind–both of which have happened too often for my liking this winter. Snow makes riding a slippery experience, gums up my chain, and freezes in my gears. Right now I’m stuck in one gear because all the rest have frozen full of ice and snow. I have to bring the bicycle into the house and defrost it and oil the chain. (Salt and sand work terrors on a bicycle.) A stiff cold breeze makes riding hard and unpleasant.

I stick to my bicycle riding no matter what the weather to defy winter, keep some semblance of normality, and get out of the house for a short while. This has made me into something of the local lunatic. I’m not exactly sure what people think when they see me out riding in the snow and freezing weather, but I can almost see their thoughts on their faces when they give me a peculiar look, or shake their heads. Nobody realizes it isn’t really that bad, and it amuses me. I grin very large when I see people giving me the funny stare when I ride by. It’s not every day that people think you are crazy.

Besides shoveling snow and bicycling in all sorts of inclement weather I’ve been accruing hands on experience thawing frozen pipes. Mrs. B, whose husband passed away a year ago, has been having trouble with her pipes freezing and I have been dealing with the problem. It seems like I no sooner fix one problem than another one appears. I’ve defrosted pipes, run heating tape, and insulated pipes, all in an effort to keep the water flowing. Sub-zero temperatures and a biting wind make for a difficult combination. I like to think that, after spending countless hours on my hands and knees in a half basement, I now have the problem licked. Only time, and more cold weather, will show if I’m right.

If freezing pipes weren’t enough problem for Mrs. B ice dams have formed on her roof and water began leaking into her house. So I went over recently to shovel some snow off her roof. In the back of her house there is a pretty steep drop and she was understandably nervous about me going out onto her snowy and icy roof. I’ve shoveled snow off roofs before (in fact, I’m doing more roof shoveling this Saturday) and I know how slippery a shingled roof can be. But I am not ashamed to go crawling around on my hands and knees, or my belly if necessary, to keep from falling off the roof.

I also have a morbid and perhaps flippant sense of humor that I put to good use in such situations. As I was preparing to crawl out the window Mrs. B continued to fret. I turned back and said, “Oh, you can just go back downstairs. You don’t need to worry. If you see me fly by the window you’ll know that I’ve fallen off the roof.” Since the snow on the ground was thigh deep I wasn’t sure how hurt I would be if I did fall off, and I thought the idea of me slipping off the roof with an “AAAIIEEEE!” and then streaking by the downstairs window in transit to land in a snow drift was funny. Mrs. B did not.

Winter drags on, but I remind myself that it must come to an end. I’ve still at least another month of riding my bicycle in the snow. Last year there was still a heavy snow pack in the middle of March, but it melted eventually. Now is the time of year to make great plans of what will be done once the weather has warmed, and savor the fact that right now I don’t need the mow the lawn.

Thanksgiving passed without much ado. We went to Nate and Sharon’s for a Thanksgiving family gathering. Winter family gatherings are more difficult than summer get-togethers. Being stuck inside with a lot of relatives . . . well, it’s noisy. And, with the number of relatives in the family, it’s really crowded as well. I’m not sure the fire marshal would much approve of so many people in one house.

A great boon of gathering at Nate and Sharon’s house is that they always have plenty to entertain visitors. Their basement is finished very nicely, and they have the whole place stocked with games for kids of every age. Then in the family room there is a TV with surround sound. In general, it seems, everything makes some type of noise. When every computer is playing a game, every TV on, the toys in use, and people talking–all this is enough to drive me to distraction. I suppose I’m rather grinch-ish for not finding the sound of many people having much fun to be music to my ears, but I’m unrepentant.

I think my noticing of the volume level is a sign of my age. A dozen years ago I would have been in the thick of things, the noise nothing more than a distant unnoticed background. I’m an old fogey now . . . sigh.

Well, not too old. There is a big air hockey table in the basement, and this game of physical competition appeals to me. Not to mention slamming the puck across the table. I played a game against Arlan and . . . ahem . . . apparently got a little too involved in the game, lunging across the table to slam the puck like a bullet into the goal. The day after Thanksgiving the muscles along my right side and up my arm were sore from being over stretched. A minor price to pay for going after the puck like a savage, I assure you; I won the game.

There was plenty of pie for dessert. Our tradition is to have a main midday meal and then eat leftovers when people get hungry later in the day. The food is traditional Thanksgiving fare, but the pies are the real draw. I confess I ate the noon meal, but the majority of my eating for the rest of the day was pies. Whenever I felt like a bit more to eat, I went for more pie.

The Days Til Christmas

I’m counting down the days until Christmas.

