All in the Timing

Good news! Cubby has gotten over whatever sulkiness resulted in his refusal to go outside. Bad news! He wants to be outside CONSTANTLY. Come rain or snow or gloom of night.

I think he's in training to be a mailman.

ANYWAY.

So when Cubby (predictably) asked to go outside at 8:30 this morning, I was not surprised. I was, however, reluctant. To say the least. It was 29 degrees with a thirty-mile-an-hour wind. And snow. So I said we weren't going to play outside this morning. Maybe after his nap.

But I had a distraction planned! It was a sure thing! He would love it!

"Hey, Cubby! Want to help me plant pepper seeds?"

"Hot peppers?"

"No, bell peppers."

"Oh. No! MEOW."

That was him transforming into a hyper-aggressive cat that goes around "catching mice," which is really just a euphemism for "run around maniacally shrieking MEOW and scratching the floor." The cat also tried to catch  me--the Mommy Mouse--this morning, before I put a stop to that particular variation on this not very pleasant game.

ANYWAY AGAIN.

Fast-forward two (LOOONG) hours. By 10:45 a.m., Charlie was down for his second nap of the day and Cubby was almost ready for his nap. So he was calmer. And more agreeable to mundane gardening tasks that do not involve shrieking and menacing.

First he helped me moisten the soil:

Spray bottles are about the most popular small-person toy ever, FYI.

Followed by intense mixing:

Dirt of any kind is also a hit.

And carefully spooning the soil into the small cells:

It's like making filthy, inedible muffins or something!

He also helped me drop the seeds into the cells, but I don't have a picture of that because I was too busy down there with him making sure the tiny seeds actually made it to their intended destination. And then he spooned some more soil on top and we were done.

He asked to help plant tomato seeds after his nap. It's snowing again. I think that could be arranged.

As Inevitable as Taxes

And just as much of a relief to get done.

New year, same shearer.

And one chilly sheep.

Yes, the shearer arrived this morning to divest our small flock of their wool. The usual rodeo of sheep-catching ensued, made easier this time by blocking off part of the dog pen with a livestock gate. But still difficult thanks to the not-quite-yearling ewes that are small and agile and much faster than A.

One of these days I should really record a video of sheep-catching. It's pretty amusing. If you're not the one having to do it, that is.

They were all caught in the end, though, and led to their destiny with the shears. Too bad it was 34 degrees today with a nasty wind. I bet they were cursing us for taking away their toasty wool. 

Oh well. That's done for the year. And hey! So is lambing! It occurs to me that I never mentioned that.

Our final lamb count is five: Four males and one lone female. The last lamb born is the miracle lamb. It was born without an anus.

Yup, that's what I said. This is unusual, though not unheard of. It's almost always fatal, since the lamb obviously can't, uh, relieve itself. But if the deformity isn't too severe internally, the lamb can sometimes be saved by surgery. That is, literally cutting a hole. In the back end. For, uh, pooping.

Yes, it's all very unpleasant to talk about. I imagine it was even more unpleasant to do, but since the lamb would have certainly died without intervention, A. figured he had nothing to lose and so performed his first sheep surgery.

Much to everyone's surprise, including A.'s, the lamb not only survived (this was a few weeks ago now), but is thriving.

A miracle indeed. 

And that's your sheep update. Over and out.

A.P.D.--The Toilet Question

When I was in college, one of my roommates at the house I lived in for a year mentioned that her mother didn't always flush her toilet. Not, obviously, when there were, uh, solids involved. But for the other stuff? Not every time, because she didn't want to waste water.

A laudable goal, especially considering the mother lived in Phoenix. As in, pure desert area. As in, a place there is not so much water and you really should limit your impact on the local supply*.

But I, being a typical insufferable 22-year-old, said something to the effect of, "That's gross."

I may have even said those exact words. Ever polite, that was me.

And now? Now I don't flush either.

Well, not NEVER, obviously. But not that often. Again, when solids are involved, those get immediate disposal, but pee? Eh. Whenever it starts to look too yellow.

Oh, 22-year-old me. You had no idea what you would become.

The reason we don't flush every time is because we don't want to waste water either. And the reason we don't want to waste water is because we (meaning A.) have to work so hard to get the water to our house. That's the reality of living in a place without a municipal water supply. So, no excess flushing.

And now it's time for you to weigh in on this potentially divisive topic, duckies! Are you an occasional flusher, or is the very idea of skipping a flush enough to make you gag?

* Although most people living in Phoenix probably use more water than anyone, thanks to the CAP water and the fact that everything has to BE watered to survive. But that's a topic for another place.

No Surprises Here

The brisket I corned myself was way, WAY better than a store-bought corned beef. Typical. Store food really does suck.

Basically, it tasted like beef with nice seasoning, rather than a chemical salt lick. Which means now I will be stuck having to brine my own corned beef forever more*.

Brining our own whole brisket also means that I have a LOT of leftovers. This makes me very happy, because there are few leftovers better than those from a full corned beef dinner. I particularly love the potatoes, which soak up all the yummy flavor and so are basically pre-seasoned.

It also occurs to me that I still have a couple of jars of sauerkraut in the Pit of Despair. You know what that means, don't you? The best Reuben sandwich EVER is within my grasp. I just have to get some Swiss cheese. And make some Thousand Island dressing (essentially mayonnaise, ketchup, and bread and butter pickles, all of which I have on hand). And do those things before we eat all the corned beef up.

