For the Upcoming New Year

For my readers, for my family, for my friends. . . May you always have walls for the winds, a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire, laughter to cheer you, those you love near you and all your heart might desire. - Irish Blessing

Bacon and Eggnog

Pancakes that is!

click to enlarge photos

"Every Christmas my Mom would get a fresh goose, for gooseburgers, and my Dad would whip up his special eggnog out of bourbon and ice cubes."

Fry - Futurama

Christmas breakfast was just a biscuit on the go. Today, even though it's not even light out yet, I'm making a real breakfast. You start with the best pre-made eggnog on the planet, Oberweis, if you can get it. This is not the time to use something out of a 3 gallon barrel that just says "eggnog" in black letters on it. The origins, even the ingredients used to make the first eggnog are subject to debate. with much history and life in this tasty little brew. It might have been tho developed from posset , a medieval beverage made with hot milk. It's been suggested that the "nog" came from the word "noggin", a Middle English term used to describe a small, wooden, carved mug used to serve alcohol. Yet another story is that the term derived from the name "egg-and-grog", a common Colonial term used to describe rum. Eventually, it was said, the term was shortened to "egg'n'grog", then "eggnog".

The drink made its way to the English colonies during the 18th century. Since brandy and wine were heavily taxed, rum from the Triangular Trade with the Caribbean was used as a substitute. When the supply of rum to our newly founded United States was reduced as a consequence of the Revolutionary War (too much taxation and there's a Revolution, imagine that) Americans turned to domestic whisky—and eventually bourbon in particular—as a substitute. Eggnog made without alcohol is available in stores during the holiday season and from this, comes the HOTR eggnog pancakes. Though they are alcohol free, there is no rule however about the cook not having any while preparing them for a late morning Brunch.

Even if you don't love eggnog, you will like these - light and tall, incredibly rich and worth the trouble.

The secret is clarified butter and the eggnog. The batter is quite thick and you have to watch the heat in the pan when cooking as they are, pardon my French, delicate little bastards. Too hot and they burn before they cook through, too cold and they are rubber. Try a test pancake for practice and then prepare yourself for a treat.

It's worth it.

Open Roads

I wish I could relay that I'm snug at home right now, surrounded by Christmas cookies and family but I'm working. I technically get holidays off, but tell that to the bat phone.

I was out the door in the very early morning hours yesterday. A quick message to the friend who takes care of Barkley if my day runs late. It would have been easy to feel sorry for myself, being up that early when half the world is on holiday leave, but I found something exhilarating about climbing into that truck, coffee in hand, and putting on some classic music. In my truck now a collection of songs from the 70's. Entering adulthood at the tail end of that decade I remember that music well.

I thought back to that time, as the miles clicked under my wheels, time when I could only dream of having a big truck like this, and freedom. Getting older doesn't bother me, living this life does not either. I may not be home 8 to 5 and the life can sometimes be lonely, but how many of the kids I graduated with have days where they get to drive a big 4 x 4 to the airport to be picked up by a private jet because someone needs my skills. I answer to just a few, mainly to myself, the hardest responsibility of all. I wouldn't trade it for anything, if only that I can finally own a cool vehicle or two.

My first set of wheels was technically a small blue bicycle that transported me from one adventure to the next. My first automobile was another matter. What I wanted was a muscle car. What I GOT was a high mileage VW Bug. NOT exactly the wheels I had envisioned. But all the family budget would allow.

Insurance was reasonable with straight A's, but gas was the biggest part of my budget. Dad expected us to pay our own expenses with a car, and he did keep tabs on where I was in it as best he could. It was a rural town, traffic was light and crime was nonexistent. We roamed in our cars as we did on our bikes, cruising up and down main street like sharks watching for tourists, anxious to see if anyone had anything nicer than we had, looking for new faces in a crowd of kids who had all played together since kindergarten. You never saw kids in their parent's expensive cars, what we were in, we bought ourselves, and fixed up ourselves, Glass Pack Mufflers, 8 Track Players and afternoons under a hood instead of hanging around a mall.

Some folks down the road here bought their kid a new SUV when he turned 16. He's been in and out of juvie so many times for fights and vandalism, I've lost count. When he wrecked it they bought him a new one. They pay for his gas and expenses because as Dad says "he doesn't want to work at McDonalds". They see no correlation between his spoiling and his growing criminal record.