No, not because I’ve so many presents to buy, so many cards to send out, or because I’m eagerly awaiting the grand celebrations. Presents? Cards? I’m a misanthrope here. Bah on all that holiday cheer. When I was young, I looked forward to the grand party on Christmas day, but age has left me jaded. Sure, it is a nice day, but only a day to be enjoyed when it is here, not one to be waited for with bated breath.

So, if I’m not a bundle of holiday excitement, you’re probably wondering why I’m counting the days until Christmas. The matter, for me, is purely practical. Sometime in the middle of November I set myself the goal of finishing the current draft of my novel by Christmas. With years of writing experience behind me, I’ve learned to dread deadlines. It seems a writing deadline is simply a deadline made to break, and to feel horrible and depressed about breaking. But in November it felt like I was walking in place–I was getting near, but not very near. The end of the novel draft and that last quarter felt like it would take me eternity to finish.

To fight off gloom, and to spur me on, I counted off the number of chapters left that I had to revise and tried to come up with a reasonable number of days to finish all the chapters. Reasonable, of course, being something of a joke, because where writing is involved I don’t seem to have a reasonable bone in my body. The writer in me is a wild dreamer full of mad hopes. Nonetheless, I set myself what I thought was a high bar of accomplishment, but not an unachievable one. I figured that if I could finish a chapter every three days, I would be finished by Christmas. The goal was set. The deadline was marked. And off I went.

Goaded on by the looming deadline I did well until Thanksgiving put a bump in my plans. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of the Thanksgiving week were messed up. But I managed to regain my momentum afterward, and plow forward, not looking back.

Will I make my deadline? I don’t dare venture a guess yet. It’s going to be close. I’ve been working myself without ceasing to keep up. I write each day of the work week until I am unable to write any more. I push and push myself, grinding to the very edge of burnout to get this beast finished. I haven’t stopped to count the pages done in a day. I haven’t gone back to reassess the quality of what I’ve written. All that is for later. Today, tomorrow, and the next day are only writing and getting this thing done.

If my writing here has seemed sparse, this is why. By the time I close out my novel writing for the day, I feel just about cross-eyed. If it was a good day there is a sense of satisfaction at what I’ve completed, but the writing well is near dry. But I am determined. The end is in sight. I’m almost there. A few more chapters. A few more weeks. I can make it if I only try hard enough.

I’m into the last hundred page count down. This is a great psychological success. About six hundred single spaced pages, and now I’m counting up through the five hundreds. Counting off the last pages. The one thing I fear is myself. I find that as a draft of my novel nears there is a danger of two things happening to me.

(1) I get exhausted and feel like those last two chapters are impossible to write. There can come this almost overwhelming sensation that I can’t write the wrap-up that will do justice to all the months and months of work I’ve put into the lead-up story. It feels impossible to finish.

(2) I decide that all my writing stinks. I’m writing along, nearing the conclusion, and it is like I get cold feet. Suddenly I decide everything I’ve written isn’t really that good at all. This leads me to either suffer a profound feeling of despair and an urge to give up, or else the desire to go back and rewrite everything I’ve just written because this draft isn’t ready to be finished.

When the finish line is this near in sight, I’ve learned that the last thing I should do is think. Don’t think. Just write.

Only two weeks and three days left. Christmas is coming.

Butchering was an early November affair this year. The chicks of this spring didn’t fatten up quite as fast as I would have liked, but by early November they were ready to go. Or, I should more rightly say, I was ready for them to go. That is one advantage to buying a whole bunch of male chickens: By the time butchering season comes around the chicks–now roosters–are generally on the path to becoming goons. Goons are not so lovable, and this softens the parting considerably.

The rooster metamorphosis goes something like this: chicky-poos become louts and louts become goons. It isn’t that all roosters are bad. No, there are the very few nice roosters. But the majority of roosters are stupid goons, or mean goons. In the last weeks of their lives my rooster boys were beginning to realize I might be more than their dear sweet caretaker. I was the source of all goodies, but I was also a potential enemy. Their thinking hadn’t really advanced beyond the dim glimmering of potentiality, but their thoughts were starting to vaguely drift in that direction. The bigger and more testosterone laden the developing rooster was, the farther along he was in this thinking. The sign of things to come was visible in the three times some rooster took offense at my actions and attacked me. Twice I was bitten on the hand, once I was charged. None of this surprised me in the least. This is the common growing up of roosters. I’ve seen it many times before, and I saw it developing this time as well. The aggressive action of these strapping young roosters was not only directed against me. These once-comrades were beginning to move on from playful horsing around with each other to determined oppression.

