Thanks for Thanksgiving....

So in honor of the upcoming Thanksgiving Holiday, I decided to dedicate today's post to the things I am most thankful for in my life. Many folks are thankful for the obvious things like food, shelter, or a good job, and I am too, but I am more thankful for the things that make me grow as a person and as a man. I am thankful for the things that make me a better father, like a 6 year old autistic boy who teaches me patience every day, and who shows me what unconditional love really is. Not on my part, but on his. The Monkey has the kindest heart, and is the most loving 6 year old boy I have ever met. Not that he isn't a handful (to be honest, he is currently stuffing a plastic chicken in my mouth while yelling about Monster Truck Mater at the top of his lungs), but he communicates his love to us in his family  better in his own way than any eloquent speaker pontificating.

I am thankful for my infant son, the Piglet, who saves all his poopy diapers for his momma.(I mean, that's not why I'm thankful for him, but it sure doesn't hurt things  and it gives his momma something to blog about...) This is the boy who smiles at me every time he looks at me, no matter what. This boy brings a smile to my face every morning as I get ready for work, every evening as we get ready for bed, and every time in between!  He is the most amazing baby and fills our lives with so many blessings.

I am thankful for my 15 year old daughter, who has greatly contributed to the gray hairs on my head (which are mostly concentrated around my beard, since there are none on my noggin). She is really a great kid and is always willing to help out without griping or complaining, even when I can see she really wants to! She is a pleasure to be around and a joy to raise, despite the fact she is currently in Driver's Ed and driving the roads around our neck of the woods. If it doesn't make you nervous, it should.

I am thankful for my Beautiful Bride. She is the one who makes life bearable around this zoo we call home. She is the one who makes everything fit into our small house, makes  that very same house a comfortable living space, and keeps this whole family running. I could not do it without her. My Bride has taken a man who had lost his direction, lost touch with who he really was, and was wondering aimlessly in life trying to figure it all out on his own. She gave this humble man a gift that so few actually can give; true happiness. I can never thank her enough for making me the man I always wanted to be.

I am thankful to have been given another day to live a wonderful life. Our family is not rich by any stretch of the imagination, not financially anyway, but we are richer than all of the millionaires in the world. Our family lives on love, and unlike money, love breeds only more love. Money can breed contempt, jealousy, and hard feelings, but real love can never be any of those things.

So needless to say (meaning I'm going to say it anyway), I am thankful. I am thankful for my Bride, our children, and for this life I get to live, poopy diapers and all.

What do Poultry and Politicians have in common? Chicken Sh*t.....

Well, it has been a REALLY long time since I have posted, and for that I would apologize but I don’t have the time. Between the new chicks (poultry type, for Pete’s sake. Don’t be so quick to judge) and political hoo-hah, I nearly short circuit every time I try to write.  Current politics alone provide writing material that would tax a professional author, let alone a hack like me!

What a lot of fluff

 So we ordered a new batch of fifteen Gallus gallus domesticus (Them there’s chickens in smart folk talk) from Murray McMurray hatchery back in June and they were delivered to the Post Office two days after they hatched (see above). We had forgotten how cute the little critters were until we opened the box they were shipped in and saw a whole slew of peeping puffballs with legs.  I must say I am impressed with McMurray. They managed to send sixteen life forms through the US Postal Service and get all of them to us alive. Yes, I know I said we ordered fifteen, but McMurray sent us a “Surprise Rare Breed” (meaning  no one knows what kind of chicken this is, what gender it is, or what it’s job will be). My Beautiful Bride and I like to stick with what we know, so we bought more egg layers to rotate into our egg layering flock and two Buff Orpingtons for Mom and Dad to introduce into their flock(more on that later). We (meaning I talked for hours and finally convinced by Sweetheart that I knew what I was talking about) also ordered five Cornish Cross broilers. As a broiler, their only job is to eat, poop, grow, and be eaten. Little did we know how well they do their jobs; they are currently three times the size of the other chicks of the same age and constantly drip what can only be described as the most prodigious amounts of fertilizer known to man.  I mean really, these Cornish Cross birds are so lazy they sleep at the feeder so they can transform the feed into more poop. It’s like someone crossed a vacuum with a leaky sewage pipe. The surprise bird appears to be a Blue Andalusian, but we still don’t know if it is male or female, therefore his/her fate is completely dependent on its ability (or lack thereof) to crow or lay eggs. If it’s a male, he’d better learn to keep his beak shut, not crow, and steal someone else’s egg to sit one if he knows what’s good for him.

 

Cock-a-doodle-doo... I mean look, I laid an egg.... 

