The Big Leagues

This weekend, we made the long haul down to the valley to visit my folks.  As always, we try to cram in as many activities as possible.  I think we did a pretty good job of it! Over the next few posts, I'll recap the highlights:

Our main reason for the trip was my son's baseball tournament.  Up on our mountain, the team practices in temperatures below freezing with jackets and stocking caps on.  They deal with mud, wind and ice on the field. Sometimes there's just too much snow, and it's just too darn cold to work on the fundamentals of baseball. They all decided it was time to ditch the frozen tundra and hit the road for warmer climates.  They wanted to play some winter ball in a place where the highs were in the 70's instead of the teens.

 The team was a bit awe struck when we arrived at the ball park down in the valley.  It was really posh.  Each field was modeled after a different major league stadium, and we played on the Diamondback's field.  There was stadium seating, indoor eating establishments that overlooked the field, and even a giant bar inside....for celebrating big wins, and crying over agonizing defeats....or something like that.

We were in awe...that's for sure.

When we looked over the field, I turned to my son and said, "Dorothy, we're not in Kansas anymore."

He just gave me the look.

He's not amused by "old people" humor.

Here's my boy playing first base.

Here are some of his adoring fans.

Here's my brother hijacking my camera because he likes to pester me and get on my last nerve.

Here's my brother in his favorite pose. I've labeled it, "The Thinking Dork".

Now where was I? Oh, yes...baseball.

Can I just tell you that no matter how many times I check my son's baseball gear, something always occurs when we are 4 hours away and can't run back home.  This weekend, it was his cleats.  He packed two cleats, however, they were not a matching set.  Therefore, he wore one high topped football cleat, and one baseball cleat.  To add insult to injury, he was having a wardrobe malfunction.

You see, the new baseball pants I purchased for him in November no longer went down to his ankles.  It appears that he grew several inches over Christmas, and the pants must have shrunk several additional inches, because they now looked like britches from a "Pirates of the Caribbean" costume.  I spent $25.00 on those pants, and I wasn't about to throw them away.  I got out my trusty sewing machine, took them up to just below the knees, and added some elastic.  I tried them on my boy. They looked spectacular! They looked professional.  They looked perfect! I was in awe of my "mad sewing skillz (with a z)".

My pride was battered and bruised after a mere 5 minutes of watching him warming up with his team.  It appears that I didn't take into consideration the bending, jumping, and lunging that my son does when catching balls.  The pants started riding up, exposing his knobby white knees, and looked absolutely ridiculous!  That, and the fact that he was wearing two different shoes was cause for immediate action.

So I did what any good mother would do.  I put on my "Super Mom" cape, hopped into the truck, typed the words "sporting goods store" into my GPS, and sped like a maniac down to the nearest one to get my poor son a decent pair of pants.  I made it back to the field with 9 minutes to spare before the game started.

We made him wear the two different shoes, though.

That particular situation just screamed, "teachable moment". He had to learn a lesson about packing carefully.  I wasn't going to rescue him from the consequences of his two minute packing job. However, the pirate pants weren't his fault.  His mother is just a rookie baseball pants seamstress.  I had to save him from my gross miscalculation in hemming length.

Besides, I couldn't let him go out on the ball field looking like a total homeschool nerd.

We DO homeschool.  We DON'T look nerdy.

At least...not on purpose.

Tuesdays and Toe Nails

It was Tuesday. It was cold, snowy, and miserable outside.  The kids had a bad case of cabin fever, and I was facing the seemingly endless list of chores and errands that Tuesdays bring.  The laundry was sorted into piles, the toilets were scrubbed, and I was simultaneously folding socks and quizzing my middle child for her spelling test.

 Then, the phone rang.

 It was my in-laws, and they were coming over to whisk us away from our regularly scheduled programming to spoil us rotten.  They rescued us from our lunch menu of egg salad sandwiches, canned fruit, and potato chips, and took us out for a delightful lunch that included curly fries and Dr. Pepper.   Next, my father-in-law took all three of the children for a few games of bowling, while my mother-in-law and I received side by side spa pedicures at the salon.  It was so dreamy.

