thanksgiving 2016

I'll never forget the Thanksgiving that I woke up and realized my left eye was swollen to the size of a ping pong ball and people from church were coming over for the meal. 

Ahh. 

Memories. 

     

 This year, my farmer and I hosted Thanksgiving for the first time. We felt like grown-ups.

And none of our eyeballs were swollen.

I'd consider that a success.

As a child, I spent a fair amount of Thanksgivings watching my mom whip up delicious meals in her red kitchen or staying out of my grandma's way while she made dish after dish after dish. It was like the food never stopped coming when it came to either one of them. 

One of my grandma's staples, and a favorite of mine because we never had it at home, was creamed corn. I was convinced no one could make it like my grandma could. 

Until one Thanksgiving I saw her pouring creamed corn out of a can. 

OUT OF A CAN. My world was upended.

I had no idea such deliciousness could just be gotten at the grocery store. It changed everything. 

So what we've learned thus far is this . . . normal-sized eyes and creamed corn: It doesn't take much to keep me happy. 

Beforehand we had wine and a charcuterie board with salami and Vermont cheddar and olives and goat cheese.  

We also nibbled on a new tradition: the Thanksgiving pumpkin cheeseball.

And by "tradition," I mean this is the second year I've made it. Does that make it an annual cheeseball now?

And really, isn't the goal of any appetizer just to hold your guests over long enough so that you can finish the rest of the meal? 

Or try to salvage the turkey if you wrecked it?

Both maybe?

    

Thankfully, these appetizers were just for fun. Once we prayed, we started passing the good stuff.

We started with a spinach and pear and pomegranate salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, and creamed corn.

Not the can kind.

The kind that involved three sticks of butter and two cream cheeses.

Sorry, arteries.

My farmer did a bang-up job of cooking an Alton Brown-approved turkey, and our dogs though the neck and the carcass were the best Thanksgiving feast they'd ever had.

So everyone came away a winner on that front.

We also had butternut squash and cranberries with honey and cinnamon and feta . . . and some sweet potatoes from our garden thrown in for good measure. 

It was like farm to table . . . except we were still on the farm so . . . farm to farm?

Did I mention the turkey was super moist? Alton Brown's theory is to go high heat--as in, 500--for a short time to basically sear the skin and hold all the juice in. And it worked. 

We had a cranberry-walnut-apple salad, green beans wrapped in bacon, stuffing, rolls and pumpkin cornbread, deviled eggs, a heart attack. 

Whoops. How'd that last one sneak in there? 

And maybe don't ask me if I got juice from the cranberries and apples all over the front of my cupboards--the night before Thanksgiving--while I was grinding the two in my KitchenAid.

Because I totally didn't. Not at all. 

I didn't even contemplate sitting down on the floor and crying. Not even for a second. 

I'm also a really bad liar.  

We moved past the cranberry and apple juice incident by eating delicious desserts, because when you've eaten your allowable caloric intake by the time you get through the mashed potatoes and pumpkin cornbread, why not go for the gold?

We had a hot cocoa bar, even though we were basically all so stuffed at that point that the thought of more decadent calories made us want to . . . well . . . let's just say we were full. 

    

We also gorged ourselves on slices of pecan and pumpkin pie, chewy brownies with hunks of dark chocolate, and a salted caramel pumpkin cheesecake, which the recipe swore wouldn't develop a crack if I left the oven door closed for an hour and a half after baking. 

It promised. 

IT LIES. 

But better than all of that, we gave thanks for one another, learned more about our family traditions, and even managed to talk theology and the election . . . and no one slung mashed potatoes or flipped the table or tossed a glass of wine . . . or went home with a bugged out eyeball. 

Sometimes, even on Thanksgiving, it's the little things.

the puppies are here! the puppies are here!

Some states call it Super Tuesday because of politics. Here on the farm, it was Super Tuesday too. But not because of Donald Trump's inability to articulate a thought or Hillary's angry rants. Our Tuesday was super because . . . Petunia had puppies!