 

To explain the whole reason behind the order, our original flock went on strike; they all stopped laying eggs at the same time, dang union birds. I thought maybe threatening them with being eaten would help, but we still only got one to two eggs a day for about three months. I even took a carcass from a wonderful roasted chicken my Bride prepared for my supper and showed them what could be their future, but no dice. I called them lazy, I called them worthless, I even resorted to begging, but it did no good. Egg production slowed to the point I wasn’t able to keep up with the demand at the office, and we only had a half a dozen eggs in the fridge at any given time instead of 4-5 dozen. So I convinced my bride to let me order more, and in six months, when they start laying, we could butcher the older biddies and put them in the stew pot. She agreed, we ordered, the chicks arrived, and the old hens started laying six eggs every day again. Yep, as of yesterday we had seven dozen eggs in the fridge and today I have some very happy co-workers. Sheesh…

As I mentioned earlier, we bought two Buffs for my Darlin’s folks. They have been good to us (the folks, not the Buffs) and raising chickens is something we really enjoy doing as a family. It gives us all something else to talk about besides the governments’ abject failure and the utter joys of child rearing (insert sarcasm here) during our weekly visits. They started their flock a while back with the one Buff Orpington that survived in our original batch of birds (thanks to a carnivorous blood hound who “wouldn’t kill a fly”...) and was later joined by one sister and then another. Unfortunately the sisters fell victim to a serial killer (most likely some raccoon that discovered that chickens really are the other white meat) and Henny Penny (as she has come to be known) was left alone. As soon as the bullies in our coop got the chance, they turned their attention of one of the smaller Reds and pecked nearly all of her butt feathers out. (Naked chicken butt is NOT pretty, by the way, unless the whole chicken is nekkid and headed for the fryer) so we took that Red to the folk’s chicken rescue and she is doing just fine.  Since moving to Mom and Dad’s place, they have become what are likely the most spoiled hens in the history of domesticated fowl. (I have no proof, but I think they are fed by hand from a silver spoon and drink bottled water when we aren’t around to see it). Needless to say, the new chicks will be a welcome addition to their flock once they get big enough to be assimilated into the group, and learn to eat from a spoon…

As of yesterday, all of the new chicks have been moved from the brooder box in the warm and dry garage, to their new outdoor runs in the back yard where the “sweet” and “innocent” bloodhound lives. (to be fair, I never saw the hound kill any chickens, but the feathers in her jowls were a clue, and following clues is what I do best…). The egg layers are right next to the older hens so they can see the life of luxury they will lead in a few months, and the broilers are in a free-range pen on the other side. I thought about putting a stew pot in their pen so they could  also see what their future was like, but I wasn’t sure that would exactly encourage them to fatten up over the next four to six weeks of their life. They should be ready for butchering early November, provided the hound doesn’t beat us to it and enjoy herself some more chicken sushi…

 To be (dinner) ....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not to be (dinner)....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, to change pace:

Ah, the government….What other career can you consistently lie about what you are qualified to do, lie about what you did and when you did it (under oath even, Mr Clinton?), not do the job you were hired to do, and still keep that job for 20 years and retire. Not only do you get to retire, but you get your full salary until you die. Ever notice how long many of the politicians live after retirement? I bet if we only paid them when they actually accomplished something,  they would not only get something constructive done, but would also die sooner, leaving the oxygen to those of us who are productive in this society. Not that I’m wanting politicians to die (Pay attention NSA, I know you’re monitoring), I’m just saying that I wish they would stop wasting good air. Al Gore thinks that my full size, long wheelbase, gas guzzling Dodge Ram is the cause of the greenhouse gases and atmospheric changes? NO….it’s all the hot air out of Washington DC causing the polar ice caps to melt and leave countless endangered species homeless. The poor penguins and arctic foxes are dying by the thousands because the politicians spend days yammering about gun control and how to spend my money. Think about the foxes, Mr President. Think about the foxes.

Our government is currently shut down because they can’t get along. I remember as a child when me and my nephew couldn’t agree, Mom would tell us “Take it outside and don’t come back in until you’re done arguing”.  Warm or cold, rain or shine, that was the cure to any disagreement that managed to make its way onto her radar. Maybe We the People should do the same thing. Let’s take the entire Congress, Senate, and the President to the desert, pen them up in a large arena and tell them they can’t come back in until it’s settled. While they duke it out, we can sell tickets to the affair and make a killing off of concessions. I can see the marquee now “In a world class bout: The ‘Rasslin Republicans vs. The Dancin Democrats”.  Even if that didn’t solve the problem, it could be fun to watch and heck, who says we have to let them out if they don’t work it out? Imagine looking at a map one day and seeing a blank spot between California and Utah.

 “Where’s Nevada?”

“Who?”

“Nevada. You know, with all the casinos”?

“Hmm….I thought that was Louisiana.”

