Our Broken Collie

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I stood at the door of a dilapidated shack and looked in at what seemed like a million wriggling puppies. I had unknowingly happened upon a puppy mill and in some of the worst conditions I had ever seen.

Earlier in the week I had seen an ad offering Rat Terrier puppies for $60. I was in the market for a smallish terrier type dog so I made the call. I could not hide my disgust when looking in at the writhing mass of black, white, and brown. Puppies were frantically trying to get out. Out of the feces covering the floor, out of the urine soaking their paws, out of the stench of too many little bodies and the bite of the fleas. She sat in the back with her little black nose in the air. Reaching for fresh air I am sure but not trying to get out. I stepped over the rest and reached for her.

She was the same size as everyone else but seemed different. Sad. She hardly reacted when I lifted her from the filth. I later learned she was from a previous litter. A runt they were going to breed from.  She had been in that horrid place for 8 full weeks. Way too long and she had obviously given up. It was no wonder she was despondent.

The deal was made and she rode home in my lap wrapped in a blanket. Sleeping as soundly as I am sure she had done in an eternity. Before arriving at home, I made a quick stop at a payphone (pre-cell phone era). I read sometime later of the discovery of a puppy mill in southern Nebraska. Apparently an anonymous caller had reported them and upon investigation, they had been shut down. All those puppies had been confiscated, vetted, and offered for adoption from a no kill shelter.

My Princess lived for a happy 14 years.

When we had healed enough to look into filling the gaping hole she left, we knew we wanted to adopt.

We found the Collies at a working dog rescue in Colorado. We were calving at the time and the husband could not make the visit. I met my Tucker first and knew he was it. He’s a beautiful little black and white collie and his eagerness to please was unmatched by any other dog. I knew I was adopting him right then and there. He had baggage though. He was to be adopted out with his supposed half-brother Shep. Shep was a 50lb brute whom had never been taught a lick of manners. No leash training, no house training, nothing! He had also been expected to live in a duplex where his previous owner had worked 10 or 12 hours a day and poor Shep was expected to be happy to hang out at home all day. That poor dog must have destroyed the guys house. Obviously someone with no collie experience. Maybe no dog experience, period. I don’t know but when I looked into those big brown eyes and seen…..what did I see? Distrust? Doubt? Fear? Or maybe I saw his soul. He was on the edge of being a really bad dog, or a really good dog. I wasn’t yet 100% sure of his path but I knew he needed a person. Someone who understood collies, someone with compassion, someone who needed a dog of their own.

“He’ll make you a good dog.” I reported to my husband.

“Bring him home then, I trust you.” He answered.

I brought home both dogs and we changed Sheps name to Jack to give him a new start and the journey began.

It took a few weeks for him to realize we were not going to beat on him for every little thing, that we liked to play fetch, tennis balls were his new best friend, and these new people provided things like chewies and didn’t mind if he slept on the bed. He wasn’t too thrilled with my need to brush his long beautiful fur or to insist he potty outside but we came to an understanding. I brushed only when he really needed it and he would not pee on my floor. I would not throw my slipper at him and he would not chew them up.  It all came eventually. The mutual respect he needed. He and Peter bonded like no other and they were inseparable.

Then he broke his leg.

After falling from the back of the pick-up somewhere on the way to work, we finally found him. We picked him up from the ditch and that poor dog, with his already rough start in life, laid on that leg all the way to the vet. The x-rays revealed a broken femur and surgery was scheduled. I brought him home a few days later and the healing had begun. Physical healing anyway. While he relied on me almost 100% however the pain and the pain drugs made him forget all the trust he and my husband had forged and the teeth came barred again. He had reverted to the dog he once was. Un-trusting. Untrustworthy. Afraid. I could work with him but Peter was at a loss. I could pick up his back end and help him lay down but he could not trust Peter enough to even let him outside.

He was really and truly broken this time. Would he come back to us? Would he come back to Peter? Watching my husband grieve broke my heart. He had found a dog of his own at last but now it seemed like that special bond was gone.

In one of the vet visits the nurse had to muzzle him his attitude was that bad.  In the next vet visit the nurse pulled out the muzzle and Jack pulled out his fangs. Then he turned to me with a look, pleading with me, “Anything but that Mom, Please!” I told the nurse I would hold him and if he bit me, it was my own fault. Not one fang was shown as Jack laid on the exam table as still as a stone. Vet did his palpitating and flexing thing, which I’m sure hurt, but Jack still didn’t move a muscle. Ok, maybe he still had some trust in there. Things were looking up.