My first car was as cheap as it came. It didn't even have a radio, so we stuck this giant tape player under the right hand glove box where I would come screaming home after classes (well as screaming as you could in a VW Bug) with music playing way too loud through the speakers.But soon I was graduated, and on my own and I had to buy my OWN wheels. There have been many cars, most not very new, a truck or two, and my all time favorite, a 67 Barracuda 383S which we somehow managed to stuff a 440 big block in to.

My love affair with machinery started young. Girlhood dreams sung to the tune of "Radar Love", a very well used tape from a Dutch band, one I inherited from my older brother and listened to regularly, years after it had faded from the airwaves. Miles and miles of dreaming about the freedom I'd have when I grew up and became an adult.Then somehow I became an adult and that much awaited freedom came with it too many things to do, responsibilities blocking that open road.

What happened to those days of curving roads and youth? Somehow they vanished with a mute, befitting, hollow sound, which drove for only a moment upon us, with the dreadful still hush of motion stopped, too abruptly to mourn.

As I headed out into the frozen night, I opened the door outside, the house still, myself, utterly motionless. In hastily donned black pants, jacket, granola bar, passport in bag, always with me, in case, I look out onto the driveway, listening. On my face is a look of adulthood come too early and following me around like a reservation dog. For many, today is one of rest, but I'm OK that it will not be for me, for within me I'm restless.

I open the door to my vehicle, the door creaking gently open so not to wake Barkley in the house. It's a large truck, extended cab, with a short bed. It cost as much as homes used to and serves me well, serves me practically. On it's stereo is Vivaldi and Celtic music, sedate adult music that I listened to on the drive home. As I go to climb in, I catch a reflection in the side window of my truck and see a small smile. I think today I'll listen to something else.

I look forward to the long drive; for just an hour, no chores, no errands, no responsibilities. No speed limits. I silently climb in, as if sneaking out, and fit my form into the leather seats with a lascivious eagerness that is wasted on youth. "Time to get going!" I say to myself as I do each morning in my quiet room, waking up cold, when that last full exhalation of sleep has left my form and I look from beyond the portals of sleep to yet another new day of adventure. As I turn on the stereo I head out of the drive.

Windows cleared, the road is mine. The neighborhood is still asleep. It's just me and my ride, miles of road interspersed with the angular cuts of farm land, ringed with blue/black sky. I sort through old CD's at a stop sign, selecting some not listened to for a long time. I salute the road, with a small burst of gravel, fabric against my skin, the sound of cotton and warm flesh in action, the heat of the road in me.

Ahead is only the miles, with nothing to do but take in the passing landscape. My home is more than a small house, my life more than work and heartache, it's this whole open world. Up ahead a horizon, up above a sky, inscrutable, desolate above the land it wombs. I surge from a stoplight, Billy Idol with a rebel yell, hitting the highway. Adulthood can wait for just a few hours. There will be enough time to put on my professional demeanor in just a few hours, but the hours are inconsequential to me now. Time doesn't matter when I'm on the road. My age doesn't matter with the steering wheel under my hand. The asphalt flows past, black sleeves and alabaster hands, my lips forming into soundless words, the thump of the beat of the music, pounding along with my youthful heart.

I've been drivin' all night, my hand's wet on the wheel

There's a voice in my head that drives my heel

It's my baby callin', says I need you here

And it's half past four and I'm shifting gear

Words, like light, illuminate many things - Brigid

"I believe there are more instances of the abridgment of freedom of the people by gradual and silent encroachments of those in power than by violent and sudden usurpations."

JAMES MADISON (Drafted Virginia Constitution, Member of Continental Congress, Virginia delegate to Constitutional Convention, named "Father of the Constitution", author of Federalist Papers, author of the Bill of Rights, Congressman from Virginia, Secretary of State, 4th President)

To Everything a Season

TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON. . .

That phrase is oft associated with song lyrics but it's actually from the Bible.

To everything there is a season,and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones,and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Holidays are a time of joy and also one of reflection. Most of us have lost someone close to us in our lives. A parent, a spouse, a friend, a beloved pet. It does not matter what form love takes, it becomes part of us, and losing it is like peeling away that outer layer of skin, leaving nerve endings exposed to the cold. We all know that every life must end, but when it ends much too young or abruptly, it is just so hard to accept. For the true majestic, incandescent blindness of love is its willful refusal to fully acknowledge that at some time death will take someone from our lives here.