This is all quite typical of roosters. In their little brains there is room for only one master of the harem, and the rest are outcasts. Dominance is only naturally asserted. And, proportionate to how much the roosters think I am a fellow rooster they feel it necessary to find out whether I am boss, or they are. The Partridge Rocks and Speckled Sussex were only beginning the journey down this path. The boldest were beginning to consider challenging me. Their thoughts, however, had not fully developed along these lines. While they considered taking a chunk out of me to be an acceptable experiment, they were shocked–shocked indeed–whenever I remonstrated them for this behavior. The rooster who charged me blew his brain fuses when I gave him a kick in payment for the assault. He never dreamed that dear Rundy would attack him. And another rooster who was mercilessly picking on a fellow I told to knock it off with a swift kick in his rear end. He went shrieking off to hide somewhere in the chicken yard, appalled that I could deal with him in such anger when he was only innocently beating up his brethren.

Yes, indeed, day by day the chicken yard was becoming a seething stew of male hormones. The hens were beginning to get nervous, and the old rooster was starting to realize he had a lot of competition on hand. In general, childhood was at an end. The chums were fading away.

I Think I’ve Found Something Hard

I’ve been butchering chickens for 10+ years and with every year more stories and more experience has piled up. The first years were miserable learning experiences spent out in the bitter cold. Technique has much improved since then, as well as understanding the when and how of the job. With experience we’ve settled progressively into routine, but every year still has its differences. The difference this year was, for the first time ever, we had outside help in butchering.

Ah, you are probably thinking we hired some expert to help. Or, we decide to go in on the job with some local farmer. No, you are wrong. Either of those ideas would have been normal. Around here, things are very un-normal. So, our help consisted in a friend Arlan brought home from college. Yes, you read that sentence right. It wasn’t even that we needed help and had Arlan desperately scrounge up whatever labor he could find. We didn’t need help–this friend simply wanted to help (or wanted the educational experience).

Of course, my first reaction was to make sure this wasn’t all a big joke. It wasn’t. Many people (perhaps most) would be appalled at the idea of having some college-educated sophisticate over for such a barbaric experience as chicken butchering. I, on the other hand, have a taste for the absurd, so this particular genteel hesitation doesn’t hold such sway over me. I was concerned that Sarah (above mentioned college friend) had no idea what she was getting into. But, after the situation was stated plainly and Sarah affirmed that she indeed wanted to take part, I was game. After all, why pass up a chance for free help?

At this point I feel it necessary to interrupt my story and give a little aside to all family members who are reading. I feel it necessary to defend Arlan from some presumption that might spring from incidental facts in this story. No doubt said family members (you know who you are) have noticed that this college friend is a female and so have concluded that Arlan has a “girlfriend.” Indeed, Sarah is female, but the astute reader will note that I only called her Arlan’s friend, not his “girlfriend.” For the honesty of not misrepresenting, or feeding some misrepresentation, of Arlan I have pointed this out. However, I find the idea of bringing home a “girlfriend” for chicken butchering outrageously funny. I’ll admit to having been a little bit tempted to let the assumption go unrefuted, as it would have added greater shock value to this story, and so, in my book, made the events all the more humorous.

Lest it be thought I’ve no sense of family dignity, I will say there was one thing I was uncomfortable, nay, even embarrassed about. You see, our chickens have fleas. This problem first came about a few years ago, as a result, I think, of certain chickens’ unsanitary habits, and we haven’t been able to permanently eradicate the fleas since. (Recently Teman learned from someone that wood ash is the perfect way to get rid of chicken fleas, but my attempt at this cure was thwarted when my ashes were rained on.) When the chickens are killed their carcasses begin to cool, and the fleas then look for the next warmest target–the person plucking or gutting. Thus the “flea ridden carcass.” Though I don’t have the refined sense of delicacy that other people retain, even I felt that giving visitors fleas was both impolite and a little . . . well, coarse. It just doesn’t sound right to say “Come on over and get fleas.” It doesn’t matter that in reality all we’ve done the last two years is take a shower after butchering and that was enough to get rid of them. It is plain embarrassing to tell someone, “Don’t mind the bugs. Just smash the fleas if they start crawling up your arms. You can get most of them, but some always escape.”

Nevertheless, in spite of being told that chicken butchering was going to be a cootie sharing party, Sarah still wanted to help. The question for the audience is this: is she brave, foolish, or just too stubborn to back down? No matter, she was coming, and that meant we got to show off the subtle arts we had refined after so many years. Like, the art of exactly how to hang up the chicken after the head is cut off, the best way to pluck (alas, we don’t have an automatic plucker) and the speediest methods for gutting.