He ended up needing a second surgery to remove the plate and screws, which required more recovery. I learned a lot about this dog during this time. He thinks, problem solves, and once he figured out the house rules, started tattling on wrong doers. Tucker getting on the coffee table? Woof, woof, whimper, and whine. I go check and sure enough. Naughtiness. Is Fitty on the counter? More woofs and whimper whines. We started making a joke out of it “What’s the matter Lassie? Is Timmy in the well?” and laugh it off. Until he alerted me of my sons bike wreck. I actually asked him if Timmy was in the well and he glared at me. Ever seen a dog glare? He drug me outside by my shirt tail and there was Ryan, in a bleeding pile under his bike.

He came home one afternoon a couple years later and was doing his “Timmy’s in the well” routine. I jumped in the truck and followed him. Cows were out and getting in the hay yard. Some were chewing on a bale that had been left and the rest were making their way onto the road. He gave me a look that I am sure meant “I told you so” and I laughed. We put the cows back where they belonged and I made sure to tell him what a good dog he was. I tend to believe him these days.

Day by day as his leg healed, the trust healed as well. The bond took a bit longer to come back but I knew it was going to be ok the day I figured out Jack could tell time. Husband would come home from work about 5:00, 4:30 rolls around to find Jack in our bedroom, watching down the driveway. Watching for his person whom, even during this setback, was nice to him. Who would talk to him in a soft voice and tell him it would all be OK. Reassure him that he was a good boy. Their special bond is back now and stronger than ever. Although, to this day I am still the only one who can handle him for the vet. I suppose even big dogs need a Mommy sometimes.

In the long run this broken collie is turning out to be a really good dog. I knew it all along, or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Barbara <3

Lambchop's lamb chops

15 years ago if you would have asked me if I could see myself living how I am now? I would have laughed at you.

Born and raised a city girl with only the traditional $10 per hour, safety helmet, on a bomb proof horse, riding lessons, I never would have thought I would be raising our own food and meat.

We raised our very first meat lamb this year. From weaning to freezer, we did it all ourselves. That also includes killing her.

Husband and I work very well together when it comes to hair brained projects like this one.

About 11 years ago Hubby brought up the thought of putting in a garden. We lived in a rental house at the time but knew our landlords very well as they were my parents. We went to Mom and Dad asking permission to tear up the grass in the back yard and plant a small garden. Just big enough for some tomato plants and maybe a row or two of corn. They said yes and it’s been downhill ever since.

The garden grew both in variety and size and so did our family. With the first baby just learning to crawl we started looking for a house of our own. We found one that we kind of liked but not really. The house had such a perfect yard and location though that we told each other we could learn to love the house. So we bought it.

Soon after moving in Baby #2 made a surprising entrance to the world. We also increased the size of our garden again, and again, to finally include two separate patches where we could grow enough tomatoes, potatoes, beets, peppers, peas and green beans to keep us happy. For a few months anyway.

Then came the chickens.

We didn’t mention to anyone about the chickens. For weeks we kept quiet about the peeping coming from the brooder in the office. People tend to look at you funny when you tell them you have chickens in the office. I also didn’t know a single thing about chickens except they tasted good. So, I hit the library, I scoured Google, found backyard chicken sites, and learned.

We promised each other that we would butcher the roosters ourselves. Hubby remembered his dad doing the killing and thought he could remember how. I remember my Dad teaching me how to gut ducks so, thinking ‘how different can chickens be?’, so I volunteered for that job. In the end we had 9 birds in the freezer all dead, skinned and gutted.

But, we needed more, and I’m not talking about chickens. I’m talking about life.

After looking around for a few months and applying for a few jobs here and there, we were offered a position on a ranch in North Park Colorado. We packed up, sold the house, and moved 500 miles away. Starting on one ranch and now on another. From my hometown where I was born and raised, where we knew everyone, to a place where we knew no one, no one knew us, and we could see the hundreds of millions of stars at night.

Drastic?

Absolutely!!

Then came the lambs.

4-H is big in this area and we were encouraged to look into raising a 4-H project. After some deliberation and research we decided our oldest boy Gian could raise lambs. However, since we were building a pen for two lambs already, why not raise three and butcher one?

Peter and I did some serious thinking about this. To raise and animal from weaning to butcher, to make sure she had the best hay, the cleanest water, the best quality grain, the safest pen, and the happiest, least stressful life as possible, is a big responsibility. So why then would we stress her out by hauling her miles away to trust a total stranger with the most important part?