I remember a moment four summers ago, when I was staying at home after my Dad had suffered a mild stroke, walking into the home of my childhood, carrying groceries and seeing my Dad so still on the couch, it appeared he wasn't breathing. For just an instant, everything went into high relief, like a scene in a 3-D movie - the Safeway bag dead weight in my arm, the sun glinting off my old piano against the wall, Dad's slippers on the floor. My whole life suspended, bathed in bright June sunlight. In the short terrible space between that moment and the next, when he opened his eyes and smiled, I got a glimpse of grief as it would look in this new incarnation. And perhaps, for those of us who have had that glimpse, it is partly the encroaching darkness that makes the light so vivid.

Artists understand this so well. Think of the paintings you have seen in a museum, that life force depicted in paintings of luscious fruit and wildlife, a ripe red apple next to a fox so carefully wrought that a single drop of blood can be seen along a fine whisker. In studies of faces that bloom in layers of ancient varnish, the curve of a a child's cheek revealed gradually, the glint of light on a coat of arms or the promising, secret gleam in a redheaded woman's eye that belie the fact that the persons in these visages may be hundreds of years gone. For that moment, in those paintings they are still with us.

I look at portraits of myself and then look at that of my own daughter, wondering if decades from now, the upcoming generations of our women will remember the strength and love from which they were born.

I look at a photo of my Mom taken in the woods she loved, long before she began that fight for her life. A heavy smoker, cancer was diagnosed when she was only 42 years old. I remember watching as a youngster, when Dad would come home to that same house, with shadowed corners and open windows, in the town where I grew up, and he'd collapse on the sofa from worry and exhaustion. Losing my mother seemed impossible, she was never so alive as in those last years when she fought so hard to stay that way, still death came too soon for her age, and for mine. Yet she is still with me daily. Whenever you've been touched by love, be it of a parent, child or friend, even after they're been taken from you , a heart-print lingers, so that you're always reminded of the feeling of being cared for, knowing that, to someone, you mattered. You do not need a photo to remember that.

For now my Dad is here on this earth and though there are days he's a little befuddled and often forgets my name, he is still with me; with my stepmom, a kind and good woman, lost in the shadows of her own mind, dancing to memories we can't see, a smile always on her face.

For now, for this season, I'll concentrate on the good days; for those conversations together, for quiet mornings reading from a book together, even if neither remember my name. Every hour, every day is grace. And I am going to savor that, for it's not what you've lost that counts, its what you do with what you have left. There will be time for mourning later.

For at this Christmas time, we need to focus on not what might have been taken away, but what has been given to us, not with the love we may not have in human form, but the love that remains with us always. Focus on the many gifts you have. Gentle breezes and tailwinds, the laughter of friends and family. A job if you are so fortunate, or the skills to care for your family as best you can. A snug home and people who love you, a warm furry heart by your side. Concentrating on the good things, so while we still are, we can still hope.

Weekend Warriors - Fueled by Guinness

The back room has been updated to make it more appealing, except for paint, insulated with new insulation (there was little to none in this previous owner room addition), storm windows to keep out the cold and a new door. Last weekend a lot was done to prep and the help this weekend was a really nice surprise with several of the guys from the Conservatino Club volunteering to help.
When they got into stuff I didn't have the skill set to do, I retired to the safety of the kitchen and made Guinness Stew for everyone.

This is all you need (OK, and coffee). I bet most of you have these things on hand. This makes enough to feed several hungry people, with leftovers, as I doubled the regular recipe.
Toss 4 pounds of stew meat in a mixture of flour (about 6 T. seasoned with a bit of salt and pepper and a dash of cayenne or Penzey's Northwoods Seasoning) and then brown on all side in a large, deep pan in which 5 tablespoons of olive oil is heated until hot, not smoking (add in more oil as needed as it cooks up).
Barkley wants a poster made out of this picture.
After the meat is removed to keep warm, saute six cloves of garlic, or the equivalent of chopped garlic, in the pan with two chopped onions, stirring up the little bits of meat and juice from the bottom of the pan until the onion starts to caramelize. Add in 3 tablespoons of tomato paste and six chopped carrots and cook 4 minutes. Add in six potatoes, peeled and diced into big pieces, and the meat. Pour 32 ounces of room temperature Guinness and a 32 ounce can of beef broth over the top until the meat is covered, adding more of both if needed.
Bring to a boil and boil 3 minutes, then reduce heat, stir and cover. Simmer for an hour, until the vegetables are tender, adding in 2 tablespoons of parsley and a another pinch of salt and pepper (to taste) about 10 minutes before it is done. To thicken broth slightly prior to serving, make a roux out of a small spoonful of flour and some cold water in a large coffee mug. Slowly stir in a little of the hot broth into the mug, stirring so the flour doesn't congeal, and then pour that, in a thin stream, into the stew to thicken, stirring as you do. It's also good unthickened, more like a rich soup than a stew. The broth does not taste like beer, but it's wonderful.

