simple pleasures – Page 4

Potato Leek Pizza

Three seconds after I had filled my belly with the morning’s eggs and toast, wiped my mouth and pushed my plate away, my husband inquires, “What do you want for supper?” I find this the worst possible time to ask someone what they want for supper, because the obvious answer is something along the lines of: who cares about supper, I just ate breakfast, how can you possibly be thinking about food at a time like this? But he is thinking about food, because my husband is all about the groceries. He walked into the kitchen, opened the freezer and began rattling off possibilities: beef fajitas, chicken, tenderloin, or pizza. I chose pizza.

Tonight was pizza night at the J&A Chicken Ranch. But it ain’t your ordinary pizza. We forewent greasy pepperoni slathered in tomato sauce and instead made a dreamy homemade pizza. It’s a recipe for Potato Leek Pizza from the Pioneer Woman.

I know what you’re thinking. Potatoes? On a pizza?

Listen folks, don’t knock it till you try it.

The recipe is in her cookbook, which is really worth buying, but the recipe is also plastered all over the internet. Having this silly, nilly blog, I do consider copyright laws on occasion. Also I’ve never broken a law in my life, especially copyright laws. Being a teacher, you must know I would never, ever copy something wrongfully. Not a lesson. Not a test. Not a book. Not my bottom on the Xerox machine. Never.

Plus, I would hate for Ree Drummond to sue me for my chickens and oyster shell, therefore I am choosing not to post her recipe. But bend an ear to me. Closer. A little closer.

me whispering in your ear: If you really want it, just google it.

It’s a magical combination of

crust

bacon

leeks (white parts only)

red potatoes

fresh mozzarella, parmesan, and goat cheese

There’s probably a special section in heaven where angels sing Odes to cheese.

You layer it all together,

stick it in the oven,

and *presto* instant happiness.

We don’t make our own crust. We’re just not that talented around here. But I’m sure with a homemade pizza crust, it would be absolutely out of this world. If you’re ever in the mood for interesting flavors and something completely different from your average run of the mill pizza, then you should try this.

Then after your belly is good and stuffed, carry the green tops from the leeks and leftover potatoes outside. Throw a little in the compost pile, and the rest to the chickens.

They deserve it.

Wide Load

Easter Sunday when I posted this on my blog I was trying to be funny.

Today, there is nothing funny about it.

My butt hurts. It’s the truth.

Ashy and I decided to go for a bike ride yesterday. A pleasant country bike ride on dirt roads next to green pastures.

We headed south atop our cheap Walmart bikes, rode to the first county road that runs east and west, and took a left turn.

Being married to J-Dub, he has taught me a couple of things. One of which being, there is a mile between each county road. I hadn’t been out more than a mile down the road my house sits on and we were up for an adventure to see what lay beyond the mile marker.

So we pedaled east on an extremely rocky road for about a mile, took a right, and began pedaling down a tiny dirt road with nothing but cows on the left and oil equipment on the right. I turned on my IPod and we sang Sugarland and Rod Stewart at the top of our lungs. We saw a fearful coyote running from our melodies, cows curiously eyeballing us, quail skittering across the road, the green of wheat fields gently blowing. Life was good. But the road was long. My sitting bones began to ache. I hadn’t ridden a bike in, hmmm, let’s say, 3 years. After riding the lengths of a couple of county roads, I cursed sitting on that tiny little pointy bicycle seat when what I really needed was a tractor seat. Plus a yellow banner across my backside screaming WIDE LOAD in black lettering.

But what do you do when you’re a long way from your home and your house is no longer a speck on the horizon? Do you turn around or continue on in hopes of a road soon? We continued on, enjoying our afternoon and ignoring the pain.

Finally high wires and electrical poles came into view and I knew we were nearing another road running perpendicular. Sure enough, the next road appeared. We took a right turn to head back west. Then Ashlynn needed to pee. After a pit stop in the bar ditch, we walked our bikes a while on wobbly legs and sore keisters, gathering a couple of pretty rocks on the way. Time was crawling by and we decided it would be faster to get back on and ride, to push through the pain like real athletes. Then Ashy began developing a blister on her thumb from holding the handlebar and being jostled through dirt roads. The sun burned down on our necks, the wind gave us a bit of resistance, but the IPod was on shuffle, so we kept singing and kept on riding.