Last year, Chris found me another Great Pyrenees. We took an afternoon road trip to pick Petunia up, and she curled up in a little ball on my lap and slept the whole way home. That sealed the deal. 

See how cute she was? So tiny. So happy. So little! 

Now she's the size of a small horse. 

See the two puppies in the back? The one on the right is Winchester, and he's half Great Pyrenees. He's now a proud papa. 

Colt, on the left, is Petunia's faithful sidekick Colt, half Shar Pei. But bless his heart, he'll never be a dad. Let the reader understand.

You can see more pictures of their adorable puppy cuteness here. 

So with Blackjack the lab and Winchester running around the farm, Petunia was basically destined to be a mom. And from the looks and sounds of things a couple of months ago, there was no way she couldn't be. 

Doesn't she look like pretty much any mom who has just given birth? Exhausted. Bleary eyed. Hungry. And yet still pretty magnificent!

Chris took a look at Petunia a few days ago and pronounced that it would happen any day. And he wasn't kidding. 

One moment she was shuffling along the deck, dropping treats out of her mouth and then slobbering on them, as is her custom. 

And the next minute, she was nosing at a pile of little puppies that were busy making itty bitty kitty sounds. 

For now, they are tucked up under the deck, sleeping, eating and snuggling. Mama Petunia growls at any dog who gets close and is grateful for any head scratches we have to offer. 

Donald Trump may be busy building walls and Hillary can pant suit with the best of them, but over here, with six puppies, three chickens, 650 cows, a pasture full of heifers and four dogs, pretty much every day is Super Tuesday. And, as with most of farm life, we vote yes.

My name is Adriane and I approve of this message. 

dads

I'm a firm believer that children need a mom and a dad. 

Certainly there are cases where the mom is left on her own, or where the dad shirks his duty and takes off, or where the dad has passed away. 

But I'm not talking the exceptions. 

I'm talking the rule. 

I know how much I need my dad . . . and I'm 31. 

And I know that Georgia already recognizes her dad and responds to him with smiles and toots and big eyes.

She knows her dad because he's here.  

Because he sings to her. 

He reads to her. 

He prays over and for her. 

He tickles her. 

He smooches her. 

He takes her to church. 

He keeps her safe. 

He comforts her. 

He snuggles her. 

He explains things to her. 

He tells her about her future. 

He describes the puppies and the cows and the chickens to her. 

He works long, hard hours so that her mom can stay home with her. 

He tells her about Jesus and politics and land prices and farm markets and how to build fence and dig tile and why Lent matters. 

And he always has a smile and a kiss for her when he comes in, even after working a 21-hour day. 

I can feed her and change her diaper. 

But she needs her dad. 

And I'm glad the Lord blessed her with this one. 


PHOTO COURTESY KATIE LOCKHART PHOTOGRAPHY 

oh dear

It turns out that our Great Pyrenees - Petunia - has been, uh, KNOWN. 

In the biblical sense. 

Ahem. 

To make this even more complicated . . . our first Great Pyr, Wally, got the neighbor's lab pregnant. Then he got run over. 

So we got a second Great Pyr . . . the exact same day the neighbor asked us to take two of the lab's puppies. 

One was Wally's protege and one was their Shar Pei's offspring. 

That's correct. 

We ended up with three puppies in one day. It was also the day we told our parents we were having a baby. 

Like I said . . . oh dear. 

Now Petunia is pregnant . . . perhaps with Wally's son's baby or perhaps with our black lab Blackjack's pups. 

Can someone please cue the Lion King's Circle of Life? 

In any case, if you're in Missouri and are on the lookout for a 3/4 Great Pyr -- or perhaps a half Great Pyr, half lab -- give us a shout-out. Petunia, like State Farm, has got you covered. 

what we've been up to

January was here and now it's gone. But on the farm, we're still doing what we were doing last month. 

We're kissing a baby, smooching a baby, smiling at a baby, snuggling a baby, staring at a baby . . . all the baby things. 

