I'll be back.

As Arnold says.

I developed a bad bacterial infection in my foot where I had a bad scratch  After doing an online consult I'm home with some serious antibiotics but if it doesn't improve in 3 days I'm going into the hospital for IV antibiotics.

I would have gone to the doctor earlier, but it looked just like a bad rash at first (working out a lot I do get athlete's feet) and my dermatologist was closed due to COVID.  By the time it blew up and Sepsis was a possible worst-case concern, well . . . crap.

Send a prayer - I'm running NO fever which is a really good sign and the wound is not seeping,  Outside of just feeling crappy I'm OK but going to take a few days off on sick leave to put my foot up and take the horse pill antibiotics that make my gut feel like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

Brigid

Meat meets Fire

Most kitchens have an assortment of gadgets, but how many of you have a smoker?   If you did, you could have THIS for Sunday dinner.

That's a smoked brisket.  You start with some of your favorite barbecue sauce (about 1 and 1/4 cups or so) to which you've added some Dijon and a splash of hot sauce, thinning it with some whisky so you can inject it into the meat. Use a large bore syringe and inject about 2 ounces to the 3 lb brisket that you've trimmed the fat from (don't cut all the way down to the meat, just get rid of the excess).

Stick the syringe in  and inject until the the marinade comes out of the hole and move to another spot (poke it about 6-8 times top and sides, then keep the remainder).  The aim is go get the flavor inside but also to add moisture so it doesn't dry out during the smoking/cooking process.

This went in a smoker at 200 degrees for four hours, then it was basted with some more of the sauce, wrapped tight in foil and put into the oven at 200 for six more hours.  It makes for an unbelievably tender and juicy piece of meat (with a big thanks to my Canadian friend Marty for the recipe). Served with marinated veggies, corn and homemade bread, you just can't get this at most restaurants.

But the smoker just isn't for the typical "barbecue" cuts of meat  How about taking some of that leftover venison  you've got and make home smoked Bambi sausage before it's time to fill the freezer up with venison again?

Sausage making isn't as hard as it looks, providing you have the right equipment. It's like reloading, if you spend the the money wisely on the right equipment and read up on it, you'll be set up in no time. And like reloading, if you can get a friend to walk you through the process the first time, even better.
For starters you need a grinder.

A grinder is a good investment. Don't be fooled into thinking the smaller kitchen grinder will do the trick. It will, if you're grinding up some walnuts for Christmas cookies but try and process a whole deer with one and it may fail halfway through.
Sure, you can just go with lots of lumps and chunks of meat, stew is always good. But think of all the uses for ground meat, burgers, casseroles, shepherds pie, chili, soups, tacos, meat sauce for pasta, meatballs to launch in your trebuchet at the invading hordes, the list is endless. Instead of . "Oh boy honey, stew again".

Look for one carefully. You do NOT want one of those cheap units that sounds like it's fired by a Rotax on one cylinder or one that groans and labors like a teenager being forced to pick up their room. Venison WILL take more horsepower to grind than most non game meats as it's leaner. This is one of those times, that it pays to get quality, looking not for wattage but for horsepower. A cheap grinder will clog more, be less efficient and likely have to be replaced sooner, costing you more in a long run.

You are looking for something commercial grade, with a solid transmission and a loading hopper that's safe and easy to use. Most of these are also compatible with attachments such as sausage stuffers. Also get to know your local butcher/grocer, for when they are upgrading or replacing used grinders and slicers, they sometimes toss out the old (working) one or will sell it cheaply.

Also, be careful! This is not a piece of equipment you want to use if you are tired, careless or have had a beer or two. It can hurt you!

Yes, this is a homemade helicopter.  It can also hurt you.

The Bambi sausage started with a casing and seasoning duo from Cabelas which was then cooked in a smoker, the summer sausage flavor kit being selected. The pre-measured cure and seasoning provided has no fillers, and the how-to kit, with directions even the inept (ahem) could read included enough seasoning, cure and casings for 25 lbs. of meat.

Yes, you must cure the meat as smoking produces the slow cooked environmental conditions in which botulin can party like there's no tomorrow. (Geek trivia: botulism is Latin for "sausage disease", bringing out the wurst in anyone.)