I walked into the salon with my Sorrel snow boots, and wool socks.  I peeled them off to reveal my fluorescent white feet that haven't seen the sun in 5 months.  As I dipped my toes into that steaming foot bath, I couldn't help but think of my father-in-law going solo with three kids who had been cooped up for days because of the weather.  It could be dangerous for him.  I envisioned bowling balls flying, children sliding in their socks, and endless trips to the snack bar. 

Then I ripped my thoughts back into the reality as the hot rock massage began on my legs.

I felt so giddy and alive that I decided to really live in the moment and do something crazy....at least, crazy for me.  I picked out a nearly black nail polish with a silvery shimmer to it.  Then, I had the man paint a pink heart on my big toes for Valentine's Day.

I NEVER get black nail polish.  When I was a teenager, black nail polish was reserved for Gothic satan worshippers who wore trench coats and smoked cigarettes behind the school building.  Nice young girls who got straight A's wore a lovely shade of pink.

That stereotype is totally gone now.  Some Most of my really hip friends have been wearing the black nail polish for years.  When I saw the Pioneer Woman with black nails on her blog, I knew that it was time to venture into the world of sassy nail color.

I'm not one to jump on the latest trends immediately.  I wait a while to let them soak in, and then I proceed with caution.  Besides...I reasoned with myself that if I totally hated having black toes, no-one would see them in the dead of winter anyway!  And my mother-in-law added in the fact that black hides dirt.  So there you have it...two very convincing arguments for black toe nails.

After the pampering was complete, I walked outside into the frigid wind,  and made my way out to my truck with some flimsy little flip flops that did nothing to protect my toes from the snow. 

We mountain women are made from tough stock.

Now, life is back to the regular routine that makes up my week days, but I feel refreshed, renewed, and invigorated.  I'm still anchored down with laundry, but every time I catch a glimpse of my cute toes resting on the laundry basket, I'm taken back to that lovely break from our routine, where I experienced a few hours of unexpected blessings.

My pastor's always talking about showing the love of Christ by performing random acts of kindness for those who aren't expecting it.  Whether it be buying the cashier a candy bar while paying for groceries, or picking up the tab  for the car behind you at the drive-thru of a fast food restaurant.  These types of unexpected blessings can really brighten up someones day.  I know that my afternoon of pampering was a bright spot in my week, and I can't wait to discover an opportunity to bless someone else in some unexpected way, just as I was blessed myself.

P.S.- I'm still enjoying the color! I think I've made friends with black.

P.P.S.- I'm sorry for the ugly toe picture. I have to include it for historical purposes.  I know that no one really wants to see my toes. Thanks for understanding my weirdness. ;)

Wheat Bran Bread and Other Stuff.

It's wicked cold outside. Like most of the country, we got hit with snow, and then the arctic blast that followed. 

After feeding the critters, we came back inside and spent the day huddled around the wood stove.  I love to sit on the floor in front of the stove while I read the newspaper to get toasty warm.  Today we were watching my in-laws dog, Millie, and she loves to read the newspaper too....by osmosis.

I'm so thankful she kept me from reading any awful headlines, and weather forecasts.  What would I have done without her?

I decided to make a loaf of Wheat Bran Bread today to warm up the kitchen, and I've got to share the recipe with you at the end of this blog because it was mighty tasty, and very healthy too.

We sliced it up and ate it with our dinner of homemade beef stew.  Man was it ever good.

At 33 years old, I'm finally getting to the point in my cooking, where I feel confident enough to throw a bunch of stuff in a pot without a recipe.  And gosh darnit, it turned out GOOD!

Anyway, I highly recommend trying the bread at least once. It's got just a hint of sweetness to it. It's definitely kid approved in my family.