We just couldn’t and that’s was all there was to it.

But, could we actually do it? Could we actually take an animal and end her life after caring for her so vigilantly for so many months? We did chickens, we told ourselves. Chickens are different, we argued back. So let’s not raise one then, but have you seen the price of lamb? Oh, we went back and forth for days.

In the end we decided that if this was the life we wanted, the self-sufficient, do it ourselves, off grid sort of life, that this was something we had to do. Also, we had to learn it now while we had the resources to learn from.

So, we bought a meat lamb. A beautiful little corriedale/shorpshire cross we named Lambchop.

Like I say, Hubby and I work well together at these sort of things and when the time came, we sat down and planned our strategy. Much like the chickens we each took a ‘not-so-great’ task. He shot her, and I cut her throat to bleed her out. Then we each took task we had seen done or done before ourselves. I’ve seen my brother skin deer so I started there. “I would skin from the top down” Says Pete. “Yea, I probably should” I answer. He’s read up on gutting so he took that task and before long we had a carcass hanging in the shop to rest overnight.

By then, she was no longer our Lambchop. She was just meat. Meat for our freezer. Meat to feed my children. Meat that I knew where it came from. I know how she was raised, what she ate, how she was treated and I know how she died. She had a name and she had a place in our lives for however brief. I am wiser for raising her and she will always be remembered.

I’ll say this about the whole experience though......

While it wasn’t the most pleasant thing I have ever done in my life, I’ll do it again, and I’ll cry next time as well. 

Thank You for stopping by!!
Barbara <3 

Old dogs can learn new tricks.

Anybody know what an Actuator is? No? Don't feel bad since up until 3 days ago, I didn't either. Now that I know what it is, what it does, and how important it is, I wish I didn't.

It's one big pain in the bohunkus, that's what it is.

Located deep in the bowels of the steering column, this cheap piece of junk connects your ignition to the ignition switch. It also has a very important roll in the whole 'neutral safety switch' thing. Basically if this Actuator doo dad is broken, and your in park, your staying where you are.

I drive a 1991 Ford F-150 and proud of it. It's a good truck. We paid $1800 bucks for her 8 years ago last November and the list of things we have had to fix on the old girl numbers about ten.

Wiper motor, brakes, fuel pump, U-joint, ignition barrel, blower motor, squirrel cage fan, a resistor, some relay thingy under the hood that almost took out the west end of Father dears garage, and this actuator. I also see a starter and upper ball joints in the future but she's a good girl and giving me the signals and I have a starter in the mail...or almost...as soon as we get paid I'll have a starter in the mail anyway.

She's not quite strong enough for our camper but like I said, other than that, she's a good truck.

However I had exhausted my list of expletives whilst attacking this actuator.

It requires special tools, strong muscles and little fingers. I had to buy the special tool and then borrowed a 15/16th deep well socket but provided the muscles and little fingers myself.

3 days, 2 actuators (don't ask), and the sacrifice of the blinker return and tilt later, the truck starts.

Kind of proud about that. I'll look at that whole blinker thing later.

I once told my Dad after and incident with a lawn mower, 'I broke it I'll fix it. Just tell me how' he responded with being glad he raised..uh..daughters or some such smart remark. I have a beautiful Sista who is equally as competent as I. I also have a handsome brother whom can fix, make, manufacture, invent, or afro engineer anything. What can I say, we're a do-it-yourself kind of family.

In this day and age most daughters know nothing about vehicles and most sons know nothing about cooking.

This needs to change right now.

If you need to learn something, learn it!! Don't be afraid to ask someone. I didn't know what what wrong with my truck but with the help of the parts store, my 'phone a friend', Google, and you tube I got it figured out.

You can too!!!

Try new things and see how it opens your mind.

Thank you for reading,
Barbara <3

Congratulations! It's a ....dryer???

After over a year without a dryer that worked, we find out that the new ranch had a matched washer/dryer set in storage. Ours to use if we wanted. Um? Yes, please! Get them all moved in and discover that either the plug in the wall has one too many prongs or the plug on the dryer has one too little. A variety of parts came in yesterday and I decreed today was the day to fix it.

I had already decided the dryer had one too few prongs and changing the cord was the thing to do. No messing with breakers this way. Problem? The dryer, having the need for only 3 wires, and the new cord, needing 4, were not matching up like the picture showed. Isn't this always the case?

Just what's a girl to do??

I called my Dad.