The usual curing agent is sodium nitrite (NaNO2). Salts like Sodium Nitrate (and Sodium Chloride) can enhance the flavor as well as effectively ward off microbes like Clostridium botulinum. But Sodium Nitrite is implicated in the formation of Carcinogenic nitrosamines and hence should be used only in the recommended quantity. I can't guarantee the rest of my instructions will result in perfect sausage, but trust me on this one, you must cure the sausage meat if using a smoker.

Once prepared, you want to make sure the sausage is always thoroughly dry before being placed in the smoker. As a rule of thumb, you'll want to generate smoke for 3.5 to 4 hours if using fruit wood. In most household smokers, that takes about 3 pans of soaked wood chips.

With the stronger flavored smoke generated by hickory and mesquite, you might be better off stopping the smoke after 3 hours.
Too much smoke flavor is far worse than not enough. Over smoking will cause your sausage to taste acrid and bitter. Under smoking will just result in a less intense smoked flavor, but the sausage will still be very good.

Soak wood chips in water for at least 30 minutes. Any kind of wood chips will impart a smoky flavor to the sausage, but different kinds of wood provide different tastes. Apple, cherry, hickory and pecan wood will give the sausage a nice hint of sweetness. Oak and hard maple, along with mesquite, are excellent. You do want to avoid the soft wood (oh, don't go there) as the flavor of such soft woods such as pine, cedar and poplar tend to burn too fast and much too hot.
The smoker
Fill the firebox with charcoal. If you need to use charcoal lighting fluid, use a high quality one that will ensure no lighter fluid taste taints the flavor of the sausage. Once the coals are nice and grey, place the racks into the smoker, making sure the lowest rack is far enough way that the bottom layer of sausage will not scorch. Lay the sausage carefully on the racks, making sure they neither touch the sides of the smoker nor each other. Place the wet wood chips on top of the coals and close the smoker.

Regulating the Heat
The secret to the smoking phase is temperature control. If you can manage this, the rest is simple. You are aiming for a temperature inside the smoker between 150 and 165 degrees F.

I can't over-emphasize the importance of temperature control in the smoking phase of sausage making. If you get this part right, everything else falls into place easily.

Remember for those of you that cook, you know what happens to some food when you try and turn the heat up too high to make it cook faster? Yes disaster, and "hello, Dominos?" If you try to smoke at a higher temperatures than is recommended, the fat content in your sausage will start to melt and ooze out of the casing, drying out the meat and possible resulting in a visit from Fire Marshall Bill.
Note: I add some pork to the lean venison. For not only does it add flavor, it acts as a binding agent so your final product doesn't turn out dry, bland and crumbly.

Take your sausage out of the smoker when it reaches an internal temperature of 152 degrees F. adding more wet wood chips as needed. This could take several hours depending how full the smoker is. DO NOT GUESS on the temperature. Use a thermometer and monitor it regularly as part of the smoking process. Some people recommend stopping the smoke a few degrees shy of done and continuing to heat to 155 degrees for better color and flavor (such as is stopping the smoke at about 3.5 to 4 hours when using fruit woods and then continuing to heat, or 3 hours for the stronger flavored woods such as mesquite or hickory.)

If you're uncertain as to technique your first try, just smoke til 152 degrees, turn off the smoker, and heat to 155.

When it is done, remove the links and cool them in a cold water bath to lower the internal temperature quickly to 120 degrees. This keeps the links from drying out and shriveling up. When they are cooled, dry on racks for three to four hours and then freeze any you don't plan to eat in the next 4 days. In the freezer they will keep well until the next whitetail season though for optimum flavor use within the next 8-9 months.

One last hint: You may want to have some newspaper down for the puddle of dog drool that will collect on the driveway as the aroma of smoking meat builds.

Barkley Memory - he tried to look calm and vigilant but the hypersonic tail gave him away,

Saving the Spring - New Read From One of the Indy Gun Bloggers

Nathan B.(otherwise known as blogger Fuzzy Curmudgeon), in the front left, and you may recognize Roberta, Frank James, and Caleb in the background.

I miss living in Indy a LOT, but I loved my husband more, so I moved when we got married, not wishing him to give up a dream job to move to where I was located.  

