may flowers

I have absolutely no idea where the time has gone. You know how sometimes you blink and the party’s just over? Maybe you were having so much fun you lost track of time. Hey, that’s what happened to Cinderella at the ball. She was so wrapped up in her handsome prince, she didn’t notice it was creeping closer to midnight until she heard the first strike of the clock. Or maybe that party was so boring you just sat on a sticky sofa, shoveling chip after chip into your face, until you had dip dribbling down your chin. Maybe you were just too freaking drunk. It doesn’t really matter how it happened…one minute you’re walking in the door and the next, the party’s over.

But I’m not talking about a party. I’m talking about the month of May. I suppose I could be talking about almost anything. Life. Love. Youth.

The last brownie.

And while I’m thinking about that brownie…craving it long after someone else has eaten it…I knew I should have grabbed the damn thing and hid it away before going to bed last night. But delicious brownies aside…how the hell did June sneak up on me? I know I wasn’t drunk…or seduced by a handsome prince. Was I just not paying attention? I felt the rain…watched the flowers bloom…and yet somehow lost track of the days on the calendar.

I’m not going to let that happen to me again. I have plans for June. In fact, I’m going out of town with my mother next week. Three days without my kids, my husband, my dog, or my chickens.

How the hell will I survive? How can I resist?

I feel like quoting Ferris Bueller. “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Until the next time…I’ll be packing!

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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memorial day

Why didn’t I just have a barbeque like everyone else?

This is NOT what they meant when they said today was a day to honor those who have fought. They were NOT referring to the discord within the walls of my house.

Please tell me they weren’t.

I had such high hopes for today. My chickens have laid seven eggs in a span of four days (yippee!) The kids spent the day at the lake. And we even had an evening of family fun planned. But that’s the thing about fun…sometimes you cross the line from fun to uh oh faster than you can put out a grill fire.

No, we didn’t have a grill fire…just a little emotional fireworks. Oh, and a MacGuyer-style torch made from an aerosol can and a BIC lighter…but that’s how everyone kills spiders, right? No? Just at my house then?

Thank goodness the drama has died down, and no one died (other than that really big spider, that is) and I’m ready for bed. I’m glad these three-day weekends don’t come around every week. I don’t know if I’d have the stamina for that.

Until the next time…I’ll be cleaning up the mess in the kitchen!

 

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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calling all writers

I think I may have finally burned myself out on the fan fiction. I suppose I’m a snob. I’ve been spoiled by my peers. I know so many fabulous writers that when I stumble on something so wretchedly written, I seem to find it that much worse than I may have otherwise.

So, calling all writers…get an editor!

Ok, so maybe I needed one too, and that’s ok. Any writer worth his or her salt needs an editor. But people please…some need one more than others.

I spent several painful hours this evening skimming through the needless fluff of a story I was reading just so I could find out how it ended. I don’t even know what possessed me to keep going when page after page of narration washed over me like the overflow of a septic tank (gross but true.)

I wanted to love it. And I really did love it right up to the point where the story took a nasty turn into info-dumpville. Do I really need to know every single steps the characters took as they baked a cake? Really? We needed ten pages of measuring the flour…the shortening…greasing the pan? I wasn’t reading Betty Crocker for crap sake. I was reading what was supposed to be romantic comedy. Unless I actually get a piece of the damn cake at the end, I don’t need to know step by step directions. I also didn’t need to have the same exact scene written out from each character’s point of view (POV for future reference) I mean…come on…it was the exact same dialogue from three different POVs. I didn’t need to read it over and over again. I actually paid attention the first time, and I was really annoyed as I skimmed through twice after that to see if I really needed the other POV to make sense of what was going on (I didn’t, by the way.)

And while I’m ranting…please keep your facts straight!

I actually read a flashback scene in the later part of the story that had been completely modified from the first time I’d read about that scene from the beginning. And I don’t mean POV…I mean actual continuity. That’s a major no-no. Take the time to keep your stuff straight!

Or lose readers.

Other than the crazy readers with OCD who can’t abandon the story until they find out what the hell happens. Yeah, we’ll still be here…skimming our way to the end, cursing you the entire time…poking imaginary needles into your imaginary voodoo doll. And you really don’t want that, do you?

Right…so just take my advice. Get an editor before you put your stuff out there for the world to see. I might forgive you for using rode when you meant road. I might even look the other way when you use the wrong there, their or they’re. But I’m not going to look the other way when your character suddenly has blue eyes in chapter ten when you so brilliantly described them as brown in chapter one.

Ok. I’m done now. I’m just glad I surround myself with brilliant writers who would never ever make those sorts of mistakes…right?

Until the next time…I’ll be sending a few pages over to MY editor for a quick peek!

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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I always knew that omelet pan would come in handy

We have eggs!

The Henriettas have officially started laying eggs. Two eggs in the span of two days. Ok, so that means only one of them is laying so far, but that’s better than none, and it means soon, we’ll have more eggs than we can eat. I’m already planning the menus.

Egg Salad

Omelets (with my lovely, sort of expensive omelet pan)

Desserts

More Omelets

Deviled Eggs

More Desserts

I’m sure I have no idea all the things you can make with eggs, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough. But hey, it’s Saturday night, I’m really tired (again) and in the spirit off all things egg, I’m going to replay one of my very first blogs (and one of my favorites).

