Archive for January, 2008
No. No, I don’t. I don’t have to admit anything. Nor will I. Ever.
I got Darling up and off to school this morning. Buses were running on time despite the fact that there was ice on my porch step. I tried to convince them that this was risky business; that ice could cause me to slip as I was heading out to chores, and if Darling weren’t here to pick me up it could mean I would be laying there all cold until City Boy found me. They didn’t buy it. I told them City Boy wouldn’t even look for me, that he’d get up and head straight to the coffee and I’d likely be buried under a half inch of snow by the time anyone went outside. Anyone being the cat, who of course would not be able to lift me up off the ice. Still, they insisted that buses would be running and that they expected Darling to be on the bus. Pffft. I think I’d have had a better shot if it were actually snowing, but the flakes had stopped yesterday afternoon and the snow had begun to melt.
So out to do chores I went, across the slippery porch steps, patio, and out across the driveway to where my charges were waiting eagerly for alfalfa. At least my wild ponies are sensible and like to stay inside their stalls during inclement weather. Domestic horses would be outside in the cold trying to prove how buff they are, while wild horses are smart and know just how nice those snuggly stalls can be. Like me. Give me a snuggly stall and I’ll stay inside all day rather than out in that dreadful white stuff.
Inside, City Boy had finally risen from bed and was helping himself to a cup of coffee. Looking out the window, he said, “It’s starting to snow again.” (If I were a horse, my ears would be back at that statement.) “You gotta admit it’s pretty.”
No. No I don’t.
No, really, they are. I know they look like bugs under a microscope, but really, they’re snowflakes.
Would I lie to you?
I wasn’t really wanting to get up. The bed was so warm and I had the blankets pulled up around my ears, my head buried deep in that flannel pillow case. I was content. Comfortable. Happy to stay like that the rest of the day. Not to mention, asleep. Which is why I was confused when I heard a sheep baaa-ing from my living room.
When I woke up, I realized it was my phone, that it was 6:30 am, and that it likely was City Boy calling. Who else would call at that time of the morning? He was on his way home and told me he’d just heard the school was running two hours late this morning, meaning Darling could sleep in.
That was Darling’s dream. She loves sleeping in, but before bed she’d desperately wanted to have a half day of school. “A half day means it still counts as a day, and there’s no make up day!”
When City Boy came home, he found the bed was cold and empty. Despite the fact that the buses were running late, I still had chores to do, including a trip across the creek to the neighbor’s. By that time, the wind had picked up and was howling around my ears. The snow wasn’t really snow, more like ice pelting into my skin. When I walked in the door, Darling was staring at the computer screen, thrilled with the two hour delay. Which is when I felt the need to pop her bubble and hit the refresh button, revealing the new headline:
ALL SCHOOLS ARE NOW CLOSED
Poor Darling. Not only does she miss the classes that she’s really rather fond of, but she now has an extra day of school come summer. Well, serves her right, if you ask me, since she just finished a paper exalting the year round school system!
I call this, “Black Horse in Snow Storm”
Really…it’s Jet. I promise you.
Okay, no, we’re not. But I thought maybe I’d at least lift your spirits for one, brief, shining moment…
Rather, we’re having an ice storm. City Boy drove home from work and reported that the roads up here were iced over on account of freezing rain. Just walking out to the barn became tricky as anything that had a layer of water on it was now a skating rink. That included the steps, patio, driveway, and horse paddocks.
It’s too bad going out to the barn wasn’t the only thing I had to do. My neighbors, however, are out of town and I am in charge of feeding horses. Thankfully, they’re within walking distance or they’d be going hungry otherwise as I’d be sitting here waiting for a thaw. I don’t drive on ice.
When I left the house, there were a few snowflakes that had begun to fall. I had my camera (naturally) and figured I’d share with you my blizzard.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. It wasn’t exactly a blizzard.
However, it was coming down pretty fast and heavy. That picture above was from the top of the hill, while the one from below was down there at the bottom.
Do you see how much more has piled up on the road??? Don’t you feel sorry for me now? It’s horrible. Dreadful. Abominable!
At least it made for pretty pictures of the hawthorn berries!
Let’s just hope my poor little house doesn’t get buried!
Here we go again…I was minding my own business, paying no heed, when someone (Willowtreecreek, but who’s naming names?) tags me for that Seven Things game! Okay, so what can I tell you that’s fresh and new?
1) When I was a kid my horse, Tuffy, stepped on my big toe and tried to squish it like it was a bug. My toenail fell off a couple days later. He swears it was an accident. He lies.
