Most of you know that I am more comfortable using ingredients to make something than a box. I won't keep recipes that call for just opening a few cans or boxes and mixing them together. However, a can of something can play a minor role in a recipe (like a can of pineapple in a pineapple upside down cake) and I'm fine with it.
When I put something on Facebook the other day about the refrigerated dough case being weird, I realized my comment was going to need a little more explanation. Contrary to popular belief, I have visited this particular section of the store. I just never realized it had a name like "refrigerated dough case". I just always assumed it was lumped in with the dairy section. Never in my life have I told a shopping buddy, "I'll meet you in the refrigerated dough case aisle." "I'll meet you the produce section," yes. "I'll meet you in the cereal aisle," yes. "I'll meet you by Starbucks"--well, that's usually what I say. But never, "I'll meet you in the refrigerated dough case."
I have a confession to make though...I do shop there occasionally. That's where we buy Pillsbury Crescents for Thanksgiving and Christmas. It's where we buy Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls (the kind with the orange frosting and the kind with the white frosting so everyone is happy) for our holiday breakfasts. It's where I almost got a roll of Sugar Cookie dough for less than 50¢ because it was on sale and I had a coupon. My mom talked me out of it, and within hours (actually as I was getting ready to bake something) I wished that she hadn't.
Here's another confession, since I'm fessing up. I like Kraft Macaroni and Cheese--you know, the kind that comes in the little blue box--better than the homemade stuff. There's just something about neon orange powdered cheese clumping together on elbow macaroni as you're stirring it into juicy sauce that can't be replaced by the real stuff.
So while I may burn most refrigerated cookie dough, and my Bisquick pancakes are disgusting, there are some pre-packaged, almost-all-the-way-prepared-for-you foods that definitely hold a place in my heart--and the refrigerated dough section of my fridge.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Farm Girl
I discovered something this weekend--I am a farm girl. That is probably obvious to all of you already, but it means that I am not a farm boy. Again another obvious statement I am sure, but its meaning is what came across to me this weekend.
Many of you remember me as the girlie girl who didn't touch dirt, had a brother to deal with anything gross, had long fingernails and even longer hair, and wore skirts and heels on a regular basis. While I still like to have my nails done and get dressed up, I've traded daily business attire for holey jeans and old t-shirts, and I get dirty on a regular basis.
I started the day out today by doing a load of laundry, baking a batch of cookies and getting ready to work outside. I ended the day by putting laundry away, making dinner, baking another batch of cookies (there weren't enough left from the first batch for my meeting), and having a preschool parents' meeting. In between there I did farm work.
First I milked the goats. We have four does milking and they usually do a pretty good job at hopping up on the stanchion and standing still while you milk. Marigold doesn't like the new grain however, so she decided to head for the weeds that she does like. I had to literally drag her back to the stanchion by her horns and practically lift her up to lock her in. Then, because she doesn't like the grain, she doesn't want to hold still. The end result was that my arms were covered in sticky goat milk that was supposed to go into the calf bottles. After getting the rest of the goats milked and our milk strained and in the fridge, my mom and I walked Lilly, Pansy and Magnolia out to a large patch of weeds for them to eat down throughout the day. I picked zucchini, amaranth and strawberries. I pulled two wagon loads of weeds and fed them to the pigs.
While feeding the last wagon load to the pigs we got a call that one of the steers was out and heading down the road. I was already out that way so I turned off the hot wire and my mom came to pick me up in the truck. Stew was on the wrong side of the street and headed for the neighbor's apple trees. I hopped out, grabbed the bucket of grain and tried to entice him over. Usually the steers just come right away when they are called and shown the grain bucket. Stew decided he was a rodeo bull and went bucking across the neighbor's front yard. By now my mom had parked the truck and we were working him back to our side of the road and towards his pasture. He crisscrossed the road several times (luckily never when there were any cars), ran for a piece, wandered over to visit another neighbor's cow, and then decided he was ready to go back home, at which point I lowered the hot wire and he stepped over. We never did find where he got out at.
After driving back home I went into the greenhouse to transplant basil and spinach into larger pots. The dirt was too dry so I added some water. It was while mixing the soil that I thought back to all the times I had made mud pies as a kid. There was a time from about 4-7 years old when mud pies were my specialty. How funny to be playing in the mud again more than 20 years later. While planting I found a worm. I tossed it back into the worm bed. I found a frog friend. I moved him and the plant cups onto the shelf (he was pretending he was a bunch of dirt inside a little plastic plant 6-pack). I got a little dirt on my shirt so I went to brush it off. The only thing was that I had forgotten my gloves were covered with dirt, so I only succeeded in smearing dirt all over the front of my shirt instead of just in one little spot.