An eternity later we came to our road, made a right turn heading back to the south, completing a four mile square. But before we made it home, first Ashy had to stop and pick some cotton from another barditch.

With bulging pocket of rocks and cotton, our little trailer house on the prairie greeted 2 tired, sore, hot and thirsty wanderers as we crept up the lane.

It took us way over an hour and a half to ride 4 miles. On a good day, if I book it, I can walk faster than that. It just didn’t make any sense to me. Even with dirt roads, and stopping for walking, peeing, and picking rocks and cotton, it shouldn’t have taken us that long to ride a bike four miles. So I hopped in my car today to measure the distance. J-Dub hopped in with me. Come to find out, on two of the roads, they didn’t have intersecting roads every mile, instead it was every two miles. So our 4 mile ride that I thought we’d taken ended up really being close to 7 miles. And boy let me tell you, my tail bones can account for every inch of it today.

But even with the soreness, yesterday held one of the most enjoyable afternoons I had spent in a very long time.

The simplicity of sunshine, songs, and sweat does a body good.

And a soul.

What You Love

The sound of heavy bootsteps and the jingle of spurs woke me from dreams filled with high heels and travel plans.

My husband was up, dressed, and stirring around the house, waiting on the “guys” to get here. It was time for me to rise anyway. I threw the shoes I was trying on in my dream back into the closet, pushed the cobwebs from my mind and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

My husband’s day of branding cows was soon to begin, and he was waiting on his friends/co-workers/fellow cowhands to arrive with their horses, pick-ups and trailers, so they could put the horses in one trailer, put the cowboys in one truck and head off as the sun was barely kissing the morning sky.

It wasn’t much longer until the roar of diesel pick-ups and the rattle of trailers stocked with horses begin to break the silence of the morning.

Cowboys have never had much appeal to me. I’ve never been a cowboy’s girl. In high school I always thought they were just a bunch of skinny boys with big belt buckles dressing up everyday. Now nearly 20 years later, I find myself married to one. Strange.

The cowboys greet each other, unload horses from trailers, and lead them to my husband’s trailer to load. They’ve got 3 different places to work cattle today.

These are good men. Actually, the best kind. A dying breed. Old-fashioned, hard-working, tough guys. They love what they do, but it doesn’t always pay enough to do it. These are men who take vacation days from their “real” jobs with health insurance in order to saddle a horse and swing a rope. They may even call in sick just to get a workday off. Sometimes they work the night shift at their other job, take an early morning nap, and then saddle their horse for the day. They have a passion for this lifestyle. It’s not about the money, that’s for sure.

As I sit at the kitchen table, my coffee cup steaming, there’s only one word that describes me. Proud. I’m filled with a sense of pride. Not because I’m doing anything. Heck, I’m drinking coffee. But because these fellows work hard, love their work, and do it for practically nothing. They walk tall, perhaps even strut; dark silhouettes wearing cowboy hats starting their day.

I watched out the window until the heat from the house married the cold from the outdoors and steamed up the windows.

Then I listened to the rattle and rumble of the pick-up as four cowboys head out to do what they love.

Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still~~Henry David Thoreau

Good Friday? Yes, yes it was.

1: day off

14: chickens that run to meet me

12: Blue Spruce’s to plant in honor of Earth Day

50: pages read in a book

35: minutes spent napping

15: dollars spent on barbecue take-out

4: laps taken around a pasture on a bicycle

5: big spoonfuls of Blue Bell’s Great Divide Ice Cream

7: houseplants watered

1: set of sheets laundered and fresh on the bed waiting

13: pictures finally hung on the walls

2: days until Easter

Eternity: to spend with a Savior who died for me.

Sorry and Thank You

Sorry.

I’m sorry about yesterday’s post. I whined and complained and had a pity party. You came here for an enjoyable read, and got a mess of moping around instead. I will try not to let that happen again. I’m ashamed.