"Hello" he answers, as always "This is Larry"
"Hello Larry" I reply, as always "This is Barbara Ann"
What can I say? It's our thing ;)

So, on to my dryer. A discussion at length about hot wires, ground wires, and which one should be what color led me and my do it yourselfness in the right direction. I was just in the process of hooking things up when hubby came in.

He looks at the cord, he looks at the dryer, and looks at me.
"Do you know what your doing?" He asks.
"Yep, I used my phone-a-friend" I smile up at him.
"Oh yea?" He asks "How is your Dad?" smiling back at me.

My Dad is good. My Dad is rare. My Dad is.....my Dad :)

We almost lost him once. That was pretty serious let me tell you. Go big or go home right? He even had life flight involved. Can't just have yourself a little heart attack can you Dad? Got to go for the gold. Overachiever. BUT....Mom knew just what to do, the Nurses were on their toes, and Karma was on his side. Thank you Karma, the Nurses, and especially Mom.

I think about that day every time I use my phone-a-friend. Every time my husband talks about his Dad. Every time I hear of someone in their age group that has passed away, a friends Dad, one of his hunting buddies, trucking buddies, I think of that day. Probably more than he does I bet.

In this New Year I shall resolve to use my phone-a-friend as much as possible. I shall resolve to be a better house keeper. I shall resolve to call my Mother at least once a week. I shall resolve not to judge others to harshly or quickly. I shall resolve to make it one more year with this Fibromyalgia and without pills. I should also resolve to lose a few pounds but....well...I wouldn't want to over do it.  

And here you thought this was going to be a post about dryers.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my ramblings and maybe even understanding a little.

Happy New Year to you and yours,
Barb

Food for thought:
Things were meant to be used,
people are meant to be cherished.

Get out that silver, that china, those embroidered pillowcases and use them!!
Then invite your people over and cherish them.

Store bought, sodium crammed, instant products....

I have climbed upon my soapbox.
Today's gripe....modern recipes.
Am I the only one fed up with recipes full of things like cream of mushroom soup or french onion dip?
It seems anymore that if there is a store bought, sodium crammed, instant product that we can sneak into out menu, then we do. Don't get me wrong for I am a big fan of green bean casserole. And green bean casserole is basically one huge store bought, sodium crammed, instant product nicely disguised as home made. You did stir it in a bowl after all, then had to bake it. Anything that creates more than 2 dirty dishes should automatically be classified as homemade in my book.
The bad part is I don't know how to make home made cream of mushroom soup, and everywhere I have researched says 'DO NOT CAN DAIRY' Well the 'cream' part of 'Cream of mushroom soup' kind of leads one to believe in the presence of dairy. So....if one cannot can dairy....how do the huge mega companies can CREAM of anything soup??? Maybe it's not real cream? Fake cream? From fake milk? From fake cows??? I'm so confused........
SO, until the oracle of canning advice, that is the local extension office, gives me the go ahead to can dairy, I'll be buying the store bought sodium crammed, instant product. The cream of mushroom soups, the french onion dip, and *sigh* the evaporated milk.
Just once I'd like a recipe to say something I understood and can make in my home. My pantry is not set up for store bought or sodium crammed, and the most instant thing in there is the oatmeal..... and even that requires more than 2 dirty dishes.

Climbing off the soapbox,
Yours once again,
Barbara

Getting a little personal........

The following post is a true story. The 100%, complete, unadulterated, true facts...I did not make anything up and I did not include any names to protect their privacy. 

Judgement Day

I had often thought about killing him, daily perhaps, but never before had a more perfect opportunity presented itself.

Ladies and gentleman my name is Barbara Ann. I am 37 years old and happily married to a wonderful husband whom I love, cherish, and adore. I spend my days lovingly washing, baking, cleaning, and generally running the house because I love him completely. I love and cherish my two sons with every fiber that is my being. I live for the men in my life and would never change it.

I wasn't always this happy. Wasn't always as content as I am now for you see, I have lived two lives.

This story I am about to tell you I have only shared with a select few in my life. My husband is one and my best girlfriend is another. I am telling you now because I feel compelled to own my wrong doings. To take responsibility for the impure, unclean, and immoral things I have kept hidden for so long. It’s time to cleanse the soul. So stick around.

When I was the grand old age of 17 I got married to a wonderful man, a White Knight in the truest sense of the title. He loved and respected me for the entire month of our marriage, until he found me in bed with another man. Shame weighed down on me so heavy that I just knew I couldn't go back. I couldn't curl up in the arms of my loving husband; I couldn't seek shelter in the comforting folds of my childhood home. Home to my Mommy and Daddy so they could make it all better. I had no home to go to, and it was my own damn fault.