Meanwhile, the heifers are doing what they were doing in January too: staring down the dogs . . . eating . . . digging the cooler weather . . . 

 . . . running just to run, bellowing at coyotes, behaving themselves for the most part . . . 

but most of all, they're looking forward to spring. And so are we. 

So . . . who's with them?  

I mean, with us?  

christmas in the country 2015

We have four dogs -- four -- which is roughly three more than I ever planned on having. Chris takes two of them with him to the dairy. Two stay at the house with me. But when we're gone, and they're all at home, all four love to eat packages left by the UPS man, the FedEx guy and the mailman. 

Like the time Blackjack ate through a box and then took a bite out of a cutting board meant to be an engagement gift. 

Or chewed up some pictures. 

Or Winchester and Colt ripped up a dish towel. 

Or Wally gnawed up a box and carried around the coffee cup inside it. 

It's really kind of a pandemic. 

So when a Christmas in the Country 2015 package ended up in our garage -- hidden but in one piece -- it was nothing short of a Christmas miracle. 

Christmas in the Country is the brain child of four bloggers who encouraged women involved in agriculture or farming to sign up, swap gifts and make friends with other women in the same field. 

I received the loveliest package from Darcy in Idaho. She's expecting her own little one! And knows all there is to know about cows! And takes gorgeous pictures of her life on the farm! And puts together the sweetest box of goodies! 

All the exclamation points. 

She included a beautiful Christmas FiestaWare tablecloth (which I have already put to use during Advent and the 12 days of Christmas . . . with our FiestaWare, no less), a Christmas print made by a local gal (which promptly found its place on our piano) and a gift card complete with book recommendations. 

On top of that, she added peppermint bark (which tastes pretty darn amazing frozen, just FYI) and delicious smelling vanilla candles and the kindest note from a fellow sister in Christ. 

Her care and thoughtfulness were a true treat . . . and not just because the dogs didn't demolish them first. Farming can sometimes seem like lonely business -- especially when your Great Pyrenees tries to eat coffee cups -- but thanks to Christmas in the Country and a new friend gained,  the agricultural world just got a little smaller . . . and I wouldn't have it any other way. 

You can head on over to the blogs of the four ladies who hosted the event -- Jamie, Lara, Laurie and Kirby -- to learn more about the ladies who were involved in the swap. I put together a little vintage-esque package for Kelly at Old Blue Silo, another blog you should probably just go ahead and bookmark right about NOW.

And Darcy, again, thank you! 

fall on the farm

It's that time of year: when the sun is warm on your back during the day and the windows get frosty at night. 

It's also the time that, if you get up early enough in the morning, you can see the heifers' breath release in little, cloudy puffs as the sun rises. 

Of course, you can also see your Great Pyrenees sleeping in the shade, because she's still too hot even when it's actually not hot, but . . . 

the breath of these girls as they graze the pasture almost rivals a good sunrise. 

Almost. 

day 9 of farmacology: naming animals

  

One of the things you may not know about farm folks is that

sometimes we name our animals; sometimes we don't.

I was homeschooled for a couple of years before I headed off to school. Whenever any kid found out my dad was a hog farmer, he inevitably asked, "Do you name your pigs?" 

I always thought that was a weird question. It wasn't because giving names to animals was awkward. It was because, well, how did people expect me to tell the difference between all those identical-looking pink pigs?

A few did have names. One sick pig got the distinct pleasure of hearing 8- or 9-year-old me read Charlotte's Web outloud. I perched on a footstool next to her while she recovered, thinking I was a pretty good nurse, although perhaps my literary selection could have been slightly more helpful. Her name was Princess. 

We don't name all our cows today, but sometimes we do. There's Snout, Lucy, Snowflake, Snickers, Reba, Ruby, Queen Mother, Talulah, Clementine, Gandalf, the General, Dorothy Lynch . . . Some also have numbers, and my farmer can recall many of those digits just as quickly as he can a name. 