Today I am better. Much, much better. I received some wonderful advice from readers, and I have decided I’m not taking a break from blogging. Not yet anyway. I know myself too well. I know from past experience (read exercising here) when I decide to take a break for a day, it often turns into 2, then 5, then 45. I don’t want that to happen with my blog. So on terribly hard days I may just post a quote or a picture, suggested by my sister. I hope you’ll understand.

One thing that makes me happy is great friends and wonderful blog comments.

You know what else makes me happy? A good book.

You know what else makes me happy? Chickens.

Here is a picture of my chicken coop.

Haha! Gotcha! That is a picture of my dream coop.

This is my real coop before it was a coop. I’d show you a better picture, except I don’t have one. So mentally take the trash out of the yard, the fishing net out of the shed, and put chickens all around. It looks just as bad as a coop as it did before.

I was going to work very hard and make this as adorable as the dream coop, but it is a long way from the house out where the boogers live, I would have to haul water, and it needed time-consuming work. The chickens were growing, my house was stinking, and we needed a chicken house STAT, so instead, we turned the old garden shed which sits right next to the house into the temporary coop. Repeat after me, THIS IS ONLY TEMPORARY. Famous last words.

We built a covered chicken yard around the garden shed coop so they can get out and play in the sunshine. Each evening I shut them up inside their coop and every morning I open the door so they can come out and play while I’m at work.

But because I am as red-necked and as white trashy as the next girl, I hung an old blue and white sheet with swirlies just inside the coop to help keep the wind out of the crack when the doors don’t quite shut all the way. Every morning when I open the doors, I bundle the sheet up into a wad and stuff it into a place above the doorway. The next time I head to The Walmarts I’ll buy some tiebacks. But for now, stuffing it in a crack and crevice seems to be working out.

Today, however, the sheet-curtain had fallen, blocking the exit to the play yard. The chicks were “cooped” up all day. When I lifted the curtain, they came a running. They sure were glad to get out. It was almost as if they were glad to see me, even.

We hung out for a while and played chick, chick, goose. It’s kind of like duck, duck, goose, but less offensive to the chicks. I was always “it”. They’re hard to catch.

Well, my oven just dinged. My chicken (yikes) pot pie is ready. I am happy to be home eating a pot pie and relaxing for a few moments.

And remember, friends are good and God is great and laundry will keep, so enjoy your evening. I know I am.

I have the need to read

I’m craving a book. Yes, I said craving. Like Elvis craved a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. Longing, pining, desiring. Sometimes all I need in life is a book, a blanket, and a couple of hours. I don’t usually make it that long before falling asleep.

Mark Twain Image

Good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life. ~Mark Twain

I couldn’t agree more, Mark.

If I think real hard, walk around the house a couple of times, and eat a chocolate chip cookie, maybe I could remember the last book I read. Right now I’ve got a blank screen in my mind, occasionally flickering. It’s been too long.

Unless you count school reading, which doesn’t really count does it? Right now I’m reading the book Sounder to my class. Just today the poor, black boy in the story was saying how badly he wanted a book. He probably could teach himself to read if only he had one. He’d heard somewhere that some people had so many books, they only read them once. Surely, there couldn’t be that many books in the world.

I usually only read books once as well. My dad, on the other hand, would read a book again and again. One in particular was the Grapes of Wrath. My mother finds it a waste of time to read a book twice. I’m with her on this, unless it’s To Kill A Mockingbird, which I try to read every summer. I also loved Eat, Pray, Love and vowed I would read it again someday, yet that someday hasn’t come.

But it’s coming. Very soon.

When June 1st arrives, I’m driving myself to the public library. I’m checking out a stack of books and turning off the phones. The grass can grow tall. The dishes can pile up in the sink. The tomatoes will need pickin’. My legs will need shaving. The chickens might even go hungry.

Nah. I’ll feed the chickens in between chapters.

I plan on delving into some good books. If you have a suggestion, let me know.

Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read~ Groucho Marx

Maybe I have a thing for men with bushy moustaches.

Yosemite Sam

I hope your innards turn to outards and your ears go visey-versey! ~Yosemite Sam

Or maybe they just have good quotes.

What’s your favorite book? Or quote? Or moustached man?