Wheat Bran Bread- Makes 1 large loaf

1 1/2 cups warm water

2 TBS dry milk powder

2 TBS vegetable oil

2 TBS molasses

4 TBS honey

1TBS vital wheat gluten

1TBS dough enhancer

1 1/2 teaspoons salt

2 1/4 cups whole wheat flour

1 1/4 cups bread flour

1 cup All Bran Cereal

2 teaspoons active dry yeast

Here are a few ways to make it.

Put everything in a bread machine and bake on the whole wheat cycle.

OR

Put everything in bread machine and put on the dough cycle.  After the first rise, take it out, put it in a greased loaf pan, and let it rise again, covered, in a warm place for about 30-45 minutes.  Then bake in a 350 degree oven for 33 minutes.

OR

Make it the old fashioned way!

P.S.- You don't have to add the gluten or dough enhancer, but it makes the dough rise nice and pretty if you do.  I love the stuff, and discovering it has taken my high altitude bread making to a whole new level. 

Haggis, Anyone???

Saturday night, my husband and I attended a fancy dinner that benefited our local shelter for women and children who have been affected by domestic violence.  The Robert Burns Supper and Show is a tradition up on our mountain, and the folks who put it on pull out all of the stops!

Robert Burns was considered to be the "National Poet of Scotland".  His first work was a song about his first love "Handsome Nell" written in 1774.... therefore, the song is NOT about me.

The Supper celebrates the old Scottish tradition of commemorating the birthday of Robert Burns with many Scottish traditions thrown in the mix.  It was not your average party, but it was definitely a night to remember.

The Evening started off  with the presentation of the American Flag, and the most beautiful rendition of "America the Beautiful" that I've ever heard on the bag pipes.  It was quite moving.  Below are the musicians getting ready to enter the room:

These guys are some of our local firefighting heroes.  They're member's of the fire department's "Pipes and Drums". 

This particular guy happens to be a great friend of our family, and he's got massive skillz on the pipes!  His Kilt is gorgeous, too!

After the opening ceremonies, we had a divine meal that consisted of the following Scottish fare:

Appetizers: many types of fancy cheeses and a variety of crackers
First Course: Leek Soup and Tossed Garden Salad
Dinner: Prime Rib, Mashed Garlic Potatoes, and Mixed Vegetables with Rolls

After dinner, they had a silent cake auction with cakes made from local businesses and restaurants all over the mountain.  The winners shared their cakes with their entire table.  There were some real works of art:

Then a great Scottish band played some fabulous music to dance to, and the dance floor was hoppin'.

Next came the best part: the Parade of the Haggis.

Traditionally, Scotch Whiskey and Haggis go together hand-in-hand, linking our generation to the Scottish Forefathers. 

Haggis is quite the culinary experience... to put it mildly. It's made out of the heart, liver, and lungs of a sheep.  They are cooked and minced, and then mixed with suet, oatmeal, and seasonings.  Then the mixture is encased in the sheep's stomach, or the bung of an ox.  After the bung is stitched up, it's boiled for up to 3 hours.  Talk about some tasty stuff....or not.

I would highly recommend that you click on the link below, to see step by step pictures of how this is made.  It's wildly entertaining!!!

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/gallery/2009/jan/23/haggis-make-your-own-burns?picture=342170325

Before partaking of the Haggis, there is an entire ceremony that takes place.

First, there is the official, "Parade of the Haggis".

The Bag Pipes and drummer lead the way around the ball room, as a woman carries the tray of Haggis behind them.  As the Haggis passes by the tables, you are supposed to take in its fine aroma. 

Here is the lovely lady escorting the Haggis while the bagpipes accompany her.

Here is her husband, guarding the Haggis with his sword as he walks through the ball room.

After the Parade, Robert Burn's Poem, Address to a Haggis, is read.   Then it's time to partake of the Scotch and Haggis.

I did not partake of the Scotch Whiskey because, first, the smell alone was strong enough to burn my nose hairs, and secondly, I try to make it a point not to drink anything that resembles a urine sample.