I got dirty, hot and sweaty. All the same things farm boys do. (You thought I had forgotten about connecting the points huh?) But I didn't work like a boy, I worked like a girl. Here's what happened this past weekend that made me think about all of this in the first place--I climbed a fence. Now, at my farm climbing a fence is rarely necessary and when it is, it's really a panel that's being climbed over. But this was at a friends farm. At his farm you have to stand on a couple of wires that are strung at an angle and while your foot is sliding you step with your other foot onto the wood at the top of the fence and jump off the other side. At least that's how he did it. I tried. I put one foot on the slippery wires and started sliding of course. And then my clothes just didn't have the same give that his did, plus my legs are shorter, so I couldn't get my foot on top of the fence. I could however, put my knee on there, swing my other leg around, sit on the fence and then hop off. That's what I did (after he had removed the spider and web, after all, there are some things that never change). Then it was while working today that I realized it's okay that I don't climb a fence like a farm boy...I can climb it like a farm girl.
Many of you remember me as the girlie girl who didn't touch dirt, had a brother to deal with anything gross, had long fingernails and even longer hair, and wore skirts and heels on a regular basis. While I still like to have my nails done and get dressed up, I've traded daily business attire for holey jeans and old t-shirts, and I get dirty on a regular basis.
I started the day out today by doing a load of laundry, baking a batch of cookies and getting ready to work outside. I ended the day by putting laundry away, making dinner, baking another batch of cookies (there weren't enough left from the first batch for my meeting), and having a preschool parents' meeting. In between there I did farm work.
First I milked the goats. We have four does milking and they usually do a pretty good job at hopping up on the stanchion and standing still while you milk. Marigold doesn't like the new grain however, so she decided to head for the weeds that she does like. I had to literally drag her back to the stanchion by her horns and practically lift her up to lock her in. Then, because she doesn't like the grain, she doesn't want to hold still. The end result was that my arms were covered in sticky goat milk that was supposed to go into the calf bottles. After getting the rest of the goats milked and our milk strained and in the fridge, my mom and I walked Lilly, Pansy and Magnolia out to a large patch of weeds for them to eat down throughout the day. I picked zucchini, amaranth and strawberries. I pulled two wagon loads of weeds and fed them to the pigs.
While feeding the last wagon load to the pigs we got a call that one of the steers was out and heading down the road. I was already out that way so I turned off the hot wire and my mom came to pick me up in the truck. Stew was on the wrong side of the street and headed for the neighbor's apple trees. I hopped out, grabbed the bucket of grain and tried to entice him over. Usually the steers just come right away when they are called and shown the grain bucket. Stew decided he was a rodeo bull and went bucking across the neighbor's front yard. By now my mom had parked the truck and we were working him back to our side of the road and towards his pasture. He crisscrossed the road several times (luckily never when there were any cars), ran for a piece, wandered over to visit another neighbor's cow, and then decided he was ready to go back home, at which point I lowered the hot wire and he stepped over. We never did find where he got out at.
After driving back home I went into the greenhouse to transplant basil and spinach into larger pots. The dirt was too dry so I added some water. It was while mixing the soil that I thought back to all the times I had made mud pies as a kid. There was a time from about 4-7 years old when mud pies were my specialty. How funny to be playing in the mud again more than 20 years later. While planting I found a worm. I tossed it back into the worm bed. I found a frog friend. I moved him and the plant cups onto the shelf (he was pretending he was a bunch of dirt inside a little plastic plant 6-pack). I got a little dirt on my shirt so I went to brush it off. The only thing was that I had forgotten my gloves were covered with dirt, so I only succeeded in smearing dirt all over the front of my shirt instead of just in one little spot.
I got dirty, hot and sweaty. All the same things farm boys do. (You thought I had forgotten about connecting the points huh?) But I didn't work like a boy, I worked like a girl. Here's what happened this past weekend that made me think about all of this in the first place--I climbed a fence. Now, at my farm climbing a fence is rarely necessary and when it is, it's really a panel that's being climbed over. But this was at a friends farm. At his farm you have to stand on a couple of wires that are strung at an angle and while your foot is sliding you step with your other foot onto the wood at the top of the fence and jump off the other side. At least that's how he did it. I tried. I put one foot on the slippery wires and started sliding of course. And then my clothes just didn't have the same give that his did, plus my legs are shorter, so I couldn't get my foot on top of the fence. I could however, put my knee on there, swing my other leg around, sit on the fence and then hop off. That's what I did (after he had removed the spider and web, after all, there are some things that never change). Then it was while working today that I realized it's okay that I don't climb a fence like a farm boy...I can climb it like a farm girl.
Heels and dirt
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Please Deposit 25¢
Where am I?