I may not manage it. But then I would have an excuse to make another corned beef. I can handle that.

* For Haley, who asked: Nope, I didn't use the sodium nitrite to preserve the red color. Mostly because I didn't care if it was red and I wasn't about to hunt down a special ingredient for a one-time thing. It didn't turn out a nasty gray as I'd expected; it just looked brown, like any braised meat. A. said he kind of wished it was red, but I couldn't care less.

Friday Nights: Then and Now

I was never what you would call a serious party girl, but I did my share of going out on Friday nights in college and the year immediately following college. I mostly liked to go dancing.

Now I mostly like to stay home and go to bed at 9 p.m. But last night I went out. Like, out of the house! To a place with other people! It was not, however, exactly like going out on Friday nights used to be.

Allow me to present a comparison of Friday Nights Then and Friday Nights Now.

Then . . . 9 p.m. Time to have some pre-bar shots with friends and then get dressed in high-heeled boots and fancy club clothes.

Now . . . 6 p.m. Time to put the baby to bed and get dressed in clothing that does not have stains, holes, or other noticeable defects.

Then . . . Dinner? Who needs dinner? Have another shot!

Now . . . Dinner? Who has time for dinner? I'll get some potato chips and cheese at the dairy store when I stop to get cream.

Then . . . At the bar. Dance and drink, repeat ad infinitum.

Now . . . At the thrift store. Riffle through the racks of clothing and try things on, repeat ad infinitum. Then find some summer clothing for my oldest son and look for things for my husband.

Then . . . Move on to a new bar.

Now . . . Move on to a new store. The grocery store this time. As a special treat, I purchase some White Lightning ice cream, which I will not have time to eat tonight, because it is already 8:30 p.m. and I need to get home and go to bed.

Then . . . Arrive home after the bars close at 2 a.m. Drink copious amounts of water in an attempt to avoid a hangover, change into pajamas, and fall into bed, hair reeking of cigarette smoke. (Remember when smoking was legal in bars? Man, those were the gross, smelly days.)

Now . . . Arrive home at 9 p.m. Unload car, put away groceries, fold laundry, nurse the baby, change into pajamas, and fall into bed. No cigarette reek.

Then . . . Wake up at 4 a.m., vaguely nauseated and needing to pee. Drink more water. Go back to bed.

Now . . . Wake up at 4 a.m. to nurse the baby, can't fall back asleep.

Then . . . Get up for the day at 10 a.m. Go to Wendy's for french fry hangover cure.

Now . . . Get up for the day at 6:20 a.m. Go downstairs and make coffee while getting breakfast for the three-year-old and answering all his questions, changing the baby, nursing the baby, getting the fire started, sweeping the disgusting kitchen floor, and putting away some dishes. Finally drink coffee an hour after getting up.

So Friday nights aren't really as exciting as they used to be. On the up side, though, there is significantly less chance of throwing up on Saturday mornings. And I really hated that cigarette stank in my hair.

Today

Cubby spent much of the day shouting orders like a tiny drill sergeant, doing exactly what he was told not to do, and then having screaming fits when he was disciplined for the aforementioned infractions. Three-year-olds are so very unpleasant sometimes.

Charlie soiled himself so completely that a total clothing change was necessary. While I was dealing with the mess, he rolled off the waterproof pad he was on and peed on the bedspread. More laundry.

Cubby decided to ride his wee four-wheeler thing down the slope by the clothesline. At the bottom, he flipped off and slammed his head into the stone wall there. He's fine, though now sporting an impressive lump on his thankfully extra-hard cranium.

I discovered that the top edge of the new stove heats up a lot when the front burner is on high. I discovered this when it burned a hole through my somewhat expensive and relatively nice fleece that I got as a Christmas gift from my parents and that I wear constantly. Though maybe not so constantly now.

Today kind of sucked. Tomorrow will be better.

A.P.D.--The Dreaded Kitchen Tasks Edition

I hate prepping pomegranates. Talk about a pain in the ass. I don't even like eating them that much, crunchy seeds not being my thing, but the MiL bought two when they were on sale around Christmas and I was sick of looking at the one that was still  in there.

I have a theory that pomegranates only sell around Christmas because that's the time of year people are all optimistic and unrealistic in their expectations of food prep. Holidays are like that. It's the one time people are willing to do things like make houses constructed entirely of edible materials or spend hours painstakingly decorating cookies to look like little snowmen.

The rest of the year? Forget it. Those cookies taste just as good without the cute little faces. And pomegranates are relegated to crisper drawers until they're discovered three months later.

Ahem.

So I de-seeded half of the pomegranate. The other half is still sitting in the refrigerator. I ran out of patience.

And while we're on the subject, I also hate pulling meat off the bone. I have to do this a lot, because home butchering means using every weird cut of meat and getting all the meat off the bones. So I spend an hour standing at the counter, up to my elbows in grease, with a dog dish for the nasty bits, a bowl for the usable meat, and a random dish for the throw-away bones, pulling off tendons and fat and cartilage and UGH. HATE.

Anyway.

Okay! Your turn, poppets! What's your most hated kitchen task?