Sprinkle with more parsley if you like and serve with a loaf or two of fresh bread to dunk in the rich broth and you are set.

click to enlarge photos

CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY

I made it back ahead of the worst of the weather and am safely home and warm. Yesterday afternoon was interesting. The truck had a shimmy from the right front tire/brake area, as if it was hung up. I'd been driving through snow and slush and it was about 10 degrees when the truck sat for a couple of hours, so I wondered if something stuck in there and then froze. Just to be on the safe side, I stopped by a small Chevy dealer on the way home. I explained the problem and they said they'd check the tire and brake and the brake lines and such. They said they usually charge about $85 for simple diagnostic work but that should be about it, unless there was a problem with the brakes requiring repair.

I waited for an hour while they went over it thoroughly. The shop supervisor said they found nothing wrong and like me, figured it was packed snow or ice. When I got out my credit card, he quickly said "Oh Miss, no charge, no charge at all.", shooing me out the door with a fresh cup of hot coffee. I was really pleased.

Then after I got home I noticed, that having come from a hunt recently, and a field dressing, the truck bed was covered in blood stains. No wonder they didn't charge me. :-) They either figured me for a fellow hunter or an axe murderer.

But I'm home, Barkley happy to see his "Mom" and I'm ready to unwind. Tomorrow, a bit more "home improvement" to be done. to the tune of a big pot of Guinness beef stew and fresh bread. Later, some time to write a real post.

Tonight, a long, hot bubble bath.
Uh. . . . Or maybe not.

(I had asked Barkley to put away the stuff in the bathroom but he used that "opposable thumb" excuse again)

B Sharp

Neighbor: "What orchestra do you play in?'

Me: "huh?????"

Neighbor: "I see the musical instrument cases you carry out of the house all the time."

Me - "oh look, a squirrel!" (escapes to truck)

Road Poems

photo by Malamute Bill

Nature's light so softly speaks,
that heaven shines upon these peaks.
In our view, celestial light,
so we can see past mortal sight.
- Brigid

Household Wish Lists

Brigid:

1. Midway shooters bag
2. ammo cans

3. Konus Spotting Scope 20-60x 80mm with Tripod, Photo Adapter and Soft Case Armored Green
4. Shell Sorter Brass Sorter 380 ACP Adapter Plate
5. Mossberg Sight Kit Ghost Ring Mossberg 590
6. The Barrett 82A1 rifle kit. Featuring the 82A1 semi-automatic rifle. Includes-
Semi-automatic Rifle, 50BMG, 29" Bbl, Black Finish, Composite Stock, with Leupold Vari-X III 4.5-14X50 Scope, Cleaning Equipment, Air/Watertight Carrying Case, and M1913 Accessory Rail, One 10-Round Magazines (on sale at Impact Guns for only $9,999)
7. Lyman Trigger Pull Gage Electronic Digital 0 to 12 lb
8. Lyman "Reloading Handbook: 49th Edition" Reloading Manual Softcover
9. Ney Certified Pure Tin Bullet Casting Alloy (99.85% Pure), 4 of them please
10. Hornady Lock-N-Load Bullet Comparator Basic Set with 6 Inserts
11. Any of the Lee 6 cavity Bullet Molds
12. A new coffeepot
13. and a tank (well I can ask)

Barkley
My very own cat
and a pot roast

Walking the Land

If there is any advantage of getting up to go to work by 5 am, it's occasionally getting done in time to enjoy a little bit of last light, a short trek around the fields and trees that surround my little town. With a couple hours free before darkness drew a cape across the face of the moon, I had time for a long walk around the area. Time to gather my thoughts, ricocheting around inside my head with all that's going on in the world. Time, after a busy weekend, for stillness and quiet, out among the cold and a few trees.

