Summer's Last Fling

Four families gathered last weekend for a final stab at summer.

We've gone round the seasons with these particular friends for nearly twenty years.

Fall's coming again. Don't blink.

This garden has everything:

Sunflowers drying to attract birds when the rest of it is covered in snow.

A tall spike of lettuce seeds drying behind the gate, to be harvested and planted next spring.

Blue jeans drying on the hot fence (electricity turned off, please).

And three kinds of tomatoes – not drying at all.

Inevitable

You may not get a funnel cake.

You might not ride the rides.

But if you go to the State Fair with this family, you WILL see the draft horses!

The Spaghetti Handshake/Sick Princess

For all of you big sisters, or aunts or uncles, or moms and dads who are not familiar with the Spaghetti Handshake, heads up. It goes like this:

You ask your young friend if he knows the Spaghetti Handshake. Of course he doesn't, so you take both of his little hands in yours, and then waggle them up and down as fast as you possibly can. His arms and shoulders feel like limp spaghetti, so he breaks out laughing, which causes you to break out laughing, because the whole thing is so entirely silly.

We learned the Spaghetti Handshake from crazy Mr. Yonker when the girls were all knee high. I used to think that only little kids could be repeatedly amused by the Spaghetti Handshake, but last weekend proved me Wrong-O!

This childhood game lives on, but another one--Sick Princess--seems to have passed away. Sick Princess rules require two underlings to bear the Princess in her sedan chair (a large cardboard box), wherever the bossy monarch directs.

As the servants' arms begin to tire, rebellion creeps in. They slam the flaps closed on the cardboard box sedan chair, and begin rolling the chair very rapidly, end over end through the yard. The Royal Passenger screams her displeasure to no avail; the servants keep rolling the box until she is ready to throw up.

Then the sisters all clamor to be the next Princess.

HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY

      "You ought to write 'A Happy Birthday' on it."

      "That was want I wanted to ask you," said Pooh. "Because my spelling is Wobbly. Would you write 'A Happy Birthday' on it for me?"

      Owl licked the end of his pencil, and wondered how to spell "birthday."

      "Can you read, Pooh?" he asked a little anxiously. "There's a notice about knocking and ringing outside my door, which Christopher Robin wrote. Could you read it?"

      "Christopher Robin told me what it said, and then I could."

      "Well, I'll tell you what this says, and then you'll be able to."

      So Owl wrote......and this is what he wrote:

      HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY

Enough

"Enough is as good as a feast"
--Mary Poppins


Deep down, I believe this. But sometimes I forget and slip into the ubiquitous American "more is always better" mode.



Rachel has recently been counting her blessings, fourteen at a time, on her blog. Periodically I comment, noting some particular item or incident that I am thankful for.





Today I add: Thank you, Lord, for enough.

Tall Grass Prairie

Kyle and Natalie's dad works on our farm.

Kyle is a chip off the ol' block.......

Natalie is a spitfire.

They're both good help for moving cattle.

Look at that grass behind Kyle. The platter is just about licked clean. Because our pastures are small and bovine appetites large, our cattle leapfrog around the county all summer, following the grass like ancient nomads. Only these nomads periodically have to thumb a ride with a friendly trucker.

Here they have been herded into a portable corral to await the arrival of their limo.

Cattle are naturally claustrophobic. The gaping mouth of a dark stock trailer, just to the right of this photo, isn't too appealing. Merrill's job is to tap that red calf on the noggin and redirect his thinking.

Erica's job is to count cows and calves as they offload into fresh grass. Then Kyle's job is to stand in the gate opening until we return with the next load.

Natalie's job is to be a spitfire. Lookin' good, Natalie.

Natalie's other job is to keep from getting lost in the tall grass.

I think she may be better at the spitfire job.

It's What's for Dinner

Nebraska's European roots go back to people who chipped shovels into frozen ground to bury their dead. Lacking trees, they lived in homes built from sod that oozed and slid into mud when it rained. Hail, blizzards, drought, floods, tornadoes, dust, grasshoppers, Indians.....only the strong survived, and the rest either died or turned tail and ran back to the East where there were doctors, and real glass in the windows.

Before Nebraskans had even settled enough to quit living by the rifle, BEEF was the protein of choice. It was probably as tough and stringy as the people who ate it.

I grew up in Texas. We like beef there, too, but I lived in the city, where people brazenly served chicken at social functions, or even fish or shrimp, without apology. On my first trip to Nebraska, just after John and I were engaged, his aunt and uncle took us out for a formal dinner. It was a chance to get to know me and to help us celebrate. When I said to the waiter, "I'll have the salmon," the table fell silent. "We're a little land-locked here," John's uncle muttered. I was too new to know the rules.

The same rules mean that no self-respecting seed corn dealer would serve fish or chicken at an August appreciation dinner. John's been attending these dinners for over thirty years, frequently with me at his side. No poultry or fish for thirty years. Maaaaaaybe pork, especially if the host happens to also raise hogs. But mostly.....beef.

Usually the beef is prepared by a caterer, and served alongside canned green beans, mashed potatoes, and corn. Last week's gathering was a bit more innovative, a poster child for Nebraska's love of beef.

Impale the USDA Choice on a pitchfork, and drop it into a vat of boiling tallow. If you try this at home, do not simply grab a fork out of the barn! Spend the extra few dollars to buy an implement solely dedicated to this purpose.

Four minutes later:

I hit my fat quota with the steak alone, so I passed on the sides: fried biscuits, fried onions, fried potatoes. Instead, I watched the grain elevator turn colors behind the small-town talk of farmers and friends.

Homemade Pita Pockets

If you read my post from a couple of days ago, you know that Audrey the Birthday Chef made homemade pitas as part of her celebratory meal. She found the recipe at Tammy's Recipes: http://www.tammysrecipes.com/ That links is to Tammy's main page. If you want to cut to the pita recipe, try: http://www.tammysrecipes.com/homemade_pita_pocket_bread.

Audrey's note: she cut back the cooking time to 3 minutes, from Tammy's 4-5 minutes, in order to keep the pitas pliable.

Rachel said in her blog that she had substituted whole wheat flour for half of the white that is called for, and apparently they turned out just fine.

Bon appetit!

The Last Pass

We moved cows today. It took eight and a half hours. After that, there was still hay to cut and beans to irrigate, a cow tank to fill, an O-ring to replace, trailers to unhitch, electric fence to set up.

Erica is making the day's last pass over the alfalfa. These bones are tired.

Birthday Chef

How does this girl celebrate a birthday?

Knead a little, whisk a little, stir, strain, puree, chop, mix, pare, blend, chill, marinate, preheat, season, bake, zest, and grill.

Menu for a Sunny Summer Birthday

Lamb Gyros with Tzatziki Sauce

in Homemade Pita Pockets

Fresh Pineapple and Blueberry Salad

Fresh Squeezed Lemonade

Citrus Cheesecake

Mixed Vegetables

My 1970s mixed vegetables:

photo courtesy of the world wide web

My 2008 mixed vegetables:

I hated you then, but oh, how I do like you now!

Misty Garden Morning

Cat Nap

I feel how she looks.........

......just about ready for a cat nap.