I said before that I’ve a taste for the absurd, and that butchering day was full of such moments. Perhaps absurd is not quite the right word. But it is the closest I can get to describe the strange juxtaposition of explaining the earthy realities of butchering to educated company. It seemed to stand what one normally does with visitors completely on its head. To cultured and polite people I suppose this would be appalling. I found it slightly amusing, and . . . well, a little absurd. That is the best way I can describe sitting around outside, plucking chickens and discussing the finer points of how it is done.

I am the fastest chicken plucker, but I also gut the fastest. We don’t have an automatic plucker, so plucking is always the slowest part of the job. The routine is for me to pluck chickens as fast as I can until we have about half of the birds plucked. Then I start taking the plucked birds inside to gut. I’m no expert (an expert would be someone who did it for a living) but I can have a roaster gutted and ready for freezing in ten minutes. Doing the gutting year after year it becomes such a routine that I forget how macabre the labor is. Sarah helped, and as a learning experience I had her gut one chicken all by herself. Explaining the steps to her, rather than simply automatically doing them, brought back to mind the disgusting nature of what, exactly, I was showing her how to do.

The dialogue (or monologue, I should say) went something like this:

“Okay, here’s the knife. It’s very sharp. First thing you need to do is cut off the feet. It works better if you slice in quick short motions rather than going back and forth. Put pressure on the joint so it splits open.”

She is nervous about accidentally cutting Titi, who is holding the chicken. I have the butchering knife sharpened so that the edge will cut open chicken skin by merely brushing across it. After a little bit of work Sarah gets the hang of it and cuts the feet off.

“Now cut off the tips of the wings. It works better to use the kitchen shears for that.”

I cut through the last joint of the wing in one quick motion, but she doesn’t have as much hand strength. After a bit of work, she manages to finish both wing tips.

“Okay, now you need to cut down through the stomach and around the anus. Be careful not to cut too deep or you’ll split open the guts and that will make a big mess.”

Sarah begins to cut. She is clumsy but does better than I did when I was first starting.

“Good,” I say once she’s finished cutting. “Now reach up in there with your hand until you feel the gizzard, or the heart. Scoop around with your hand, and pull everything out. Just do the best you can, and hope nothing bursts. Otherwise you have a stinking mess.”

The worse part about chicken butchering is the killing. Killing an animal, in my book, is far worse than pulling the guts out of their cold dead carcass. But I’ll admit that the step of reaching inside the chicken and pulling the guts out is probably the grossest step. After years of gutting I’ve become somewhat numb to the revolting nature of gutting. I’ve learned to instinctively breath through my mouth, not my nose, and I cut open the chicken, reach up inside, and pull everything out in one quick motion. I don’t even stop to consider what I’m doing, or what it feels like. However, giving someone else step-by-step instructions on what needs to be done, brings back memories of my first few times. Everything is slimy and sticky with body fluids, and there are all sorts strange and disgusting lumps. You can’t see what is going on in there, so you have to keep shoving your hand further back, going by feel.

At last Sarah said, “I think I feel something hard.”

“That is either the heart or the gizzard. Start scooping back and pull everything toward you.”

She went slowly, and managed to pull all the guts out, along with the heart, without rupturing any intestines.

All that was left was to cut off the neck, pull out the wind pipe and crop, and then get out the lungs.

“To get out the lungs,” I said, “you need to scoop down along the rib cage and peel the lungs out in one piece. Otherwise they make a big mess.” It took me a little while to perfect this when I was first learning how to butcher chickens, but Sarah managed it the first time.

“Good. Now wipe the blood off your hands and rinse the chicken off.”

She had successfully gutted a chicken.

The butchering job, as a whole, went well. There were plenty of bugs, as I feared, but Sarah handled them with good grace. And no, none of the bugs survived through the shower, so friends and relatives need not fear to come visit. Cootie sharing is only at butchering time. You’re safe. If you want some you’ll have to go out and live in the chicken house.

October was, over all, a mild month. There was no bitter chill, and even days when the weather was unusually mild. Frost, this fall, came very late. So, as fall gave way toward winter it was mild weather leading into . . . what? Last winter was quite bitter, perhaps the most bitter in ten years. Was this mild fall a sign of a milder winter?

Well, maybe this winter won’t be so brutal as last winter. But mild it does not seem to be, and it is certainly here.

The first ominous signs that winter was indeed finally here to stay came last weekend, when the morning temperatures dropped down into the low double digits. (Fahrenheit, for any non USA readers.) However, early this week things warmed up a bit, making it up past 60 on two days. On Wednesday I was working outside in a long sleeved shirt. The weather was mild, partly sunny . . . nice.