“No, Nevada. You know, Las Vegas?”

“Ah…THAT Nevada. Never heard of it. You must be talking about that new place where we send politicians who fail to do their jobs. We sold it to Iran so they could test the nukes they don’t have.”

 

Until next time,

 

 

 

Measure twice, cut once, sand for hours....

Well, it has been a while since I posted anything so I figured now was a good a time as any. We have had a new addition to the Coop, who we call Piglet. No, I’m not talking about Winnie the Pooh’s companion or a young “bacon in training”; I’m talking about my newest son. He is now three weeks old, and is growing like a weed, not to mention eating like a, well, piglet. I won’t go into too much detail about him here because I want to reserve that privilege for my Darlin Bride over at A Country Chick in the Hen House.

 

Thanks to the family medical leave laws, I had three weeks off work at my regular job to tend to the Piglet and his mother. I know that doesn’t sound difficult to most, but you don’t know my Bride. It’s not that she’s tough to get along with; she’s actually quite the opposite. She is an amazing woman, and one of the gentlest people I have ever met. She is the most selfless, kind, and giving woman in the world and I am very lucky to have her in my life. Getting along with her is never the problem. The biggest issue lies in getting her to actually sit down for a minute and relax! She is always moving, always doing something to better our house, to better our meals, or to make someone else comfortable. It makes me tired just writing about it!

I spent the first two weeks of my leave getting to know my new son and trying to help his mother out as much as she would let me, then I spent week three putting together a kennel, er, crib, for the Piglet. I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted in a crib before I started, and went to Lowe’s for the materials. Surprisingly enough, the materials cost only $86.00, making it cheaper than a store bought crib made of pressboard and laminate. Where I saved in cost though, I made up for in labor. It took me three and a half days to complete; not because it was that difficult, but because you apparently cannot trust the internet for accuracy! According to several websites, a crib mattress should measure between 27”-29” wide, and 55” long….WRONG! After the crib frame was cut, sanded, and assembled my bride suggested that we purchase a crib mattress to verify those measurements. Now if there is anything I have learned in life, it is this; when my bride makes a suggestion, I should listen. Not because she’d gripe at me, or give me a hard time about not “doing it her way”, but because she’s usually right. There, I said it. My wife is usually right and I’m ok with that. This knowledge keeps me out of more trouble than you could ever guess. After we bought the crib mattress and got it home I learned that the internet’s measurements were off by oh, about 3” in length, and 4” in width. I disassembled the whole doggone thing, re-cut it, and then reassembled it, thus adding one more days’ worth of labor to the whole shebang…

                                                        Assembled and apparently too large....

 

                                                                 Cut down, and fitting snug...

 Once the frame was reassembled, re-sanded, and pretty harshly cursed I began sanding the slats for the sides and the ends. I wanted to make sure there were no sharp edges anywhere for the Piglet (or us) to get hurt on. Besides, hospital bills are expensive and lead to lots of questions you don’t want to answer from people you don’t want to answer to. There were 35 - 1”x3” slats that needed to be sanded and rendered safe. Since I don’t have a belt sander yet, all of the sanding was done with a palm sander starting with 80 grit, and working it down to 220 grit. Luckily I didn’t have to do that part by myself…I had a 15 year old daughter who got herself in a bit of trouble and was beholden to me for a week’s worth of hard labor.

 

 

Once the slats were sanded, I began installing them. Federal safety guidelines require that crib slats be no more than 2 3/8” apart. I have decided in the past few years that our government might not have our best interests in mind, so I opted to make the slats closer together than the minimum requirement. Each slat on the crib is 2” apart, meaning the Piglet cannot poke any vital body part through them and injure himself, nor can the Monkey poke any large object through to help the Piglet escape. With two young boys running around, escape is only ONE of my worries. That and explosions….

 

 When all of the sanding and assembly was complete, I stained the crib with Cabot's Golden Oak Stain, which is almost and exact match to the furniture in our room (which is where the Piglet will live for his first couple of years).  Of course, the crib was too large to fit throught the doorways of our house, so I had to take it apart and move it in 5 seperate pieces, and then re-re-assemble it. I am now a certified pro at putting this thing together. Despite a couple of hiccups, the crib is now in it's permenant home, and has been approved by the Piglet and my Bride.

 

 

 

It has been a fantastic three weeks getting to meet my new son, spending quality time with him and my wonderful Bride, and being able to build him his first bed. I wish every father could experience the thrill of splinters, mis-measurement, and hand cramps from sanding endless 1x3's....  And I wouldn't trade this life for all the money in the world.

 

 

Until next time,

 

 

 

Happy, happy, happy...(sorry Mr Robertson, but I love that)

Well it has been a while since I’ve posted anything, so any readers I may have had may have abandoned me! Still I will post, even if it is only for me and my Darlin to read 30 years from now and laugh at how goofy I was….