Did we move again?
Drug induced haze
just regaining consciousness
fresh bruises
overlapping
yellowed healing skin
from who?
from what?
locked in a room
ready to work
given a bed
the tool of her trade
as the sun fades
her horror begins
the beauty of a sunset
sends terror up her skin
the first client in
unsure what to do
mumbles something about
never doing this kind of thing before
a package deal
he's already paid
he receives what he came for
walks out in disgrace
man number two
comes in with a belt
ready to whip her
says he likes it rough
number three is a blur
then a quickie or two
number six she remembers
had his kids' names tattooed
seven and eight
lived out some kind of fantasy
all in a night's work
in bed with monstrosities
no further ahead
no money is seen
pay the man at the door
to reserve your time
lights on or off
enjoy the ride
on a mechanical
WalMart horse
five minute breaks
seems everyone
wants to think he's the first
as her
nightmare
repeats
night after night
a captive
enslaved
by a country
that doesn't believe
her problem
exists
Did we move again?
Drug induced haze
just regaining consciousness
fresh bruises
overlapping
yellowed healing skin
from who?
from what?
locked in a room
ready to work
given a bed
the tool of her trade
as the sun fades
her horror begins
the beauty of a sunset
sends terror up her skin
the first client in
unsure what to do
mumbles something about
never doing this kind of thing before
a package deal
he's already paid
he receives what he came for
walks out in disgrace
man number two
comes in with a belt
ready to whip her
says he likes it rough
number three is a blur
then a quickie or two
number six she remembers
had his kids' names tattooed
seven and eight
lived out some kind of fantasy
all in a night's work
in bed with monstrosities
no further ahead
no money is seen
pay the man at the door
to reserve your time
lights on or off
enjoy the ride
on a mechanical
WalMart horse
five minute breaks
seems everyone
wants to think he's the first
as her
nightmare
repeats
night after night
a captive
enslaved
by a country
that doesn't believe
her problem
exists
Monday, August 16, 2010
He Moved
"Then he [Jesus] said to the paralytic, 'Get up, take your mat and go home.'" Matthew 9:6b
This required a response from the man. He had to do something he had either never done before, hadn't done in a long time, or didn't think he could do. He had to do something no one else thought he could do either. It was probably scary. It could be painful, and he didn't know exactly what would happen--how it would all turn out. But he knew what he had heard. And he did what he was told. He obeyed. But more than obeying, at some point before that he had to have believed. He had to have trusted. Otherwise he wouldn't have moved. But he did. He got up. He went home. Can you imagine the look on his families' faces when he walked in the door?
Jesus spoke and he moved.
This required a response from the man. He had to do something he had either never done before, hadn't done in a long time, or didn't think he could do. He had to do something no one else thought he could do either. It was probably scary. It could be painful, and he didn't know exactly what would happen--how it would all turn out. But he knew what he had heard. And he did what he was told. He obeyed. But more than obeying, at some point before that he had to have believed. He had to have trusted. Otherwise he wouldn't have moved. But he did. He got up. He went home. Can you imagine the look on his families' faces when he walked in the door?
Jesus spoke and he moved.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Beginning of a Blog
Normally I don't believe in birth"days" but rather embrace the idea of the birth"week". This past birthday though I would have preferred nobody knowing. I spent the day driving to the coast with some friends (which of course meant everyone knew it was my birthday). Everything, except getting carsick and a headache, was delightful--from having breakfast with my mom and sister; playing with an adorable toddler before his parents were ready to leave him; lunch at Chipotle which I didn't even know exsisted in Oregon; arriving at the beach house and just relaxing; and Tom Yum Kai for dinner reminiscent of a past birthday spent in Thailand. It was a trip of introspection however as, like I said, I was not happy about it being my birthday--for the first time in my life.
And then I got my present. A beautiful glass pitcher with glasses to match wrapped in bright tissue paper and nestled in a white basket, all specially chosen by my friends knowing that I love having people over. The real gift came in the card though. A friend wrote that she hopes I have a year worth writing a book about. (Actually two friends wrote that which ended up making everyone laugh when we found out one friend copied!) She has reiterated numerous times since then that I should start a blog. Which, of course, I have now done.
So, here's to the beginning of a year worthy of writing a book about.
And then I got my present. A beautiful glass pitcher with glasses to match wrapped in bright tissue paper and nestled in a white basket, all specially chosen by my friends knowing that I love having people over. The real gift came in the card though. A friend wrote that she hopes I have a year worth writing a book about. (Actually two friends wrote that which ended up making everyone laugh when we found out one friend copied!) She has reiterated numerous times since then that I should start a blog. Which, of course, I have now done.
So, here's to the beginning of a year worthy of writing a book about.
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