But I DID eat some Haggis.  Here's the proof:

Alright, after trying some, I feel that a shot of whiskey might be a prudent move to kill the taste of the Haggis.  By the looks on the faces of the people around the room, I'd say that the Haggis was bad, but the Scotch was worse.  It might burn the hair off a man's chest.  I'm not sure.

We had a great evening, and it was a unique and fun experience for a great cause!

On our way out, I spotted this elk in the lobby of the hotel.

By the look on his face, it's evident that he tried the Haggis too! 

The End.

A "Twisted" Fate

Saturday morning, my husband and my son woke up early to go paintballing in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of their buddies.  I have a theory on this whole paintballing thing.  I think that the men secretly just love to act like Rambo, and shoot at each other like a bunch of soldiers in combat, but they bring along all of their sons so that it seems more legitmate.  Goofing around is more acceptable if  "it's for the sake of the children".

They put on multiple layers of clothing under their camouflage to lessen the sting of the blows, and then they pelt each other with paintballs while hiding behind trees, rocks, and bushes.  They pick teams like friends playing ball in the sandlot, and then they choose the game they'll play.  Boys from ages 4 to 64 play together side-by-side, strategizing and executing their game plan.  It makes for great father/son bonding, and tight camaraderie between the men.  My guys come home and recount the blow-by-blow details to us girls every time they go.  They get that far away look in their eye as they reveal their paintball battle scar welts, and tell the heroic tales of how they got ambushed in a firefight with one man against ten.  It brings out the true grit  in the males when they go head to head in paintball combat, and they strut a little taller the next day.  I've even heard them all relive their glory days over cinnamon rolls and coffee at church on Sunday morning.  It makes me giggle every time.  Boys NEVER grow up....and that's OK with me!

Yesterday during paintballing, I received an unexpected call from my husband, telling me a wild story that was almost unbelievable.

  It was the end of the last battle.  The game was Capture the Flag.  My heroic husband was sacrificing his body to make a run for the flag without cover.  He was getting pelted in the hiney at point blank range, but he managed a death defying maneuver to snatch up the flag.  He then made a beeline for the base like a gazelle being pursued by a lion.  "Chariots of Fire" was playing in the background as he sprinted like the wind.  He zigged.  He zagged. Then, just as he was winning... he did a valiant tuck and roll for the victory, but he went down for the count with a twisted ankle.  His teammates yelled, "Man down, Man down!!!" but it was too late.  The damage was done.  The game.....was over. He made the ultimate sacrifice for his men.  His ankle was the size of a softball, and he lay there in agony.  He gave all he had to give. 

At least that's the way my husband tells the story.  I added in a few details for dramatic purposes, but absolutely nothing to detract from the truth. ;)

Anyway, after they all sat around staring at it for a few minutes, they put their heads together to determine what to do with the ankle. Between their Boy Scout experience, First Responder Training, and high level of problem solving skills, you would think they would have used some twigs, the ointment of a rare medicinal plant, and the leaves from a riparian area to splint the ankle and administer first aid to the patient, but alas, they did not.  They did the next best thing.  One of the guys phoned a lifeline.... his wife.... who happens to be an excellent nurse.  She calmly took control of the situation over the phone, and gave detailed instructions on how to handle the "incident".

Here's what the doctored ankle looked like when he got home.  Not pretty, but it did the job. I'm certain the nurse would have done it better, but she can't be everywhere at once to rescue men in distress.

I was frustrated because later that night, we were going to go on a date to a fancy benefit dinner with a band and real "dancing".  So much for a twirl around the dance floor.

To add insult to injury, my husband played up the sprain to avoid his regular household responsibilities...namely, letting the cat out at 3:15 am when she scratches at the carpet in our bedroom. 

(Before I continue, you need some background information that will be pertinent to the story in a minute.)

 Hank the Cowdog has a trusty sidekick named Drover.  Drover is a sweet little chicken hearted dog with a stub tail that hates confrontation. Every single time Hank has a plan to go into battle, Drover starts dragging one of his back legs and says, "Oh Hank! My leg! I don't think I'm going to be able to go on this mission with you because this darned ole' leg is giving me fits."  Then Hank has to go solo to save the day, while Drover takes a nap on his gunny sack bed.