A lot is going on here in our little corner of the world. We are in the final stages of preparing for the birth of our son, who is hinting at a possible early debut (we’ll know Friday when the doctors use the magic TV to look at him). My Beautiful Bride has worked so hard getting every little thing in place we have nothing left to do but birth him. And by “we”, I mean my Bride. Really, what can a guy do in the labor and delivery room but stand there awkwardly and try to stay out of the way?  As men, we are in quite the pickle when it comes to giving birth.  The closest we can even come is passing a kidney stone and even then, we’re up and back to work within a couple of days. There’s no weight gain with kidney stones and although we may carry them longer than the requisite 9 months, we don’t notice them until it’s time to “deliver” one. And boy do you notice then! Kidney stones don’t kick you in the ribs in the middle of the night like an alien life form trying to burst through your diaphragm and one never hears of a kidney stone taking up residence on your bladder making you feel as if you have to relieve yourself 12 hours a day. To that I say to the women of the world who are have given birth or are about to give birth, kudos to you. To the women who have not, and are contemplating it, I say take up needle craft. The pain is less, the wounds heal quicker, and if you end up not liking the end product you can rip it up, throw it away, and start over.  (This action is apparently frowned on in most civilized societies when done to children….)

In addition to the new addition to the Coop, The Rocking PMH Ranch is about to formalize its existence. What this entails is having the Great State of Texas give us written permission to conduct business for a small fee. And by small fee I mean not a small fee at all. Small fees to me are the $2.00 late-fees for not turning in a movie on time, not the cumulative fees collected by the various agencies here in exponential redundancy.  For example, the State charges a fee to formalize a company in whatever structure you choose, and then based on that structure the company either pays Federal Taxes (separate from the individual owner, who ALSO pays taxes), or the company passes on the taxation to the owners, who aren’t making anything in the first place. Then the State also collects a “franchise” tax (whether you are franchised or not) on top of the formation fees, and then collects sales tax on the product.  You should start turning a profit about the time you’re old enough to retire.

All joking aside, our Governor (the Honorable Rick Perry) and some members of our legislature have done some wonderful things for small farms this session. They have amended the Cottage Food Act to allow cottage food producers to make low-risk foods – such as baked goods, jams and jellies, dried herbs, dried fruits and vegetables, granolas, dry mixes, pickles, and coffee/tea mixes – and sell at places such as farmers markets and community events, as well as from home. This is a fantastic boost for my Bride and I because this means we don’t have to set up a “commercial” kitchen separate from the residence (to the tune of $20,000.00!).  She can put her salsa and jam in jars and share them with the world. Oh yeah, AND Gov. Perry signed into law a requirement to drug test before you can collect your welfare benefits. That right there is nearly enough to make me vote for him for president!

We are excited about this new step in our adventure, and are excited about working with our new partners in this venture. I think they are excited as well, at least until it’s time to kill, pluck, eviscerate, and package the chickens...then we’ll see! All in all, we are having a great life. We have fun, we work hard, we don’t ask the government for anything, and we have a wonderful family. From the multitude of offspring running around, to the best parents a couple could ask for, and the assortment of critters that demand our attention (wait, I already mentioned the kids, didn’t I?), my Darlin and I are (in the words of Phil Robertson) Happy, Happy, Happy…

 

Until next time,

 

 

Ottoman Empire

My Beautiful Bride and I were recently at the Garvey Ranch (Or is it the Henny Penny/Too Little Ranch?) and were enjoying some great family time with her parents discussing the joys of raising teenage girls, and the prospect of having yet another small boy child around the house when my bride propped her feet up on the foot stool in front of the couch for some well deserved rest. After about 5 minutes of this position, my Sweet angelic faced Darlin told me that she wanted an Ottoman. Now I admit, the first thought that ran through my pitiful mind was "Why on earth does she want a Turkish native?", but was put at rest when she explained to me that an ottoman (lowercase "O", apparently) was the footrest that my size ten Ariat ropers were resting on. As always, I told this wonderful woman of mine that she could have anything she wanted (except the Turkish native) and THAT was when I learned not only was I going to assist her in obtaining the footrest, but  I was going to build it with my own two hands...

Now to some men, the thought of any sort of domestic labor that is suggested by their wives brings about moans and groans of despair, and thoughts of all the past season's football highlights that they would miss on the Tee-Vee, but not me. It meant I get to create; to turn raw lumber into a useful piece of household furniture for us and our progeny to enjoy for generations to come. So off to my favorite hardware store to purchase the needed supplies (It just so happened that Lowe's sent me a $50 gift card for a recent purchase...It was meant to be!) and then returned home. The next two days were spent turning 1x3's into sawdust that covered the garage in a fine...well, dust, followed by glues and screws and a few minor adjustments. The result was a functioning footrest with functional storage!