2) I’ve got a birthmark on my ribcage and it’s shaped like a lima bean.
3) I walk like a duck. No, it’s true. My feet point outwards from the knee down. Do ducks have knees?
4) Darling’s feet are prettier than mine. She also doesn’t walk like a duck…
5) My father is an ex cop. Which reminds me, I still haven’t told you the patchouli story.
6) My mother was runner up in the dairy princess competition. She’d have won, except she told the judges she wanted to move to town and live in a house full of cats. Way to go, Mom. Or shall I say, Cat Lady!
7) I’ve got spaces between my big toes and the ones next to them. My feet look a little like David Letterman’s face. That’s why I wear shoes.
Beneath these shoes lie David Letterman’s teeth..
Now, to whom can I pass along this wonderful little
virus tagging game? Let’s see… How about:
I know this may crush the fantasies of several of my male readers, as you’ve no doubt wondered what it must be like to be married to such a wonderful woman as I am. After all, those manure facials and over night mud packs are pretty tempting… But if you’re the kind of guy who’s into home cooked meals, and having your wife to do the cooking, you may find yourself just a tad disappointed in what you’re about to read, because…I don’t cook.
Oh, sure, some farm divas may enjoy an afternoon making like Betty Crocker and baking cakes, pies and cookies for their family’s enjoyment. Some even imagine themselves to be Martha Stewart, baking cinnamon rolls from scratch and starting their own cooking blogs. (And that truly escapes me, because why would anyone want to be Martha? I mean…with all the money that woman makes, she can’t even find a decent hair stylist. But I digress.)
These things aren’t for me. The only reason I’ve got a kitchen is because it came with the house. The less time I spend in it, the less I have to clean up afterwards. And since cleaning is another area of domesticity in which I am sadly lacking, I avoid the kitchen whenever possible.
It would appear, however, that I am the only one in this household who feels that way. And for that, I must admit to being a bit thankful. I also think I may love Emril Lagasse.
Yesterday City Boy decided to cook up a bit of Pig. He found a recipe and had the roast sitting in the fridge ready to go. He searched the internet and found a recipe, finally coming up with one by Emril. He spent the whole day in the kitchen, basting and…and…well, I don’t know exactly what else he was doing. The recipe called for seven long hours in the kitchen, and he had to baste every 30 minutes with a vinegar and brown sugar glaze. This is the extent of my knowledge of what happened in the kitchen. But I do know what came out of the kitchen, and it was sheer heaven.
The pork was tender and flavorful right down to it’s very core. Mashed potatoes appeared from nowhere, rich, buttery, and smooth. A gravy that was absolutely to die for~to die for!~had been made from the glaze and was ready to top them both. For a meat and potatoes woman like me, it was sheer bliss. I thought about taking a picture for you, but I was too busy stuffing my face. By the time everyone was done, there was nothing left but dirty plates…and this one little bit of pork that City Boy doused with barbecue sauce. I think he’s going to try to make sandwiches out of it for his lunch today, but he’ll have to beat me to it.
Thank you Emril, for your wonderful recipe!
(And you, too, City Boy, for taking the time to make it!)
Yes, that’s right, my self portrait beat out Darling’s shot of me with the glasses. Neener, neener, neener, Darling! (Although, she did gather quite a bit of support 😉 )
Sunrise over Twin Sisters
Clear, cold, and beautiful at the Nooksack yesterday.
They’re calling for the ‘S’ word here. It’s been cold and clear and cold, but not as cold as some of y’all deal with, and for that I’m thankful. But mostly it’s been dry, and for that I’m doubly thankful as there’s no such thing as a manure facial when the poop soup is frozen to the ground. But if the objectionable white stuff hits, I’ll not be happy.
When manure if frozen to the ground, it’s difficult to pick up. When white stuff covers it, you can’t find it to pick up. Then when the temp rises and the white stuff begins to melt, the manure becomes soft and messy, mixing in with the white stuff (which, by the way, is now brown stuff) as the horses tromp around in it. If the rains follow, and they always do, it reverts back to poop soup quicker than a City Boy can hot foot it to the nearest Starbucks when you offer to buy him a latte.
It doesn’t really feel like snow out there to me just yet, and the clouds don’t look precisely right, but I’ll be going to get a few bales of hay today just to be sure I don’t get caught without should a storm sneak in over the weekend.
This morning’s clouds…not enough to have me worried. Yet.