At the base of one tree was the trunk of another felled during the recent wind storm and for a moment I could stop, sit, think and take some photos of the frozen landscape. Had it been warmer I could have taken a nap there, leaning against the tree. I've done that while pheasant hunting, where I would set my gun down and exhausted from miles of walking, simply lean against a tree with a patch of sun tattooing my skin and sleep. My black lab would drop to his haunches at my side, sniff the air for trouble, then doze himself, twitching to rabbity dreams.

As kids my brother and I would sleep in the yard on many a starry night, dragging out the little pup tent, and setting it up under the canopy of the apple trees. We'd lie on our backs in our sleeping bags out on the grass, tracking satellites through the air and speculating on the nature of the heavens and why the plain Hershey bar was just better than the one with nuts in it. We were kids, and there were no worries, about elections or taxes or bears or hydrophobic porcupines. We'd wake, ground cold and soggy with dew, and hike back those 10 yards to the house, bleary eyed from lack of sleep yet energized with the joy of believing that we would live forever.

The woods still fascinate me.To be alone under a shelter of trees is divine. I know many that would not be so comfortable, not truly happy unless they are the center of attention, with lights and music and action. Not I. To drift alone in thought in the presence of the trees and the proximity of the earth is much of what I feel when I'm flying. In it I get a sense of the truly spiritual. Not in the traditional sense, but in the ablution that comes from placing ones self at the alter of the planet, and for just a moment picking out a little infinity from the perpetually crushing teeth of time.

I can't say I'm "tree hugger", for growing up in a small city where logging was the prime employer, I appreciate a tree in the form of a pile of two by fours as well as in it's original state. I do not think the trees are the home of sentient druid spirits, nor do the trees speak to me; but I am pleased to take shelter under their branches, reinforced in the smallness of my form next to their trunks, smiling as the branches separate me from the chatter of the world that echoes outside the woods. There is comfort in my small but strong form against theirs, for I am stricken by the thought of tremendous roots threading their way under the ground beneath me, weaving themselves into the soil, becoming one with it,taking nourishment from it, in a way we poor ground dwellers rarely will. Such gravity. So sitting on the trunk of one of their fallen I rest, and they feed my soul as surely as if the roots were joined to my own veins.

Leaning against the trees, sun glinting off of a small icicle that clings to ancient wood, the secret whisper of wind invisible to me and silent, asks of me - would we find the beauty in anything if we lived forever? Would the gems of thoughts and feelings and desire be so precious if we knew they would always be upon our shelf? Or would they fall to the earth, trickling through our hands like water, evaporating on the cold ground, because we thought our hold on them was eternal.

Life is fleeting and beautiful, yet I will fight strong to hold onto it until the last dwindling dawn. I will quietly fight against others that disparage me and my life. I will fight for those that wish to take the freedoms and liberty that those around me have worked so hard for. As these thoughts unbidden flit through my mind like the scattering of sun against a few remaining leaves, I pat the gun on my hip and am thankful that I am free to carry it on land that I own as a free citizen.

Perhaps why that is why I believe so strongly in the Second Amendment, a part of the U.S. Constitution that did not give us that right, but AFFIRMED it. Was it not the rights of those that planted these lands, and their fathers before them, to carry arms to protect and preserve these plots of ground? Ground that they labored until death to maintain and preserve for the next generation. The land is precious, as is the fruits of our hard work. As I walk through the woods, I rest my hand on the wood that makes up the grip of my weapon, feeling the cold power of its strength, that in turn flows through my arm, emboldening my step. I walk boldly, a woman alone in a vacant forest, knowing well that my gun may not be needed but for the day a politician tries to take it from me.
As I turn to head back to home walking back towards the pond behind my house, the words of Benjamin Franklin come to me.

God Grant that not only the Love of Liberty, but a thorough Knowledge of the Rights of Man, may pervade all the Nations of the Earth, so that a Philosopher may set his foot anywhere on its Surface, and say, "This is my Country.".

This IS my country, and THIS is my land. I believe that as strongly as I believe that I have the right to protect it, to protect myself from those that would wish to take it from me to share the wealth with those who's days have not known such labors as I. Selfish? No. I am part of this land, and it is part of me. I have earned the right to be here, and I will rest my ashes in its ancient depths when I am gone.