So to my Darlin..here's your footrest. Please don't let the Ottoman's use it. I hear they're almost as messy as teenage girls...


Until next time,

Dinner bell's a-ringin

Well, my Beautiful Bride  and I recently moved into the 21st century and got cable TV (pronounced Tee-Vee, in a very enunciated manner). We have spent the past two and a half years without it, so why the sudden move to city-fication? Well, money of course. We found that it would be about $50/mo cheaper to have cable, internet, and home telephone with our current provider than to have internet and telephone alone, so like any red blooded American who is out to save .50 cents, we joined the masses of individuals who have 194 channels of absolutely nothing. Not that the 200 channels we get with our package are nothing but static and white noise, but out if the 200 channels, only about 6 are worth watching. Shows such as Duck Commanders, because they are a very family oriented show of people who remind me of my family (minus the Santa Claus beards), my Darlin's favorite,  Ellen Degeneres' show because, well, she's dang funny, and my favorite channels, RFD-TV (Rural Farm shows) and the Outdoors Network (fishing shows, of course) because they show people doing the things I enjoy, but don't have the time or money to do. 

My Bride and I have one channel in particular that we watch almost every time we turn on the television; Food Network. Between Bobby Flay (a Yankee who specializes in BBQ) and Paula Dean, a Southern gentle-lady whose recipes include things like Butter fried Bacon with butter and cream sauce (read: cholesterol enhance coronary events), we pick up recipes here and there that we like to try at home. Another one we enjoy watching is Chopped, a show which pits four different chefs each episode against each other with baskets of the strangest ingredients. The chefs will find combinations of things like black truffles, beets, fish roe in a tube, and juniper leaves, and have to use it for a one course meal. And this happens three times during the show; once for an appetizer, once for an entree, and once for desert. It's enough to make Julia Childs faint!

Anyway, while watching these shows, my Bride and I decided that we would do something similar in the real world and cook things for each other that we have never even attempted before. I decided tonight was my night, and offered to cook supper for my sweet wife. My gut told me that tonight was going to be a fish night, and we went to the local HEB grocery store where I found fresh caught salmon and farm raised mahi mahi for a really good price. I have cooked salmon before, but only in the oven. I've never even touched mahi mahi, and to be honest, I don't even know what it is beyond some water dwelling, scale-bearing, gill-breathing critter. But I know one thing for sure; a bit of oil and some herbs and you can make a sturgeon taste like food!

I started the meal by making a white wine garlic reduction and added a bit of butter (1/2 cup, to be precise)  and cooked that down into a sauce, which I refrigerated a half hour while everything else cooked. Next, I cubed and seasoned some potatoes with rosemary, cilantro, garlic, sage, and thyme and roasted the potatoes while I fixed the rest of the meal.  I heated olive oil in a skillet until it was starting to smoke  and  then threw in some fresh rosemary, more fresh garlic, and some diced white cap mushrooms. Once the oil was infused with the seasoning, I placed the mahi mahi and salmon in and cooked them for about 4 minutes on each side. They crusted nice and brown, and the seasoned oil made for one decent meal. It wasn't biscuits and gravy, but by George, it tasted downright fancy!

Beautiful Salmon for our favorite market: HEB

It really isn't a smoky as it seems....

The finished product: Pan seared Salmon and Mahi Mahi with herb roasted

potatoes, a dinner salad, and a side of white wine garlic butter.....      

And of course, Lone Star beer, lest I forget my roots and get too

fancy for my Wranglers....

And if you're interested in the rest of the story (ie. cleanup of this mess), pop on over to my Sweetheart's blog at acountrychickinthehenhouse and see what olive oil and fish does in a shallow pan at high temps....

Oh, and just in case you didn't know and were curious, this is a mahi mahi BEFORE dinner...

(Ugly son of a gun, ain't he?)

Until next time...

Why we have kids....

Well, once again I sit here putting fingers to keyboard in order to enlighten the world to the higher functions  of my synapse. In other words, I’m gonna lead y’all through the muck and mire that is my mind’s inner workings, and hope that it is all somewhat lucid!