Then Thursday came. I woke up that dark morning to the sound of wind howling outside, shrieking around the house. I go for a bicycle ride on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings. My first thought on hearing the howl of wind was “I hope it isn’t too cold out there.” Then secondly, “That wind is going to make riding tough.” First thing downstairs I check the outside temperature. It’s in the mid twenties. I feel better about that. Wind in the mid twenties isn’t bad. Wind in the single digits is murder. I live in dread of the utter depths of winter when I may end up with mornings well into sub-zero temperatures. That happened last year. That is when biking gets really hard.

With a wind breaker and gloves, I didn’t freeze on my morning ride, but the head wind gave me trouble. It wasn’t a gentle breeze, but rather a gale force wind coming from the West. As I moved from one road to another, wind was alternately plastering me from one side, then the other, next pushing me from behind (that was nice) or gusting full in my face. If you’ve never gone riding a bicycle in the face of a strong head wind, you’ve no idea how much it can slow you down. At times it felt like I was slowed to a crawl, fighting to have any forward momentum at all.

Back home, I came inside most definitely awake, and quite . . . er . . . refreshed. It had been a hard ride, but overall I thought it wasn’t a bad way to start the day.

The wind did not let up as the morning progressed. If anything, it grew fiercer, and the air colder. Snow began to fall, whipping through the air. Around 10:00 AM, the electricity began to flicker. Then it went completely out. This was the first hint that Thursday was not going to be an ordinary day.

The power came back on about an hour later. I hoped there would be no more trouble with the power. I waited a little longer, then decided I could finally sit down and begin writing for the day. A half hour of writing later, the power suddenly cut out again, and I was treated to the horrifying sight of my text sucking of the screen into black oblivion. I have my word processor set to save every fifteen minutes, but fifteen minutes of lost writing is fifteen minutes too much.

So that was that. The wind was howling, and ever howling, the snow was flying, and it didn’t look like I was going to get any writing done. The only thing left to do was make the best of a bad situation and catch up on some reading. That is what I did all afternoon long. The power didn’t come back on for good until around five, and even then it was still flickering and browning out. There was no way I was going to risk losing any more work on the computer so I continued reading, switching from productive reading to entertaining reading. Snow continued to fall, and the wind continued to blow.

It was after six in the evening and utterly dark, when Dad called. He had hit a patch of snow, spun out, and ended up with his car in the ditch. Could we come and push him out? Teman, myself, and Lachlan piled into Teman’s jeep and headed out.

The snow had been falling lightly all afternoon with probably only a total of an inch on the ground. Most of the road didn’t have sticking snow. However, the wind was whipping the snow about, and where the wind was funneled across the road, there was drifting. As we headed out in the jeep we would come to sections of the road where the snow was blowing across in white out conditions. If the snow had been falling heavily, it would have been blizzard conditions.

Dad had more than slid slightly off the road. Coming over the crest of a hill, he had come suddenly upon a patch of road with drifted snow. He began to slide, and then went into a spin. He spun multiple times (enough to die three times over, he said) and ended up with the car straddling a ditch, the back end up on a bank, the front end facing out toward the road. It was a spectacular landing, and a reminder that if something solid had been in the way, or if he had landed in some other position than upright, he could have been dead.

The car had gone off the road hard and fast, but appeared to have landed softly on the grassy bank. One turn signal light had popped out, but there was no other visible damage. However, one of the front tires was hanging over the ditch, and the weight of the car was on the front bumper. We couldn’t get it out.

The section of the road we were on was open, and the wind was cutting, bitter cold, and strong. Sitting in the parked jeep we could feel every gust making the vehicle rock. It was miserable weather to be out fighting with a car over a ditch full of water. After a bit of effort we came to the conclusion we wouldn’t be able to move the car by our own strength. This job needed a tow truck.

It was a long night. We went home and called a tow truck. Then we drove back to the car and waited for the tow truck to show up. When the tow truck finally showed up, the driver had to call for his supervisor because it was a tricky extraction. So we waited for the supervisor. Then, once the supervisor arrived, the car was winched out. Dad drove the car to the local repair shop to have it checked over for any damage. Then we all went home. It was past nine.

Thus winter came in with a bang. Mild and pleasant it is no more.

The wind continued to howl all Thursday night. It has died down some today, but this afternoon it began to snow again. Such a grim change from the warmth and sun of Wednesday. Winter has come, winter is here to stay, and what does this fierce arrival mean?