Time to go back inside, Barkley looking up at me from his enigmatic gaze as I move towards the gate. Clouds move across the sun, water drips like blood from a frozen knife of ice. I quietly walk across the leaves that blanket the earth's secret. I look up to the sky, thirsty roots sunk deep.

A day in the life . . .fun and games

Click to enlarge food photos, don't be shy.

Household work party this weekend with some of the hunting gang. I've got just a few tools, a hammer being one of the few I can be trusted with, but I'm learning more and more all of the time. This weekend - some better insulation in the room that faces the cold winds, and drywall to cover, a new back door and later, blowing some insulation in the attic. I made a whole bunch of bacon-rich Range Chili , which is in the crockpot, a simple recipe which won the "chili cook off" at work. The secret, among other things than bacon, Penzey's Chili 9000 seasoning and two small small squares of dark unsweetened baking chocolate, finely chopped and mixed in. For dessert of course, a fresh baked crumb-topped apple pie. (recipe towards the end of the comments).The conversations ranged from framing to whether Darth Vadar was framed, the morphology of neurons, to what our porn star name would be (the name of your first pet followed by the name of the first street you lived on). I was Pepper Maryland, Rangebuddy was Max Wood (I am SO not going to go there). We all laughed, put a bunch of screws in the new drywall, a nail or two up around the new door. We paused only to enjoy some good homemade chow, looking around at a room refinished, with the men's hands, numb with wear and full of splinters, myself cleaning up and putting the tools away. As the sun went low in the sky, we looked around at the work done with the sharp, spent astonishment of people having done so much in so little time, and without a contractor, stimulus, or a government instruction guide. My friends, with few exceptions, are in the medical field, engineering or law enforcement. Our favorite Geek Goddess. someone I'm proud to just hang out with sometimes, Roberta X , often amazes me with her talent and the stories of the work that she does. (By the way, she just finished"Another Day" at her "I Work On A Starship" blog, and she has organized the links of the various installments so you can enjoy reading it straight through. To read, go here.) These friends are a small knit group but we are all very much alike in our interests, we all read sci-fi and history, and play just as hard as adults as we did as children. We all have learned to take care of ourselves and we continue to learn. And we all still have toys. Today, there is no starship to fix around here, however there was a gaming computer that needed to be fed. Two radiators, more power than you can shake your joystick at, and all cooled by what looks like Mr. Spock's blood but is actually secret squirrel coolant.

People laugh at me because I have this simple cell phone that does nothing but ring, no blackberry but there are some things that just beg to be built by hand and I just marvel at stuff like this.

In high school I was the shy, geeky kid that skipped a few grades, and not a lot has changed. I'll never be the "it" girl of either the prom or the blogosphere, and I don't care to be. With these people that are my family, with toys we all share and the ability to work and laugh hard and well, I think I will survive most anything. Even selling a big old house and soon, building my own cabin, with a little help from my friends.

Together or Alone?

"The true measure of the patriot is steadfastness. We all have small moments of wanderlust in us, tearing off on solitary paths that others may not follow, testing limits, testing ourselves. That is the nature of man. Yet when we strive to hold true, to stand firm to our beliefs as free men, together, to carry our weapons and defend our land, the weak become strong, and the wandering hold together as one. For then we are united in something much greater than the elemental whims of man. Together as patriots, we are much more of the courageous and less of the selfish, we are brothers in arms."- Brigid - Home on the Range 2oo9

Magic is in the Air (or at least on the work table)

"All you need is trust and a little bit of pixie dust." - Peter Pan

"Or even better, some of that magic .223 dust." - Brigid

Pure and Simple Pleasures

I love vanilla ice cream. But most of the store brands taste like someone massacred a bunch of vanilla wafers to get the flavor. An artificial sort of vanilla taste, sans the crumbs. The texture more like half melted cool whip. Real vanilla ice cream when melted down a bit smells like cream, with a hint of egg and vanilla.

Of store Brands I like Blue Bell (from those years living down south with the annoying Texas Longhorns). It's not totally natural, but it is, in my opinion, one of the best store ice creams for the price, hands down.

Trader Joe's vanilla is pretty good. But Trader Joe's is an hour's drive away.

My brother always has some Tillamook in his freezer. The Marion berry flavor is my favorite. It has corn syrup but it doesn't feel like a visit back there if I don't eat some.There are others that have the little specks of vanilla bean, but specks don't always translate into flavor. Breyers at one time used to be really good, almost like a fresh gelato, but since they were taken over by Unilever, they removed the "pledge of purity" which used to be on every carton and added some gums and chemicals. The label now? MILK, CREAM, SUGAR, CORN SYRUP, EGG YOLKS, NATURAL FLAVOR, NATURAL GUAR GUM, SALT, ANNATTO (FOR COLOR), NATURAL CAROB BEAN GUM.