This past weekend was a busy one for us, considering we had no children with us for most of it.  The weather was absolutely gorgeous Saturday and Sunday so we decided to plant our garden, or at least part of it. My Beautiful Bride wanted to put the lettuce and spinach in the ground so off to one of my favorite stores (Lowe’s) we went.  Now bear in mind, leading me into a home improvement store is like taking a toddler to the Hershey’s Chocolate Factory…I want it all! We walked around the garden center for a while where my Darlin picked out several different types of lettuce (cause they were pretty), spinach plants, and I selected some jumbo jalapeno plants. After placing the salad-to-be in our cart my Best Half asked if we could look at some decorative plants. Now I enjoy a well maintained yard as well as the next man, but my mind suddenly clicked to the fact that (a). This was a three day weekend, (b).  I was not on-call, or even in queue for on-call, and (c).  My wife had big plans for me that apparently did not include sitting on the couch napping. Now I realize that “nap time” loses its appeal sometime after kindergarten and remains distasteful for many years thereafter, BUT, with the Monkey around, napping is not even an option. When it appears to him that you are entering that ever-so-blissful state of total nirvana he brings you back to reality in his own gentle way; he screams.  Now I’m not talking about an “I’m across the room and want to wake the old fella on the couch up” scream, oh no, I’m talking about a five year old creeping up like a Navy SEAL until he is two inches from your face and unleashing a caterwaul directly into your eardrum that makes your spine tingle and your brain shrink. It is an effective way to wake one’s father, I’ll grant him that.

While planning this Eden-like paradise, we decided it might be in our best interest to build a fence to protect the garden from harmful creatures. Not because we were concerned about rabbits and other wild animals eating the fruits of our labors, but because we have two canine companions living in our back yard who apparently believes it is their mission from on High to cause me a stroke.  To this day I firmly believe Clementine is not a thoroughbred Bloodhound, but a mixed breed of bloodhound, chicken, and Case track hoe. That dog had managed to trench our yard to such a degree that a light rain storm make the yard look like the Amazon River immigrated to Texas and took up residence behind our house. She sleeps in a hay nest in the garage and runs from everything. (I’m not real fond of the eggs she lays though. They have a kinda crappy flavor).  And as far as Jack goes, well, he’s supposedly a black Lab but I don’t think I buy that either. I think he also was some geneticist’s experiment gone wrong in which a Lab was crossed with a kangaroo and a goat. This dog can jump a 6 foot fence and never even nick a belly hair, pretty much coming and going as he pleases despite my best efforts to contain him. He chews up everything in sight, whether it is edible or not. Not just the kids’ shoes that are left in the garage or my wife’s softball glove from when she was much younger, but he eats cardboard boxes and tin cans, and chairs. He even tried to eat a table. Not a small coffee table but a whole dad-blamed kitchen table.

Anyway, back to Lowe’s, my Sweetheart was kind enough to let me peruse the tool and lumber sections before hustling me out the door. I admit, I had no intention of buying either tools or lumber at the time. It was nothing more than a stall tactic similar to the kids suddenly having to go to the bathroom when it’s time to do the dishes. (Shameful, I know). When we got home, we marked out a 10x12 area where we wanted to till the ground and then the fun began. I borrowed a tiller from my sister last week and finally got to use it. There is nothing in the world like tearing up the ground with spinning metal blades driven by a gas powered motor (except tearing up the ground with a diesel powered tractor/backhoe, but she wouldn’t let me get one of those).  I did enjoy the ten minutes of ground chewing action, even if it felt like I was wrestling a greased midget for a bit. The ground was actually pretty easy to turn since that area of the yard used to house the chicken coop. Talk about fertile! After the tilling was done, we grabbed the hoes (garden type, not ghetto slang) and made our rows, then planted our seedlings and a few seeds. Once we finished putting these things in the ground I started building the fence, which could have been an easy task except I ran out of welded wire fencing about 10 feet from the finish line. As a wise man once told me, you gauge a project not by square footage, but by how many trips to the hardware store. This was apparently going to be a two-trip experiment in patience. It was too late in the day to go back to Lowe’s, so we fashioned a make-shift barricade out of two sawhorses, a wheel barrow,  two plastic lawn chairs, some leftover chicken wire, and a hope that the genetic mutant dogs were too stupid to figure it out. There’s something to be said about redneck engineering; it ain’t purty, but it works!

The following day we returned to Lowe’s and bought another 50 yards of welded wire fence (because they don’t sell it any smaller…) and some more plants then finished the project. I’m pretty pleased with it and hope that this time the plants grow, unlike last year’s attempt at gardening which yielded nothing more than some cilantro and a zombie tomato plant that wouldn’t die. I did get to use the tiller again, this time to grind up the Amazon River banks back there and level out the ground some. We planted 20 pounds of grass seed over this area, hoping that it will look more like the amber waves of grain than the deserts of El Paso….

