Dinner out of a can

No, not Campbell's. Not Chunky. Not even Healthy Choice.

A cream can! Remember cream cans? We had them floating around the house as stand-in end tables. Maybe you hoisted them straight from cow to cooler. Now we're likely to see them only in an antique store or in an old barn.

I'm not sure where this one began life. Or even the day. It looked clean, however; and our host is the most immaculate cowboy I know so we had no worries.

This was an experimental dinner, testing out what sounded like a cool, easy way to cook a lot of vegetables for a crowd. I was wary. Very wary. So hairy-eyeball wary, in fact, that I suggested they scrap the vegetable idea altogether. I know. Me. The ex-vegetarian. But come on - we're talking about a crowd of cowpokes. The beans, beef and sourdough would keep them pleased as punch. A cowpunch. (Ha! Sorry; I amuse myself.)

Sometimes I amuse a cowpunch, too.

We sat and watched the pot boil for a while. This wasn't as boring as it sounds, though. We had a penny to watch!

See, the only way we could tell that the veggies had begun to boil was a tiny stream of steam. Try seeing a stream of steam.

See it?

Yeah? Well, you have better vision than we do.

So Jack's idea was to plop a penny on top of the tiny air vent hole. When the steam pressure built up enough, he said, the penny would move.

My, but my eyeballs are getting hairy.

We sat on old molasses tubs around the fire (did I mention it was nearly 90 degrees outside?)and pretended to get caught up while each of us sneaked a peek at the penny.

The anticipation was fierce, lemme tell ya.

Eventually it happened and we all squealed. Ok, maybe just I squealed. Anyway, the grub was good. 

For those interested in the specifics, the pot contained 5 pounds of red potatoes, 1 head of green cabbage, 2 red onions, a bag of frozen corn on the cob, some Tony Chacheres seasoning and a little water. Half of it fed 9 of us with several trips for seconds. It took around 45 minutes to boil sitting on a pipe stuck in the embers of an elm wood fire.

Bon Appétit, or as we say around here, Good Eats!

The dog days of summer

The heat has finally reached us here in the high desert, not that it is bothering these cuties who get to live under ground near a local rest stop.

Bomb, you were a dear

Someone took Mater's favorite toy.

With apologies for destroying your illusions, little ranch work is done on horseback anymore. Most of it is done with four-wheelers. We have a few here; Jack's favorite was an ancient Bombadier workhorse. As soon as he heard it start, Mater was on the scene and clambering on. He rode and rode and rode, chasing cows, irrigating, checking heifers - whatever. He sat or laid on the back as happy as could be.

It was always parked in this spot, just outside our door. When we got home one afternoon last week it was simply gone. Someone had come up the long driveway, removed the toolboxes (aka milk crates) from the back and driven away. We're perplexed. If only Mater were a bloodhound.

And the worst news is that the one Jack rides now doesn't have room for Mater.

Ambitions of gardening grandeur

I wasn't going to have a garden this year. In October, when I officially gave up on harvesting a single pepper from four plants, accepted that a lone cucumber would be it from six plants and dug out the four inch posts that had been my corn stalks, I threw up my hands.

"Fine, grasshoppah; you win," I said.They were a plague. Every shape and size. Mandibles of steel devouring nearly everything in sight. (Including the alfalfa, but that's another story.) I grabbed a handful of dirt and declared, "As God as my witness, I will not garden again!"

Famous last words.

Garden 2010 was a nice, tight little number. She was about 17x40, had a couple of winter squash and pumpkin plants, a few zucchini and summer squash, a smattering of tomato plants, four cabbages, the aforementioned peppers and cucumbers. Nothing fancy. The Ford Taurus of gardens. 

If you looked at our yard this year, you'd think Verizon was pushing an upgrade. Jack and Colonel got all excited with their plow and new fence and I got a bit overzealous with my seedlings.

The new space is more than double last year's. We've gone from approximately 680 square feet to around 1700. I have 16 winter squash and pumpkin plants, 86 potato plants, 400 onions, 35 tomato plants, 16 cabbage plants, Brussel sprouts, Swiss chard, beets, pole beans, eight or 10 zucchini plants... you get the picture.

This was partially strategic. The more I plant, the more likely the grasshoppers will leave something for us to eat. Right?

The Deluge

Last week all conversations began with "You got your ark built yet?" 

We live in the High Desert, where we get to enjoy bright sunny skies nearly every day. Our average annual rainfall is about 7 inches, the same amount of rain that fell on us while vacationing in Maine for a week.