I don't care if it's "natural" I don't want "carob bean gum, guar gum and corn syrup in my ice cream. The taste? It shows.

Hagan Daz is good but still, for the price, has a strong alcohol and vanilla odor. If you take a sniff after it's melted it smells sour. They have a new one that is five ingredients only. The vanilla and coffee flavor of those are excellent.

Ben and Jerry's? There was one that I liked that was some chocolate brownie thing but it's off the shelf now, at least at my local store. For the most part I like my ice cream pretty simple That's strictly a personal thing. I want my ice cream plain not with chunks and monkeys and granola, gummy bears or ground up hippies in it. But Ben and Jerry's IS a high quality ice cream for those of you who like the add ins.

Everyone should gave a great recipe for Vanilla Ice Cream in their repertoire. Here's my favorite, which comes from The Perfect Scoop (Ten Speed Press)

It's not super quick to make and real vanilla beans and the pure extract aren't cheap, vanilla being most of the most labor-intensive of all crops, but it's worth it.

The three most common cooking vanillas are Bourbon, Tahitian, and Mexican. Bourbon vanilla, from Madagascar has a bold, very-pronounced flavor. Tahitian is more floral, and a rare find. Real Mexican is strong, yet creamy-tasting. But don't buy the cheap Mexican impostors. They can contain coumarin, which is toxic and banned in the U.S. True Mexican vanilla will be similarly priced to the best stuff (not cheap, and worth it).

I know it's winter, but take yourself back to summer with a bowl. What's the fun of being an adult if you can't be a kid every once in a while. - Brigid

Tales of the Outdoors

What do you do to renew your spirit? For the wives of my colleagues, they shop. For me, mall shopping reminds me of the running of the bulls at Pamplona. Something I'd rather not participate in. If it wears out or breaks I can usually find a replacement within 5 minutes of dashing into a non yuppified store.

For myself, I look outdoors to recharge. The woods, the open cornfields of the Midwest, the mountains. The smell of pine trees is my perfume, and the soft retort of a Marlin 1894, a symphony of wonder. There will be no hunting this weekend. It is cold and overcast, and I have a technical obligation out of state very early Monday morning, though that does allow me to have supper with Lawdog and Phlegmy, so life is good.

So for today, rather than hit the malls in the post Thanksgiving feeding frenzy, I can retire to my easy chair happily clutching a book, and let the rest of the world become background noise for a little while. Never spent any real time in the outdoors? Never hunted or fished? Then sit and read with me. Some of my favorites:
Call of the Wild (Aladdin Classics) by Jack London,

A River Runs Through It and Other Stories, Twenty-fifth Anniversary Edition by Joel Snyder
The Yearling (50th Anniversary Edition) by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings (yes a children's book but a classic)

True North (Harrison, Jim)

The River Why, Twentieth-Anniversary Edition by Dick Hill

The Sporting Club by Thomas McGuane

Ordinary Wolves: A Novel by Seth Kantner

Don't have time to get to a bookstore?Then go to my sidebar and find some wonderful chronicles and photos of the outdoors.

Dan - Out on the Rock
Deer Passion -wife, conservationist, hunter.
My Hunting Spot
Pink Camo Gal
Rasch Outdoor Chronicles
Scent Free Lip Gloss -
Whitetail Woods - Rick K.
Whitetails for Women

Writers like these people were all my inspiration. All are masters at the art of weaving the outdoor world into the fabric of your life. Our world awaits you. You don't have to be a daring adventurer to experience those wondrous moments.

As the only sound in the room is that of the turn of a page and the gentle snore of a black lab by my side, I think back to my last little trek into the outdoors. There were only a couple more days before I'd have to go back to work, and there was still hunting to be done. The sun was already setting, leaving lavender ribbons across the sky, clouds thickening up, leaving just one large clear space above me through which I could just make out the beginning crescent of a new moon. The day was growing cold and I could smell the tang of leaves gone golden with fall's little death, the scent so dense I could barely breathe. I could hear the first stirrings of crickets and frogs and the evening became quiet except for the sound of a friend walking back in with me to the tune of our quickened breath. But the sky was darkening and the deer would soon be hunkered down for the night so we would have to head back to the truck, turning back towards the road while a tiny bit of light remained, utter silence now other than the song of night.