The best part of the long weekend came Monday morning when we had the distinct privilege of being at the doctor’s office exactly one hour before the sun woke up. This was the day we were to learn the gender of the new ranch hand and although I was surrounded by people who assured me it was going to be a girl, I kept the faith and hoped for a strapping young man to handle the lawn mowing and trash removal. This is why we have kids in the first place, isn’t it? (Be honest…). Once we got my Darlin checked in, they put a wrist band on her. This concerned me because I wasn’t sure if they were planning to keep her there for an extended period of time, or planning to introduce so much radiation into her system that she would forget who she was.  Neither prospect was acceptable in my book. We have a garden now and I would never remember to water it without her. She is my rock (and my memory).

Anyway, soon after the application of the tracking device (I mean, wrist band), we were led back to a room where there was a bed, a large device that looked like something out of an Orson Well’s book, and a small radio playing Big Band music, which was a pleasant surprise since most doctor’s offices play nothing but that despicable Muzak (or as I like to call it, imitation music). After taking what seemed to be thousands of images of our infant’s arms and legs (two of each, by the way), spine (only one), and face (again, only one) the tech showed us what we were looking for. Right there on the flat screen were our baby’s (to put it in her words) “man parts”. Yes folks, we are having a boy. And if the sonic induced images of the tech’s magical machine are any indication, a big boy. Ah yes, I am a proud papa. We left the office with hearts full of joy, pride, and a CD-Rom filled with evidence of my new son’s masculinity.

We were finally  able to lay down on the couch to nap for a couple of hours that afternoon before the Monkey came home… but I couldn’t fall asleep until he got there to keep me up. (By the way Honey, I really will get the saw horses out of the yard, or at least send the boys to do it….)

 

Until next time….

Never own anything you ain't willin to drill into...

Well, I’ve put off posting for a couple of weeks now, just pondering things at the Coop, and decided that it is once again time to share some insight into the inner working of this delicate film of gray matter I call my mind. When I first started posting I thought I would never have a problem coming up with a topic, or some form of wordy prose to share with the masses who were clambering at their computers to read the next burst of cyber-wisdom, but I have recently realized that while I could put lots of words into cyberspace, they would be just that…words. No feelings, no contemplative explanations, nothing that I wanted to use in this elegant slice of thoughtful enlightenment.

While thinking about this issue, I realized that pretty words and thought provoking twists of logic aren’t always the best form of reading entertainment (not that you’d actually ever get either of those here; but I thought I’d toss that out there) and decided to write today about the words of our fathers. No, not the words our fathers used when they accidentally broke their small toe changing pants at work, nor the words mine used upon realizing his youngest son was in the basement experimenting with the flash point of 10W-30 motor oil (about 420F-485F, if you must know), but the words of wisdom that we all thought were insane until we grew up and started using these exact same phrases with our own kids.

“Never own anything you aren't willing to drill a hole in”.

I never really understood what my Dad meant by this until recently. A couple of years ago my beautiful Bride and I were in a position to buy a new bedroom suit and went to our local purveyor of fine rustic furniture.  Three of them actually, before we found exactly what we wanted at the price we wanted to pay. After having spent several hours and gallons of gas, we decided on a nice dresser with a mirror, two matching nightstands, and an amazing bedframe/headboard combination that had more storage in the built-in drawers underneath than a politician has excuses. We loaded all this up into my ole Dodge truck and make the trip home.  Being the smart fella I’d love to believe that I am, I suggested we stage all of the new items in the living room until the old bedroom furniture was removed to the garage. Once that was complete, I carefully removed the plastic coverings from the beautifully stained pine wood bed frame, taking care not to mar the finish with my pocket knife. I mean for Pete’s sake, we just spent $600 on a bedframe; I might have actually shed tears had I scratched it!

 Once the plastic was removed (with surgical precision, I might add), my lovely bride and I pushed it down the hallway to the bedroom, already picturing how this one piece of furniture would transform our little 11x13 bedroom into a suite that would make a king fit to be tied. As we arrived at the bedroom door, a sudden dread filled my heart, based on the realization that simple physics had defeated me. The bedframe was too large to turn in the hallway, making it impossible to get it into the room. Now I am normally a calm man, seldom prone to panic, but this time was different. My mind began to race as I tried to decide whether or not I should take out the doorway of the bedroom, or remove the window and put the bed in from the outside. Apparently I was listing these options out loud because the Love of my life began getting a rather odd look on her face. I realize now that look was that of a person trying to remember the number to the local asylum.

I decided that since I had never installed double pane insulated windows, I should widen the bedroom doorway (been there, done that), and started toward the garage for my trusty circle saw. My bride stopped me and calmly suggested that we cut the bed instead. It was my turn to wonder about the current rules for commitment to a ward, until I realized she might be right. It might actually be better to cut the bed (which we own) than to alter the design of our residence (which we don’t own).  A half hour and two pounds of sawdust later, the bed was cut apart and reassembled in our room. It might not be fit for a king, but my Queen sleeps just perfectly on it. (Oh, and the doorway is still intact).  