More moisture falls in May than any other month - normally about 1.5 inches - but this year was a doozy. We got over 3 inches out of this storm! 

 Irrigating during the monsoon. Oops.

 Skip's food bowl filled up very quickly.

 A rare and glorious sight.

 I didn't think anyone even owned umbrellas here, but this one came in handy!

 Yep, snow. On the blossoming trees.

Fourteen hours = 2.5 inches of water

Calving out heifers

First, let me say that both the word "calving" and the word "heifer" are new additions to my vocabulary. Calf, I knew. Turning it into a verb seemed a bit of a stretch of proper grammar. In case you, too, are new to this vernacular, let me help.

Heifer: a female bovine who has yet to have a calf.
To calve: Giving birth, or assisting in the labor.

I have no I idea why it is called calving out heifers. It just is. I'd say I don't ask, but I do. I'm a librarian. I ask a lot of questions, but they don't all have answers.

Calving heifers is Jack's absolute favorite thing in the world. Better than German chocolate cake, even. He spends every Spring babysitting them every hour all night and checking them all day, pulling, nursing and doctoring as needed. And need is the word. The cows (after they've calved once they get promoted) are left to calve on their own out in the big pasture, but these girls would never make it.

For some, nature kicks in and they instinctively nurture and care for their young. For an alarming number, however, they are stunned at what is happening to them and not at all sure how or interested in caring for their babies. Jack convinces them being a mom is a good idea. He is the perfect midwife; he knows when they need help and when they just need to be left alone.

 I just like to watch all the babies.

The wicked stepmother

It was an out of body moment, really.

It was our first official date. I knew he had been married before and had children, but the details were fuzzy. When I got them and did the math I was suddenly on the hood of the truck looking back in at myself.

This man, with whom I was so enamored I drove over a thousand miles for a date, had five children? And two of them were older than me? That's a lot for a girl to digest. (And even more so for the children!)

Fast forward a few years. Everyone seems to have adapted remarkably well to this sitcom scenario in which we live. Before we got married, Jack asked all of his children how they felt about it.

Most responded along the lines of "we just want you to be happy, and she makes you happy." One smiled in mock relief that she was off the hook for taking care of him when he got old. The youngest declared she was the youngest of his children and preferred to stay that way.

I agreed with the latter request, but told the other one that as soon as he got old I was shipping him to live with her!

This family is full of humor and good nature and they accepted this Yankee in with open-arms. We just got back from visiting them and I am again awed by how gracious and welcoming they are to me. The situation is strange - at least outside of Hollywood - but somehow it works. This last week I was struck by how the bond I have with Jack shapes the bonds I have to his family.

Two of Jack's five children might be older than I am, but with all of them my feelings are colored by the way he treasures them. His need for them to be happy and successful is catching. On paper, I am the stepmother to a woman nearly six years older than I am.

It is ridiculous and inappropriate to assign "mother" in any way to such a relationship, but it perhaps not incorrect. I want to be a person on whom they can rely. A resource in their journey, to help in any way I can.

I am not their mother. I am not their sister or cousin. None of us has a template for how to navigate this relationship. We do not have a shared history. But for me there is a sense of responsibility that defies explanation. I feel the urge the mother hen has to nudge the chick in the right direction, to where he can gain traction. Who am I to presume I know better than they? Good question. I told you - it's odd!

There is a lot of discussion about how fractured family trees have become and indeed, they are certainly pruned in new ways, but as long as we are open to relationships our trees will blossom.

What I do know is that watching my husband puff with pride when his chicks gather fills my heart and make me love him - and them - all the more.

Why did the bull cross the road?

One side of the highway we have cows and calves. On the other side, the bulls. 

On my way home the other night I encountered this:

Luckily, right behind was this:

And this is what ensued:

Turns out, Jack can move a bull with just about anything, including a F350.

Gives new meaning to the word "Drover" (DROVER: One who drives cattle or sheep ), don't you think?

At least one car had pulled up behind me and this was all happening on the slope of a hill where drivers coming at 70 mph down the hill would not be expecting a bull nor an oddly placed truck. The Highway Patrol came to help.

Jack knew exactly where to steer this errant youngun.

He went back in the way he came out, under the wire stretching across a ditch.

But he is NOT happy about it.

Ten minutes later, Jack caught him sneaking under AGAIN and had to stretch more wire across that span. 

Sorry, Bud, no cows for you yet!