I slept on the couch of a high school friend of mine and her boyfriend until eventually I hooked up with their roommate. My first husband and I were soon divorced and I tried moved forward, taking all my shame with me. It was months before I could look my parents in the eyes again. The new boyfriend and I started looking for an apartment of our own to start our lives together. I was starting over and for awhile it seemed like it might work.

It became apparent however, that my new White Knight had a severe case of sticky fingers. After this condition had landed him in jail a few times I started looking for a new White Knight to save me. It never occurred to me that I was my own White Knight. I was too young and stupid to know that.

I didn't look far to find White Knight #3 as he was living in the apartment next door. He had two beautiful daughters he seemed to be raising alone. He had a good job as a carpenter and even owned his own vehicle! That was a big step up from #2 already and I was convinced.

I moved in with him after only knowing him for a few weeks totally trusting the father figure persona. Dads are by nature good people right? My Dad is anyway. 

Everything was picture perfect for awhile. He bought me flowers and candy for no reason. We went shopping for new clothes and he would then take me out to extravagant dinners to show off his beautiful wife. Yes folks I had already jumped in hook, line, and ring finger and it took only a few months to go horribly wrong.

It started first with angry words if I spoke wrong or out of turn. This soon escalated to an arm grab to really bring home the point of ‘be seen and not heard’. Next came the name calling. I was a bitch, I was ugly, no one else would ever love me so I might as well sit my fat ass down and shut the fuck up or he was going to shut me up. A few times he did. I got one my first tattoos because I needed to prove my love. Having his name permanently on my body should do the trick. Mark what’s his. Let the world know just who I belonged to.

He was diabetic and it was my responsibility to control his blood sugar.  If I gave him too little insulin and he ended up with high blood sugars. This came with fatigue and, by design, sorry moods. If I gave him too much and he went into a hyperglycemia, I was in for a real ‘lesson’.

One night I wasn't paying attention to where he was walking and he fell into a gopher hole. His fragile ankle broke and we spent the night in the emergency room. My punishment for this was I was expected to be his wet nurse 24/7. I was told to quit my job so I could stay home and take care of him. I was probably sleeping with half the kitchen staff anyway. I had made the mistake of telling him of my indiscretion with my White Knight #1 and now I was sleeping with everyone from the mailman to my own brother. I quit my job gracefully citing family medical issues so maybe I could come back when the ankle was healed. I never did.

We moved out of my home town under the dark of night running from a list of unpaid rent and past due bills. We holed up in a tiny 2 bedroom trailer where the drugs started to come in. We were back on his home stomping ground where old ‘friends’ started crawling out of the woodwork. I soon discovered the dieting benefits of crystal methamphetamine and mistakenly convinced myself that if I were skinny I would also be beautiful and he would not hit me. Sleep became a dream and food just a memory. I dropped 40 lbs in 30 days and still he hit me.

Running from law enforcement now, we moved to another state. We wrote bad checks for things we could return for cash so we could buy more meth. He convinced me it wasn't enough for extradition so we would be fine. We found jobs together in a packing house so he could keep an eye on me. Either I couldn't function unsupervised or I would fall into the arms of the nearest person with an appendage. For awhile things went OK, so I stayed.

After the brief attempt at normalcy, law enforcement caught up with us and we were indeed extradited back home to do our time. After almost a year of county jail time I was released into the general population of the world. Still holding all my shame and guilt I tried to make a new life. Prepare a place for him when he was released, and to prepare a place for his daughters whom have been living with his mom since we had gotten arrested. I got a job, got a house, and got his daughters back. The three of us girls were doing alright.

He was released from prison and came down like freight train upon our delicately balanced house of cards, the house I had worked so hard to build. I could almost see the pieces fall, could almost here them shatter on the ground, along with whatever self esteem I had built for myself.  I was back to square one, back under the thumb of my master. Cowed, I still stayed.

I had fantasized about his death often. I had it all planned it in my mind. I had convinced myself that it was for the best. He wouldn't be hurting me or these sweet, innocent, beautiful girls anymore. He wouldn't continue to break his Mothers heart, and he wouldn't continue to be a drain on society. Could I do it though? Yes, I think I could. Every beating cemented in my heart that YES! I could take the life of this human YES! I would play God and decide who lived and who died. I was the Judge, Jury and Executioner. It was up to me. I felt so empowered! So I waited until the time was perfect.