The only deer I'd seen that day had come in at dawn, downwind, and she scented us and bolted before I could even move my finger to trigger. Hunting involves a lot of sitting quietly, and patience, it's not for someone that can not do that. That is what patience is all about, being wholeheartedly engaged in the process that's unfolding, not pushing or demanding. That is what hunting is often about, not bringing anything home for supper, but simply a time with nature to be savored, when delight imbibes through every pore with the glint of a twilight sun off a polished barrel. I really don't care if I didn't get a deer today, there would be tomorrow. I just enjoyed the communion of my friends among the elemental trees, toasting our bounty, even if it came in a can, settling down in soft sleeping bags to dream of the next day.

My hunting is not something for an outdoor show, nor is it something modernized, sleeping in a hotel to drive my Hummer out into the woods. For me, hunting and camping was a fire built with magic and swear words, burned wienies and good beans, woodsmoke and bug spray, paper plates that fell apart. My outdoors was the sound of a hoot owl as the sun set, it's dying rays reflected in a cup of beer as a black lab snoozed happily by my feet. I'm here for those times when I don't wish to sacrifice the wonder of the present moment to work, society or noise. A loner mostly, I want a broad margin to my life. I can sit in the faded sunlight of a doorway between two trees, rifle at ready, from breakfast til dark fall, rapt in a revere in undisturbed stillness and solitude.

As dusk settled in, I wondered about the lapse of time, the evening seeming like a mere moment, time like a season in which I grew like flowers in the night. Philosophers talk about contemplation and the forsaking of work and out here I realize what they meant. The day advances as light comes into it, it's morning, and now it's evening, and nothing memorable is done. My days are not minced into deadlines of a ticking clock or the perusal of things no longer within my grasp. Let mornings be lazy, afternoons pass by in a haze of sunshine, or the a flip of a white tail. If the day becomes wasted in the warm rapture of a sunset as nature sings its song in my ear, what's the harm?

In A River Runs Through It, the author talks about "spots of time," but its only been in the outdoors where I've experienced eternity compressed into a moment. A moment where in an instant you can see your whole life and make a choice. No one can even explain to you what this "spot of time" is until your whole world is a large buck and then the buck vanishes. For an instant, just an instant, there was just the sun glinting off of his back, diamonds of light against the ground. I was so enthralled with the sight of him after waiting for hours, I couldn't even take a breath and in that instant before he was gone, time hitched to a stop. Only then did I realize what I had lost And what I had gained.

But for today, just that one little doe at dawn and now the deepening sky told me the hunt for today was at an end. As the last of the daylight seeped out of the sky, I thought back to work, but only briefly, for my mind now is rippled, not storm tossed. These small ripples of leaves on the ground raised by the evening's wind are the only hint of turmoil in the calm. As the day pulled out of the sky, taking the wind with it. I looked one last time out into the still center of the field, listening for the grunt of that big buck, still out there somewhere. There was nothing but utter and complete stillness, holding my breath, because even inhaling and exhaling was like a cacophony. The animals of day were hunkering down for rest, and the night creatures not quite yet stirring. Twas no breeze, no recognition of air even; it was the sound of nothing and everything, where for just a brief moment in the universe, the clock stopped ticking, and the world hushed.

This was our outdoors. Unidentifiable sounds in the darkness that made you hold your breath at the bottom of your sleeping bag. The laughter of friends as you shared stories of the day. A outdoor adventure book read with a flickering flashlight, its shadow dancing on the wall of a small canvas tent or a small farmhouse that provides you warm shelter, the dusty scent of free adventure. A time when growth may not be on the surface but may be internal and the weekend quietly drifts by in the warm embrace of the woods. But even in the woods, any good day must end.

As we got back into the truck I realized something, looking at these three people that are like family to me. These are life's shining moments. Small minutes of time you can carry inside of you while the chaos of life hurries past.

So turn the page, peel away the tired layers of your life, the noise, the stress. The wild awaits you.

Light the flame

“Sometimes it is better to light a flamethrower than curse the darkness”
--Terry Pratchett

Brown butter is a flavor all its own. And you don't need a flamethrower to make it. Banana cake with brown butter frosting.