Now that I have kids of my own, I catch myself using these very same phrases, such as when one of the kiddos transgresses in such a fashion that it only requires a light-hearted scolding such as “I’m gonna stomp a mud-hole in yer butt, then stomp it dry”.  I knew, upon hearing this, that I had committed an act of utter stupidity and had been caught at it, yet at the same time knew I wasn’t in any real danger of said mud-hole creation. Another classic that my kids hear is “Your mouth is gonna write a check your butt can’t cash”. This is usually when we are play-fighting and my 14 year old decides to challenge the old man to a “wrasslin” match.  My dad and I play fought often, and it was always in fun; not only because we enjoyed it, but also because I knew in my heart of heart that if I ever challenged my dad to a real fight, he would accept and that scared me. My dad wasn’t a big man, but he was strong as a Missouri mule and didn’t back down from anyone. Besides that, he kindly reminded me that my body occasionally grew weary and I would eventually have to fall asleep. He never finished that thought (and he didn’t have to). My young imagination filled with nightmares of the tortures I would endure when sleep overcame me and that fear kept me from many stupid decisions. Not that Dad would have done anything to me in my sleep; I really don’t believe he would. But it is the fear of the unknown that keeps wise men honest.

So in closing, I leave you with this nugget of rural gold; I reckon good sense is scarcer than hen’s teeth, so don’t waste what you have.

 

Until next time,

 

 

Come and take it... (now that'll be $4 please)

So my beautiful Bride and I decided we were going to try our hand at bestowing some of her AMAZING jam as well as some of our yard eggs upon the citizens of this Great State in exchange for a small amount of their legal tender. We had a wonderful plan; prepare the jams a day before the Farmer’s Market so they would be the freshest and store the eggs at a perfect 40 degrees so they would match the jam in freshness and thus avoid that nasty botulism or salmonella. Why this was genius at its best! Do something we love to do AND maybe turn a small profit to boot. Our excitement was every bit equal to that of a 5 year old on Christmas morning and in our minds we were already the next Mrs. Fields, selling our wares across the country and putting smiles on the faces of our customers world-wide.  The only thing left to do was to look into getting the permit from the county to sell such succulent consumables to the starving masses. I jumped onto the computer right away and took a left onto the information super highway we know as the internet and…BAM, there it was. A detour sign immediately followed by a roadblock of tanks and men with machine guns. Ok, that may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but read on!

I spent literally hours on the computer reading through State and Federal food service laws (including some laws that I’m not entirely certain are even directed toward the human race) all to learn that any person is welcome to sell their food products, all you have to do is follow ten simple steps. Did I say ten? I meant ten thousand. The number of hoops that have to be jumped through to sell food would have made Evel Kneiveil quit his career as a stunt man and take up factory work.  And that’s not the worst part; in order to make jam, we would have to use a commercial kitchen to prepare it.  Now if you know my Darling wife, she is a bit of an obsessive cleaner. I personally love her for it because I get to live in a sterile environment, but apparently that is not nearly good enough for the federal government. I mean seriously, one inspection of her kitchen and the Mayo Clinic would send their brain surgeons to her to learn how to clean.  I find it humorous that a kitchen as well cared for as hers isn’t good enough to prepare small batches of heaven to share with the community, but the large restaurants (who, by the way have paid thousands of dollars to our favorite Uncle…Sam) can get away with cockroach parts in their prepared foods as long as it is under a specified “parts-per-thousand”.  Me personally, I am not ok with ANY insect parts in my food, and would sell food with that in mind.

I watched a documentary the other night called “Farmageddon” and unfairly assessed it as people who were trying to bypass their responsibilities to the public. It is actually interesting to watch, regardless of your opinion of the people shown, in that one can really see how much the federal government is willing to squash small farmers in the interest of the large production farms. There was one question asked during the show that now really stands out to me; Is it really fair to hold small farms, especially small organic farms, to the same standards as the larger, more industrial (read: filthy) farms. I completely agree that food safety is a must, no matter who the producer is, but it is so much easier to track where your food comes from when you buy it from Farmer Joe who lives next door than when you buy it from a large chain grocery store whose products change hands ten times before making its way into your cart.  Thankfully the Great State of Texas has the answer, essentially telling the Federal Government once again where to stash its restricting rules on production. It's known as the Cottage Foods Act  and was passed August 2011. In this act, Texas made it legal to sell certain non-perishable foods (baked good, jams, jellies, and seeds) at your residence as long as it is a face to face transaction. So, although it is not what we had in mind, the Rocking PMH Ranch is still in the business of selling the canned ambrosia we call jam. Typical of most real Texans, tell us we can't do something and we'll find another way to do it, and do it better!

 

Until next time,