Back to the story:

We get home late from the big benefit dinner.

It's 3:19 am when the cat starts to scratch.  Naturally, I ignore it. 

She scratches more. 

Feeling  "not so much" Proverbs 31 womanish, and "very much" like a grizzly bear in hibernation, I nudge my husband, and whine, "Can you let the cat out?"

After all, I really needed my beauty sleep.  I was in deep R.E.M.  when the cat scratched.

Then out of the darkness of the room, I hear the following words:

"Oh Hank! My leg! My leg!"

I couldn't believe he was pulling a "Drover" on me at 3:23am.  I was forced to go out into the cold dark world and let the cat out.  It was an all-time low.

He was really milking this injury for all it's worth!

OK.

In all seriousness, it DOES look ugly, and I've been doing my best to pamper him until he's back to normal.

This little injury will just be one more battle scar to talk about  with his buddies for weeks to come.

7 Random Things

 1.To the untrained eye, it appears that moths have invaded my husband's side of the closet.  In fact, nearly every work shirt and undershirt he owns has tiny little holes in it like the shirt below. 

The culprit...slag burns from welding.  This is discouraging to a wife doing the laundry because as a rule, anything with holes in it becomes a dusting cloth or grease rag.  But this would leave my husband's side of the closet virtually void of anything but church clothes. He comes home with new "air conditioned" shirts every other day, despite wearing his leathers. I'm at my wits end. Don't blame me for the holes. I give up.  

2.  My kids are participating in the Presidential Physical Fitness Challenge during Co-op, and it is kicking their butts.  My son has the body shape of a string bean, and he's currently all arms and legs.  He's extremely tall for his age,  and whenever he plays sports, we have to keep his birth certificate handy to prove he's only nine. Lately, he's hit an awkward phase where he needs to grow into his feet.  In order to meet the goals of the challenge, he's got to be able to sit and stretch 3" past his toes.  Unless we have a genuine miracle, it doesn't appear that he's going to make it.  He also needs to be able to do 5 pull ups, so every night he dangles off of his loft bed to practice.  I've seriously never heard more complaints about leg soreness, and sore tummy muscles than I have from my three kids this semester.  It's great.  I think it's the best physical challenge they've had in a while!  I think that I'm going to have to join them in their endeavour to shape up.  Here's my boy working out during P.E. at our homeschool co-op.

3.  I'm having trouble letting go of my favorite shoes.  I've worn them for nine years, and we're good friends, like Linus and his blanket.  I've sewn them back up, glued them, and reconditioned the leather many times.  Sadly, they are now beyond repair.  I was ecstatic when I discovered that Ariat still made the same shoe, after all of these years, and I bought a pair.  But they're just not the same.  They look way too new, and stiff, and boring.  They have no character.  They just can't replace my old faithfuls.

Nothing compares to my trusty old work shoes.

It's going to take a lot of miles before I make friends with this new pair.  We currently have nothing in common.  I hope we can form a good relationship in the future, but for now, I'm still in mourning over my old faithfuls.

4. I have 14 chickens, and I'm currently getting 2 eggs a day. The girls aren't meeting their quota.  I've resorted to threatening them with the soup pot, but they don't take me seriously.

5. Our kids take an art class as part of their homeschool co-op, and they are taught by a retired art teacher who attends our church.  I've never taken an art class, so I decided to sit in on it as a student, myself.  I'm telling you, that woman is a miracle worker! In one week I've transformed from a stick figure artist to a gal that can draw a picture that slightly resembles the real thing!  I mean, I'm certainly no Picasso, but for having only two sessions under my belt, I think she's transformed me! The secret is in the shading! It's what makes everything come to life! I can't believe it took over 30 years to realize this.  I'm a little slow on the up-take.

Here's my first weeks progress:  (Don't laugh too hard.  I'm putting it on here in the interest of "keepin' it real".  You've got to see the progress each week.)