One thing I miss especially is our Indy gun blog meets.  Such a diverse and wonderful group of people.  Several authors of books have come out of the bunch.  I think Roberta X started it with her delightfully clever "I Work on a Starship", Frank James, a well-known author of books on firearms, Mark Alger, Mr. B.  We've had visiting authors - Peter Grant, Dorothy Grant, and Jim Curtis who have written more books than the rest of us combined and continue to entertain with quality Sci Fi and action series and always there is the great writing of Tam who continues to entertain and inform in various mediums.

But we have a new author in our group and his short Fantasy story is absolutely delightful.  If you are fan of Alma T.C. Boykin or Tom Rogneby you will love Nation Brindle's new Fantasy Short and I can't wait for his full-length novel that's in the works.

 https://www.amazon.com/Saving-Spring-Nathan-C-Brindle-ebook/dp/B088361YC5/

For Mother's Day - Homecomings

For Mother's Day, a Chapter from Saving Grace - A Story of Adoption.  Saving Grace didn't get the literary fanfare that The Book of Barkley and Small Town Roads did (both won major literary awards) but it went on to be a #1 bestseller in 4 countries.  I think the themes of animal and people adoption are universal.  I especially enjoyed writing it as I got to share more stories of my family, including my Dad and Mom as well as work through with words, the death of my beloved brother.  They are both very much missed today.

Chapter 3 - Homecomings

Thinking of my brother comes naturally whenever I’m driving. Because the story of Allen and me began with a car ride, the first with our mom and dad.

Mom and Dad grew up in Montana, playing together as children, marrying as soon as Dad got home from serving in the 8th Air Force, stationed in Great Britain. The only reminders of that relationship I have left are letters and pictures, carefully packed in a trunk that lay in the attic until my brother and I liberated it.

There are so many photos of an 8^th Air Force Liberator flying among flak as thick as snowflakes, soaring desolate above land whorled with unrest, the craft solitary above the destruction that it would rain. There underneath the photos lies a stack of letters. Mom and Dad wrote to one another for four years while he was overseas, not returning Stateside once during that entire time. Reading them feels a little like eavesdropping, as you can almost hear the words as they formed---heartfelt, intimate. I opened one; it was just one single page, and I thought of the way their day stopped at the brink of it.

In these letters bridging the time and distance they had to be apart, there was talk of how much they missed one another; of how their families were faring; of good coffee and how Dad missed vegetables from the farm; of burning heat and a cold on the field that would murmur to your very bones. There was playful affection, there was unstated passion and stated promise. Some was in Mom's flowery script, the rest in Dad's meticulous, indomitable hand. "Is everyone there well?" Mom would ask, and Dad would reply that they were (though some were now only well beyond Lamentations). "How is the homestead?” Dad would ask, and Mom would reply, "Fine," not telling him that they were occasionally going hungry.

They spoke of the future, of their past. They did not speak of the aircraft that limped back to England only to crash on approach, their violent end felt through the ground like a vibration rather than heard. They did not speak of her working two jobs after her dad's death while logging, to support two younger brothers and her mom. So much spoken and unspoken, like two mourning doves calling back and forth across an endless summer---all now just held together by a blue silk ribbon.

Not all missives that went back and forth over the seas were good news. Just up the road from Mom's, the week after Pearl Harbor a neighbor stood by the mailbox with a piece of paper not even big enough to start a fire with, the envelope fallen to the ground as bland words exploded one by one and that family’s grieving began. There was only the notice, there was nothing to bury---though you don't need a wooden box to capture the form of courage and sacrifice.

I wonder how many millions of messages like that went out in old wars, not taking long to read, as there was no real time in it; not in that demarcation between the hope that someone lived, and that place where you knew that was no longer true,  when you wished that this moment existed only outside of time. There were only moments in which a written word hung in the air as if hopeful silence had been so long undisturbed that it had forgotten its purpose.

I look again at those letters Dad kept. The actual forming of the characters is uniform, flowing, like words pent up too long. The letters are sixty-some years old, powdery and delicate in my hand. But sixty years were just a moment ago for my dad, something as fierce and encompassing as war always standing out in his memory, no matter how many years distanced him from battle.

So he returned to her, they married, and my mom immediately became pregnant, only to go into labor many weeks too early. Their daughter lived only days, while Mom battled an infection that would leave her barren.