We have a whopping six chickens at our house right now. Our rooster's name is Horace, but the five hens have no names. We've had well-named cats too, like . . . Truck Kitty and . . . Little Kitty. (Ok, so we struggle in the cat moniker department.)

And that's not even mentioning the four canines who keep all coyotes, mailmen, falling leaves and raccoons at bay. 

Some farmers name all their animals. Some don't. Some, like us, go for the combo approach.

But if you come to the farm, and you spot a calf that you think is just downright adorable, tell us her number and give us her name. 

We'll remember both. We promise. 

Want to read more of my 31 day farmacology writing challenge? Click here. 

day 3 of farmacology: naps

One of the things you may not know about farm folks is that

we take naps, and we take them in really strange places. 

Farmers are notorious for working from sun up to sun down. But that doesn't mean they don't take a break here or there to recharge. 

My dad took a nap almost every day after lunch. Somehow, no matter how hard he was sleeping, he only napped for 15 minutes. Then he'd pop up, refill his coffee thermos and head out the door again.

Heck, I lay down for five minutes and I can be out for the rest of the afternoon. So that capacity clearly skipped a generation. 

But if you're chopping silage, you can take a 10-minute nap in the chopper while you wait for the next truck.  

If you're waiting for a cow to dilate so you can help pull her calf, you can lean your head back in the Gator and catch 40 winks. 

If you pull your truck up to your house after an 16-hour day and you're too tired to even walk inside, you can sleep in the pickup for an hour or two before getting up the energy to go in the house and shower . . . and then go to real bed. 

If you're planting or tilling, you can stop your tractor, turn off your phone and stay right there in the seat while you catch a nap. 

If you're milking cows in the parlor and you're waiting on the girls to finish, you can pull up a bucket, hold your head in your hands and get a good five minutes in before having to wake up. 

If you're stopping home for lunch, you can fall asleep on a . . . pile of dogs. 

The napping options are virtually limitless for farmers! You get up early, you go to bed late, you nap when you can. 

And where you can. 

If you can. 

Sometimes, even with the dogs.

** This post has been paid for my farmer . . . who has napped in all the places mentioned above. Except he didn't actually pay for this post. He just likes naps. **

Want to read more of my 31 day farmacology writing challenge? Click here. 

this week in iPhone photos {sept. 21, 2015 and maybe the last couple of weeks too}

This week, we wished it was nap time. Like, every day. Cooler fall weather, lots of sunshine, bellies full of apple fritters from a local apple festival thanks to kind folks . . . and we were ready to nap for DAYS.

But there's a baby on the way, so there's really no time for napping. I'd say there might be time for a snooze or two after baby arrives, but let's not kid ourselves here. 

So instead Chris chopped the second round of silage and I went for long walks in what had been--just days before--a field full of corn. The heifers in the nearby pasture kept their distance. Puppies and loud noises have that effect on these girls. 

We went in for an ultrasound at the crack of dawn and found out that we're having . . . a baby! So that's reassuring. 

I took a little work trip to Washington, D.C., where I sat a lot, let people cart my luggage around, got a nice case of swollen ankles and met the awesomeness that is Drs. Ryan Anderson and Sherif Girgis and caught up with--albeit quickly--Mollie Hemingway and Scott Murray. 

And it was good.  

Chris and the guys rounded out silage season--not without some hilarious exchanges over the radios--and drove the choppers and trucks off into the sunset. And we gave thanks that nobody tipped a truck over or backed into each other or drove over the chopper. It's the little things. 

The puppies learned how to bark and howl at nearby neighbor dogs, and yet they still choose to stick together like the Three Musketeers instead of meeting their brother, whose bark from the neighbor's house stopped them all in their tracks.

Literally.

To top it off, Winchester christened the new feed truck by sniffing it, surveying it and curling up next to it . . . for a nap. 

And now, since we've come full circle--all the way back to naps and just the way we like it--I think we're done here.