Then it happened. 

The opportunity was served to me as if from a silver platter.

One night I felt him lurching in bed. This, I knew, was one of his symptoms of very low blood sugar. Probably from all the exertion of unsuccessfully forcing himself on me the night before. I made my way to the kitchen to get the rescue injection we kept for just this purpose. I was standing over him getting ready to prime the device when it hit me. I held his life in my hands.....all I had to do was walk away....close the door behind me and let his own stupidity do the job. 

I turned around and took a step for the door. It was all so perfect! I could even hear me telling the Police Officer “I fell asleep on the couch during a movie. I didn't know he was in trouble. We had made love and I wasn't tired so I went to watch a movie.” Then I could go into a guilt ridden wailing on how by insisting he make love to me, somehow I killed him. I would have the house, the kids, the cars, the life insurance and no one would be the wiser.

I took another step toward the door.......I put the device back in its pouch........I took another step to the door. It would be so easy….......

Then I stopped….......

Could I look into those beautiful faces and lie to them every day? Could I look into the mirror and lie to myself every day? I had fantasized about killing another human being. I had planned to kill another human being. I was, even now, contemplating the killing of another human being.

What kind of person had I become?

I slowly turned around and looked at the now motionless figure on the bed. I felt cold all over. The hatred I felt so strongly for this man only a moment ago had slowly oozed from my pores and flowed onto the floor like sap. Where the hatred once consumed me, now I felt only pity. I pitied him with all his false bravado. Pitied his reliance on the government and pitied his stupidity. Most of all I pitied his ignorance. He would never change. Tears fell from my eyes as I wondered how I could have let myself be brought to this point. I had let my heart become so tainted with my hatred for him, that it had somehow turned my entire soul into a dead, black mass. I felt so ugly. I felt so dirty. I felt the shame I had felt all those years ago and as the tears poured down my cheeks, I knew exactly what I could and could't do.

 I injected him with that life saving fluid, put the spent device on his bedside table and went to pack.

His final judgment was not up to me.  

I left my shame in that pool of hatred and finally went home to my family. I had punished myself enough. 

Everyone needs to purge once in a while. 

Thank you for not judging.....

Barbara Ann

Why we prefer homemade.

Homemade

I stare out of the kitchen window peering through my binoculars watching the road. I am expecting a package today and the truck bringing it to me is late. It’s no wonder with the latest weather over Rabbit Ears Pass. These binoculars are usually reserved for watching cows calve, watching for the hubby to come home from a hard day at work, or for making sure the children aren't killing each other.  Today I am watching for UPS.  He is bringing me a special gift. He holds for me a Junxifu Pasta maker with chrome plating. Oh the possibilities he brings. I can make spaghetti, fettuccini, lasagna noodles, and ravioli noodles with my Junxifu. If I could make that sound old Jerry Clower makes when he gets worked up, I’d me making it right now. How about that sound Tim “The Tool-man” Taylor makes when talking about “Man Stuff”.  UPS not only holds the key to savings (it should pay for itself in about 43 years) but it also holds my family’s well being.

Who of knows what really goes into the food you buy? Just because it say’s “flour eggs milk salt” on the box doesn’t always mean that’s what’s inside. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for convenience foods, but where do you draw the line? When I moved out to the Ranch some years ago I started making my bread from scratch. Sometimes in a pinch I’ll buy a loaf of “Floppy Bread” as my family calls it, but not very often. They prefer the homemade stuff. From bread to biscuits and cake to pasta they want it real and unmessed around with. Maybe I spoiled them but I don’t really care. This is how I show my love.

I put Yorkshire Puddings on the table in front of my English husband and he knows I was thinking of him while cracking the eggs and beating in the milk. I show up at school with cupcakes decorated like clowns made from a recipe I pilfered from PBS years ago and my birthday boy knows I had just him in mind. When I ask “what would you like for supper?” and the answer is “spag ball” (spaghetti) My family knows I’ll spend hours peeling and chopping the garlic and onions, sauteing the meat, simmering the sauce forever and now making the pasta just because that’s how they like it.

I can recite from memory most of the recipes I make, and if I can’t then it’s not usually a favorite. I put my love into each onion I chop, into each loaf of bread I bake, and into each pie I conjure.   

My UPS guy did show up with my Junxifu and we indeed had homemade pasta for lunch the next day. Homemade does not always mean cheaper, faster, or easier. However, it always means more, and that’s why I do it.   

Lovin' it ranch style,

Barb