They were together, their dream for years. But although it was an abundant life---Mom working as a Deputy Sheriff, Dad getting his CPA license and finding a job with one of the big timber mills---their home was missing the sound of children.

So the long, sometimes painfully long process of adoption was begun. When it didn't happen immediately, they applied to be foster parents---however they could get a child in their home, just to hear a child's laughter. I don't have all the details, but Allen and I came into their lives when we were very young.

Mom and Dad had intended on getting just one child, but having completed the paperwork, when they heard there were two of us there was no real discussion, only logistics. For they only had a child seat for one, for the three hour drive home. My brother Allen, being the oldest, got the seat. They put me in a box.

Well, it was a large box, carefully padded with coats and a pillow, and lashed in tight to the back of the seat with a seat belt.

Still, years later I can hear my brother lean over with a grin on the re-telling of that story with "They liked me better!" and how we would laugh.

We came home to a post-war subdivision, houses popping up starting in the late ‘40s, with new streets like ours hubbing off them in the 1960's as the town prospered and people expanded their families in a time of peace and abundance.

Dad still lives there all these years later. Going home now to visit him as an adult I'm surprised how quiet it is outside; the kids all inside the local school, neighborhood moms and dads both working much of the time these days. Off in the distance, the wail of a police siren. The ground is hard and knotted, the houses stare silently forward, not acknowledging anything that exists in their peripheral vision. The morning light falls down upon their steps in silence. That lack of sound does not seem odd, it is simply winter.

Dad slumbering in the back room, tiring easily at age 94, I sit in the chair by the picture window and look out at the same homes I saw as a child; and I think back to those glory days when Mom and Dad brought us home, how this whole neighborhood came alive. Mom's been gone many years; Dad outlived both her and my stepmom in this house. And although the family dynamic is different, the sounds of this home remain.

Especially during summer the neighborhood took on another depth of sound. There was the bright, disorderly cry of lawnmowers firing up; the small tidy yards of an older neighborhood not taking all day to mow, but the precision of their care reflecting the owners’ pride in their homes. There were no homeowners association rules. One neighbor's bright purple door stood out at attention, but with the colorful flowers that normally adorned the front and the deep rosy hue of the brick, the color suited the house. There were a couple of kids on bikes, zooming up and down the sidewalks as off in the distance their dog barked for their return. Far away the sound of church bells, there in the month of white lace and showers of rice, paced faithfully and serenely; like shafts of light among the soft green leaves, yellow butterflies dancing on the grass like flecks of sun.

The sounds would continue into evening: a summer shower off the lake releasing the scent of flowers into the damp air; crickets sawing away in the grass with an intensity you could almost feel as a tickle on the skin. There was the wave of a neighbor as he brought in the paper; the clink of a couple of glasses of Kool-Aid, sweet like nectar on the porch.

There was no formal neighborhood watch here, but we did look out for one another. Our parents noticed when the newspapers piled up at someone’s house and would check to make sure they were OK.  They paid attention to a strange car parked on the street, a teenage boy just stopping to visit with the pretty teenage girl down the road.

They would know who had a new child by the toys that sprouted in the yard like colorful flowers. Our moms would trade recipes and gossip over a fence, finding out who had been ill, who might need help with a new baby. For this wasn't just a neighborhood, this was a community---neighbor helping neighbor, the kids welcome at pretty much any home, stopping in on someone's mom if we needed a drink or the use of the bathroom.

Now, a lifetime later, the houses are the same but the neighborhood is not. I note the silent homes, a sign gone up for a quick sale, the owner having passed away; time consuming not just courage but muscle and bone until nothing is left but a frail form draped in a white sheet, like a piece of furniture unused. We don't notice the exact time of leaving but can't help but speak of the remains. I note one house in disrepair, empty, likely a foreclosure; the factory's shutting down taking with it not just jobs but a lot of hope.

Ours was a good house to come home to, though; a place of refuge for two lost little birds.

As I sit in the quiet, a small sparrow blows onto the sill like a bright scrap of paper, his heart pumping in his throat faster than any pulse. He looks into the house, then away, then into the glass again as if listening, only to dart away as the clock chimes on the hour, then ceases. The chime fills the whole house. Perhaps it's just sound---or perhaps it's all time, grievance, and grief manifesting as sound for just one instant as planets and gears align. It's a moment wherein time seems to stop, the sparrow frozen on the sill. Only when that sound stops does time come to life, and by then the bird is gone.