6. I got "Photoshop Elements 9" for Christmas this year, and I currently know how to use .03% of it. 

"Hello, my name is Nell, and I'm computer illiterate."

This program has made me want to shout curse words at the computer screen, and I'm a reformed cusser.  It's bringing out deep feelings of frustration, and computer anxiety. I don't care though.  I will CONQUER photoshop....even if it takes years! I will buy "Photoshop for Dummies", take a class at the community college, or spend hours tinkering with it. 

Just imagine how cool it would be to have photoshopped pictures on here.  It would take my blogging to a whole new level! I will prevail, photoshop.  You will not get the best of me.

7. I love Dr. Pepper.

The End.

(Okay, that last one wasn't really important, but I didn't want to end the list with only 6 things because I don't like that number.  Come to think of it, none of the things on my list were important, but strangely, I feel much better now that I've shared them with you.)

The (real) End.

NELL

Going to the Neighbors' House

We have some dear older neighbors down the road, who don't get out much during the winter months due to illness, and snow. Last week we brought them a pan of fresh homemade cinnamon rolls, hot from our oven.  In return, they grabbed the candy bowl from their coffee table that was halfway full of M&M's, and gave it to my husband, despite his protests.  They're from that generation of folks that always wants to give something in return for kindness.  It's tough to bless them, because no matter whether it's shoveling their driveway, raking pine needles, or mowing their yard, they find something from their house for us to take home. It can be pretty awkward.

They gave us a call this week to thank us for the dessert and ask for the recipe.  They LOVE my children, so I decided to send them on an errand down the road to return the candy bowl, and give them a copy of the cinnamon roll recipe.  Before the kids left, I combed their hair, made sure that their clothes matched, and gave them no less than 20 directions and orders.  My instructions included, but were not limited to the following things:

"Look both ways before you cross the road."
"Hold hands with your sister."
"Don't crinkle the recipe."
"Hold the glass bowl with TWO hands!"
"Say, "Thank you" for the M & M's."
"Speak loud enough for them to hear you because they don't hear well."
"Look them in the eyes."
"Say, 'Hello Mr. and Mrs. ________'."
"Say 'please' and 'thank you' if they offer you a drink."
"Don't run down their driveway."
"Stay out of their yard."
"Be polite."

That's when it suddenly hit me like a rock.  I've turned into my mother!!! I remember when I was a kid, my mom would have us deliver Christmas gifts to all of the neighbors.  In addition to safety rules, she had my brother and I ring the doorbell and when the neighbors answered the door, we were to say the following thing in unison: "Merry Christmas from the __________'s."  You can imagine how excited my little brother was to do this. Not.  I carried the baked goods, and he carried the small potted pine tree saplings, and we trudged down the driveway to start our deliveries. 

*DING DONG*

[They answer the door] "Why hello little ones!"

We choke out the rehearsed greeting completely out of unison, "Merry Christmas from the ________'s."

Then we hand over the goods, turn and sprint through their yard until we reach home.

I don't know why I've always remembered this, but now that I have kids of my own, it terrifies me to think that they may be the same way that I was.

So I watched them walk down the road from the front window of my living room.  I was checking to see if they followed my instructions. So far, so good.

  After they were out of sight, I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  They were gone over ten minutes.  I started to worry, but then I saw them sprinting down the road towards home.

When they walked in the front door, I started peppering them with questions:

"Were you kind?"
"Did you say thank you?"
"Did you speak loud enough for them to hear?"

Then I asked them to tell me the EXACT conversation they had with them.

Why?

Because, after Wednesday night's embarrassing moment with my youngest, I'm acutely aware of the fact that my children's mouths are loaded cannons, ready to spew out random facts and information that may cause me grief, and, or further explanation.  Don't you just love kids? 

In the end, everything went very well and I considered it to be just one more successful mission under their learning belts.  I'm a firm believer that older folks and younger ones really need each other.  My kids love doing things for our older neighbors, and my neighbors just adore having a good chat with my kids.  I think it's a win-win situation for all.