Tuesday Night

The evening is breezy and mild. I’m sitting in my front yard in one of those vintage iron chairs as I type this. The birds are perched in the tree and on the high wires singing me a melody. The cows are grazing in the next pasture. The horses are munching alfalfa, and chickens are pecking in their pen. Occasionally the hawk soars overhead, keeping me on my toes. Dang that chicken hawk. The dogs lay at my feet. Occasionally they tussle. When Drew Miller’s adrenaline rises, I catch a hint of skunk smell waft my direction. I guess he did get sprayed after all. The sky is clouding up, teasing us with rain. Makes me feel like a teenage boy sitting next to a girl in a low-cut blouse. Life is good. The only thing missing is a creaky wooden screen door banging closed and a wide porch. Maybe even a glass of sweet tea.

I’ve taken to wearing an aunt Jemima scarf on my head out here. Or as the cool kids would say, a do-rag. The wind does blow and whips my hair about.

I sit here and contemplate my garden. Today I took full advantage of 2nd grade science curriculum and had my second graders help me start my indoor seeds. It might be considered child labor. I call it learning the life cycle and parts of plants. We planted tomatoes, peppers, green beans, okra, squash, and radishes. I don’t even like radishes that much, but they’re easy to grow. I got some seeds planted and children had a good time learning. Can’t beat it. I want my garden in my front yard. J-Dub says, “who puts a garden in the front yard?” I do, that’s who. I’m going to attempt a companion garden with vegetables and flowers. I’m going to walk up my path and pop a cherry tomato in my mouth as I pick a bouquet on the way to the front door. My no dig garden didn’t get finished. I started with such gusto, only to find the cardboard blown up against the fences in a couple of days. Oh the toil I wasted.

I long for care-free summer days, fresh garden veggies, and tan legs.

I glance up to see dust billowing on the road. The dogs’ ears perk up at the bellowing diesel of my husband’s truck. They run to the gate to meet him. Dogs are such great friends. Always glad to see you.

Nothing’s ready for supper. Do you think he’ll be mad?

First thing I notice when he steps out of his truck are his boots are red. Initially, I think he’s gotten new boots, but no. It’s his old boots, they are covered with red dirt from Oklahoma where he was working today.

I’ve got a hard-working husband, a little home, a lot of love, and wonderful people in my life.

And yet sometimes, I allow myself to cater to self-pity. What a shame I should ever feel mistreated.

I’m blessed.

Well, the sun has moved and I’m in the shade now. The breeze is cool and I must warm some leftovers for supper.

Until tomorrow, friends.

May God Bless you richly.

Freedom

We have a pet chicken.

We call her Freedom. She wants out of the box in the worst way imaginable.

She’s the only one who discovered how to fly to the edge of the box. Since then we taped up the sides. She appears to be a Barred Plymouth Rock with a long stripe down her head. She is only one of 3 that we can differentiate between. They all look the same.

Freedom dreams of wide open spaces. When she lays her little chicken head down and closes her little chicken eyes she dreams of eating grubs in the garden not hanging out in a cardboard box. The brown cardboard walls are closing in and driving her chicken crazy.

She is not content in this box with these other peeps. There’s a whole world out there waiting to be discovered and she knows it deep down in her little chicken heart. She’s destined for greater things.

When you lay your hand palm up in the box, all the other chicks scatter, but not Freedom. She hops in ready for a ride out of that place.

She’s curious, friendly and bold.

But manners? She has none. How does she expect to get far in life with antics like this?

She has so much to learn.

Just In: Chicken Fatality Report

They, whoever they are, say death comes in three’s. Since I last wrote about my chickens, one more has died, which brings the number of fatalities to 3. It was the little chick I was worried about before. The antisocial black one with a little yellow spot on its head who stood in the corner and stared. She didn’t even get a proper burial in the chicken cemetery. I watched J-Dub carry her by her legs and toss her over the barbed wire fence into the pasture. Apparently, we’ve become desensitized to chicken death. It’s just the way it goes. My husband says, “If you’re gonna deal with livestock, you’re gonna deal with death.” He’s right. Nothing lives forever. And what is it that old Augustus McCrae says in Lonesome Dove when young Sean gets bitten all over with water moccasins, “Life’s short. Shorter for some than others.”