The only sound now is that of breath and the tick of the old clock. I don't deliberately listen to it, the ticks seemingly beyond the realm of hearing; then in a moment, with that one tick your ears respond to, you are acutely aware of the long diminishing train of time you did not hear. How many ticks in this house in 50 years? How many after I am long gone? Yet I feel the presence of others that have lived here, for they perhaps aren't truly dead but simply were worn down by the minute clicking of small gears. The echo of those who sat in this room do not disturb me; they are part of this house. Just like the sound of wood, its creak one of murmuring bones; and the air that taps on ancient glass speaks of deep winds that witnessed more than time.

Dad resting quietly, I take a quick walk before making his dinner, after which we will call Allen to catch up before seeing him on the weekend. As the neighborhood ticks a slow and steady beat outside, there comes the rumbling of the trains, the tracks a half mile away carrying a sound on the air that is as comforting as childhood. I watch the movement that is static serenity and labored exhaust, a rhythmic click-click as it moves away through eternal trees, faded to thick sky, the train displacing air.

Shadows lengthening, I hurry back to the house. The tick of my watch and the sound of the train dissolve away as if running through another place, someplace far from where this life ended up. I approach the house I grew up in, the porch glistening with a sheen of ice, its empty lattice the front guard of circumstance waiting for summer flowerings.

I think of the inordinate ticks of chance it took to bring my brother and me to this home, through which we were so blessed to be here. In the air scented with trees I ascend the steps, clutching the old key to the back door, there on a little ring with a train etched on it. In the growing dark I don't really see it, but I feel it in my hand, clutching that little anchor to a life lived here long ago---a life unexpected but as welcoming as home. 

The house sighs as I open the door. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, moving away from its reflection into the warmth, my form darting out of sight; the sound, tick-tock-tick-tock, a wisp of air that breathes life back into this home.

The Power of Community

My Dad is in Assisted Living in Washington State.  They can't have visitors.  I'm in Chicago and we're under shelter in place restrictions until late June.  Dad turns 100 in a few weeks.   He is a retired Lt. Colonel in the Air Force and a WWII Vet.  He was married to my Mom for 42 years before she died, after adopting my brother and me many, many years into the marriage, and was married to my Stepmom (a lovely, kind woman) for 20 years.  He's been on his own now for 10 years but he and my brother "bachelored" it together for a few years before my brother suddenly died of cancer.  Now it's just Dad and I and a beloved cousin who helps me organizing his bills and taxes (she lost her Dad when she was in her 20s so she and Dad are quite close and she was a godsend as his house was cleaned out and sold).

A member of his community who works with seniors posted a selfie with Dad on her last visit before "the world changed (as she put it) and asked for cards for Dad on a County Facebook page since Dad has no family at all in the Pacific Northwest.

Not only were their 100+ comments, but about a dozen people that used to work with Dad at his employer of 30+ years who are still in the community commented as to how much they loved my Dad and how they plan to visit him when the restrictions are lifted.

A Patriot Guard has also commented about doing something special for him with all the Veterans on their motorcycles on his big day.  I'm also going to try and get one of his beloved Dairy Queen cakes to him.  So many people coming together to honor him, even if from a distance.

Boredom in the Coronavirus - Going to the Dogs

When a Lab fundraiser member is REALLY bored during the lockdown. Please consider joining our team, donating- even $5 helps, or sharing on Facebook. I really try not to post fundraisers on here but this one is close to my heart as we have two Lab rescues that came into our lives when we lost Barkley so suddenly.

The cancellation of Lab Rescue LRCP's annual Lab Rescue walk due to the coronavirus (usually brings in $200,000 for the dogs) is going to affect what we can do for them so a virtual fundraiser was created with several teams raising funds as they transport dogs and work with the rescue to find the new dogs great homes. 

Almost 1000 Labs last year found loving forever homes through this group which The Book of Barkley has supported for six years. 

Many of the volunteers/transporters, including my good friend Charles Shuck, K9 Marine Handler in Iraq of American Humane Hero dog of the Year Gabe - are ex-military.  (and a big thanks to HOTR reader Jason for his donation).  https://giving.lab-rescue.org/team/293415