Nothing makes a long day better to coming home to a card, a note or a package from a friend, especially a friend who is too far away to join for a tea, a coffee or a walk.   Nothing says “friend” like a handwritten note in the mailbox.  I was lucky enough to have three notes, a jar of huckleberry jam, a peanut butter cookie recipe and this jar of honey find their way to my address this week.

Sarah, you and your bees are extraordinary partners, blessed to call you Friend.

My friends, if you are in my address book, look for a note coming soon.

We had a visitor on Saturday.  I walked out the side door to take out the compost and saw him dashing around the corner of the garage.  I bolted inside to get the camera and the girls.  He seemed to have come across the road (insert joke) and I followed him around trying to get a good picture.  Excuse me, chicken ladies, how do you ever get pictures of your hens?  Or is it just roosters?  This guy sure didn’t stop to pose.

He even invaded the girl’s tree fort.  I don’t think he was pleased, they haven’t been out there to clean out since the leaves fell, so he just kept going.  He stopped now and again to let out a great big “COCK A DOODLE DOO” (you know it doesn’t really sound like that, but you get it).

I left him here at the back end of the lot because I didn’t want him wandering back into the woods.  God knows, what could get him back there.

Excuse me, Mr. Rooster, best to stay on your own side of the road, though we did enjoy your visit.  Now, let’s talk about hens.

You read Pioneer Woman already, don’t you?  Tell me you read Pioneer Woman?  I had, but then hadn’t for awhile.  Then I realized her cookbook (drool, swoon) had just come out.  Just a few days before I visited and I wanted it, oh I wanted it, but I’m trying to control my spending and acquiring, and the cookbook bookcase is full, yes, you read that right cookbook bookcase.

But then I walked into the library, I’m trying to find a new book to rival the goodness of the last one and I breeze by the NEW BOOKS section and there it is, brand spanking new, on the shelf staring out at me:

You know what I love…..

I love the not so simple simple life.  I love recipes made from the heart.  I love some really, really good cattle pictures, for real.  And I love when someone can start a blog, become famous and still not apologize and still seem 100% real deal.  I love they took a bajillion photos of her for the cover and she had her hubby take this one of her in her real kitchen.

You know what I think….

I think there must be a real deal cowboy out there who’s looking for a girl to cook sweet meals and raise wild children?  Right?  Cattle are optional, goats are a necessity.

A light frost was covering everything this morning.  First thing, Saturday mornings, Abby and I walk the path through the woods, although now it is a long cotton nightgown with a wool cardigan sweater and hood rather than the breezy cottons of summer.  The green cup o’ tea even more welcome in my hand.  As is usual I return Abby to the house and head back out with the camera.

Frost all around the girl’s teepee in the backyard.  They made it themselves.

One evening while I cooked dinner.

Frost in the grass.

Frost turning the “starry night” moss to a dull color and texture.

And a frosty “sugar coating” to the newly fallen leaves.

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She was smaller than the cat when I brought her home.  Now the husky in her pulls all of us about and through the woods after multitudes of smells.  She has given me too many headaches to count, destroyed one sofa, eaten unmentionables, devoured Godiva chocolates, left puppy sized piles of fur all over the house, escaped way too many times to count, swam nearly across a river and wrapped every man that comes into contact with her around her little finger so to speak.

She is almost eleven years old now and as much as I whine and complain, I know she loves me unconditionally and I will always, always love her back.

So, the lunch tirade has not been forgotten.

Tonight we went to dinner with my father. We went to a real restaurant where the kids could get real food even though we had to drive a lot farther to get there.  Then they ordered off the regular menu, because if you have kids then you know that kids menus are crap.  Since when did macaroni and cheese become a main dish?  Okay, so yeah, there have been times I could eat macaroni and cheese as a main dish, and yeah, well keep it real, there have been a few times I have, but I digress.

Sitting at the table waiting for our food, Ems who is sitting next to me says, “Grandad, listen to this”.  Then she goes into her whole thing about the school lunches that I posted about earlier. The whole thing about sandwiches and horrible tasting food and can’t they serve something besides cheeseburgers and Boo is cutting in “Well, they do give out oranges, or salads”.

Ems sat there and she said, “If I wasn’t so shy, I would start a petition”.

If I didn’t already love this girl with more than every ounce of my soul before, I certainly do now.  My mother called her, my little activist.

The activist herself, at a Heifer International fundraiser last year.

She won’t do a petition.  She is sooooo incredibly shy.  But she wants to do something.  So we are going to do something.  We’re going to research, she and I.  We’re going to find out more about the school lunch program and at the very least, this little girl is going to write some letters.

Because she has something to say.  And by God it’s a good thing to say.  And I want her to grow up with a voice.  Because this is a topic that needs a lot of voices.

So, really I’m a copycat because D posted about her daughter’s solo run, but reading that nudged me that Ems has been asking to do a solo bake, so I let her do it Sunday.  She chose chocolate chip cookies since we seem to make them a lot around here and she’s helped me quite a few times, so she was familiar. I do make kick butt chocolate chip cookes, it’s true.  Secret:  Do the Nestle toll house recipe and add another 1/2 cup flour to make them chunky and thick, not runny and flat.

First she read me the ingredient list and we compiled everything she would need on the table, then the measuring spoons and cups, bowls and wooden spoon.  We talked about the measures and what they meant that a capital T meant Tablespoon and a little t meant teaspoon.  That 3/4 cup brown sugar meant 3- 1/4 cups and packed meant “I know Mommy, smush it in”.

I tried to stay out of the way and be as unobtrusive as possible.  I tried to not give hints or help as much as I possibly could.  This was VERY, VERY hard.

I’m not sure about the bindi on the forehead.  No particuliar significance, Ems likes to add a bit of glamour here and there and ignore the dropcloths in the background, we painted all the downstairs ceilings all day the day before, yes, Halloween day.  Notice the look of concentration.

In the end she did everything herself, with some pointers from Mama, crack the eggs first in another bowl so you can fish any shell out, put a towel under the bowl so it won’t slip, never pull the beaters out while they are still running, put the dough in the refrigerator before baking so they don’t spread.  She did good my girl, the first run were a bit odd shaped and a few ran together, the second tray were just about perfect.  This, this right here, is what I want to give my daughters.  Memories of time in the kitchen, a knowledge of the kitchen and cooking and baking.  How to make real food, from scratch.  The importance of food and family.  Of nourishment and love.

There was a lot of Halloween and a lot of ceiling painting (uggh) and now this Momma is just plain beat.  Usually I run around like crazy on Sunday trying to clean up the detritis from all three of us being home all weekend (yes, I’ll admit to being a major contributor), but today at 1:32pm I’ve decided to pack it in. I’m off to grab a cup of tea and settle down on the couch to go through some vintage church cookbooks and copy some recipes from a library cookbook and I may not get back up.  Well, except to make a meatloaf, but I’m the Momma so my choice.  This will mean I will be making up time this week because it’s all a trade off really.  Perhaps, a wordless Wednesday all week, ha, as if.