But I must admit it’s a bit embarrassing to confess how many I have lost. I feel like it’s my fault. The first thing people say when they see me is not Hi, How are You, but rather,”So how many chicks have died now?” And then they look at me like I have Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy or something. I am hoping the death spree is over. One died on Wednesday, one on Thursday, and one on Friday. I now have 14 surviving chickies, and I’m feeling pretty dern good about the health of these 14. I haven’t seen Ol’ Spaz, the seizure thrower, convulse in a couple of days, and Molasses, the one who got trapped under the water trough seems to be doing just fine. I even think she may not be as bow-legged as she once was. Truthfully, I can’t even recognize her anymore. I’m confident these 14 will survive. At least until I put them outside and a chicken hawk or bull snake gets a hold of them. But for now, they are safe and sound in my spare bedroom. For now.

I get a kick out of them. They are quite enjoyable and provide many laughs for us. When I put fresh straw in their box, if by chance there is a little piece of seed head that even faintly resembles a bug, one of them snags it up and starts running, thinking they’ve really found a treasure that they’re not sharing. As soon as the other chicks catch on that their sister has a jewel, they begin chasing her around trying to nab it. They start grabbing at that little seed head, pecking it from each other’s mouth, even playing a little game of tug o’ war, all the while, peeping loudly.

After watching this sport, I got a little nerve and decided to give them something “real”. Something they would forage for in the yard. A tasty morsel to fight over. I scraped some mud off the bottom of a big flower-pot and found 4 earthworms. Scrumptious, juicy, wiggling earthworms. I took the smallest I could find and tossed it in their box. At first, 2 or 3 chicks circled the worm taking turns pecking at it. They displayed a little curiosity, but not any real gumption. Not until this bold little chick walked right up, pushed her way through the circle, grabbed the worm in her beak with one peck and away she scrambled with the others right on her tail feathers. After a couple of circles around the box, a zig, a zag and a fake-out, she quickly found a spot in the corner, tipped her head back, and swallowed the worm right down her gullet. Thinking she was Hot Stuff, she strutted around, sharpening her beak on the box. In a few minutes, the others laid down for a nap, but not Hot Stuff, she was loaded up with protein and feeling fine and frisky.

I have since put in a couple more worms, and every time a few of them circle and peck until Hot Stuff struts in, nabs the worm and eats it whole. The funny thing is she’s the smallest of the bunch, but definitely the most fearless. It will be interesting to see if she turns out to be the most dominant chick in the coop.

Well folks, that’s it for today.

Tune in next time for more Tales From the Chicken Ranch for the latest fatality report and our special segment, “What’s on the Menu?”

Until Next Time,

Chicky Mama

Signs of Morning

Morning Time is quickly becoming my favorite time of day.

I can easily say this today, on a Sunday.

More specifically the Sunday after I’ve had 8 days off of work.

Maybe tomorrow morning I won’t feel the same. Tomorrow. The dreaded Monday. More specifically, the first day back to work. The first day back to work after Spring Break. The first day back to work after Spring Break and Daylights Savings Time. The first day back to work where instead of driving 10 seconds to get to work, I must drive 10 miles.

But this Sunday morning was glorious, and I can easily say it was my favorite time of day.

Where I now live, in the mornings, the cows in the neighbor’s pasture lumber their way, softly mooing as they go, to a barbed wire fence to stare down this county road. J-Dub says they’re waiting for the neighbor’s feed truck, but I have yet to see it arrive.

Hoping for breakfast.

But their curiosity of me and my camera gets the better of them.

In the mornings, the birds sing softly. I gaze towards the telephone poles and the fence lines looking for them, but never find them.

As you can see, there aren’t many trees to perch in. They must be hiding in the grasses, raising their song of hope towards the heavens.

In the mornings, the grass is a little wet from the dew and the fresh breezes gently blow, refreshing me.

In the mornings, I set my coffee cup in the pasture so I can operate my camera. And the horse poses for his portrait.

In the mornings, the sun warms the blossoms of the fruit trees, giving hope of new life. And sweet apricots.

Mornings are filled with hope.

Hope of new beginnings.

Hope of fresh starts.

Hope of happy days to come.

Happy Spring!