The Infamous Omelet Pan

I woke up ridiculously early this morning—my one Saturday off this month—after staying up past midnight finishing my last post. I never should have had that last diet coke, or the two before that, because my bladder was screaming at me to get up, and finally I had no choice but to listen. I tried really hard not to wake up fully. I didn’t even open my eyes all the way; instead I barely squinted against the faint light as I tripped my way toward the bathroom. Why is it that the catastrophes do not take the same days off as I do? Perhaps catastrophe is too extreme. I do tend to exaggerate, but there is only one thing worse than stepping in a puddle of dog pee in the wee hours of the morning and that is stepping in a puddle of cold dog pee (reason number 22 why my husband is counting down the days until the gates of doggy heaven open up over my house.) My geriatric Labrador had apparently decided that this would be the perfect morning to wet the bed. Hers not mine. At least if it had been warm it would have felt nice on my frozen toes. But no…it was cold. Ice cold. So much for not waking up. I was wide awake now. And hungry again, despite the ordeal surrounding meal time the night before. But I knew we were at least prepared today. After dinner last night, Mike and I made a grocery run—weaning ourselves off the restaurant habit—so the cupboards were fully stocked! It took about thirty minutes of staring at my sleeping husband, whispering, “Are you awake?” before his eyes finally popped opened to look at me suspiciously.

See, this is why I love my husband—well one reason anyway—if I nag him long enough he will usually cook breakfast for me, or dinner, or whatever meal is up next, as long as it means I eat at home and not at a restaurant. It bothers him greatly that I have a fixation with eating out. I don’t really have a fixation, mind you. I just like keeping my culinary options open right up until that last moment. My options this morning were eggs or eggs, as it was impossible to eat cereal with chopsticks as I had previously predicted, and I wasn’t all that interested in pulling out the ingredients for pancakes or waffles. Omelets on the other hand are perfectly suited for chopsticks, and my husband makes a wonderful omelet. I wasn’t paying much attention to him clanking around in the kitchen, until he addressed me directly. “I can’t use this omelet pan anymore. The nonstick coating is completely worn off and it’s coming off in the food. We need a new omelet pan!”

“Absolutely!” I agreed. “We should go get one right now!” It was the perfect reason to shop, and I will grab on with both hands to any opportunity to drag my husband out to shop. His love of cooking and quality cookware was playing right into my hands. “We may as well get breakfast while we’re out!” I threw in as I jumped up to get my coat. I wasn’t going to give him time to think or object. An opportunity for me to eat breakfast in a restaurant will always trump eating at home! One day he will discover my evil plot and contrive a better plan to get me to embrace the home cooked meal, but for now…victory was mine!

Why is it that victory is always sweeter in theory? In practice going out to eat is far less exciting. We didn’t have to spend a lot of time finding a place to eat, but I would have gladly spent a little more if it meant I would have actually gotten to eat something. I ordered eggs. Ironic, I know…I could have had eggs at home, and they probably would have been edible. I managed to get in a few bites of toast and a several strips of bacon, but the eggs were so unappealing that I lost my appetite completely. For the record they took the whole thing off my bill, and I didn’t even have to argue about it. Not that I have ever been afraid of a good confrontation when the need arises. Luckily none was needed. Toast and bacon would have to hold me over until lunch (which was definitely going to be cooked at home as the desire for home cooking had been renewed!)

We had a full morning of shopping. The art of diversion is one I am very familiar with, so I made sure we took the long way through the aisles to the cookware section of the store. We found the omelet pan. And another large skillet that matched our existing cookware (a piece we didn’t already have) but not before we had collected a giant willow laundry basket for the master bathroom, and 2 large Sunbrella outdoor cushions that will make excellent doggy beds! They are water repellent and can even be hosed off to be cleaned! I thought it was a genius, and relatively inexpensive, solution to the peeing situation. The omelet pan on the other hand, was a little expensive. More on that later. First…lunch time. And as it turned out we were too far from home and very hungry, so we grabbed a little something while we were out. We were absolutely going to eat dinner at home, and were actively planning what we would make.  Unfortunately, somewhere between shopping and lunch I discovered that my Blackberry was missing. This was a tragedy of epic proportions! I was unable to concentrate on anything until the phone was found. I actually have a GPS locator for my phone and those of both of my teenage girls, but as it turns out, you need to use the mobile app on your phone to do a location search and my husband’s Blackberry did not have this app! I spent the entire ride back to the house trying to find the app so I could locate my phone from his. When I finally located the phone it was still plugged into the charger at home. Woops…I never brought it with me.

So about that omelet pan…

I was the proud owner of an $80 omelet pan for all of three hours. Roll your tongue back up! I took it back. And not because I caught all kinds of shit from family members for spending that much on one 8 inch skillet (love ya Vik!) I was already planning on returning it…buyer’s remorse…but make no mistake, it was one damn nice pan! The All Clad professional chef omelet pan with multiple layers of stainless steel and a copper core bottom for optimum heat transference! $80 was the sale price! Everyone knows how hard it is to resist a good sale! But clearer heads prevailed after the Blackberry incident and we decided to return the expensive pan for something a little more realistic. By that time, all the running around had completely wiped me out and it was time for dinner. We were in the vicinity of the sushi bar I had lunch in the other day and I couldn’t resist taking my husband in…just to show him the menu, of course.  But do you know hard it is to resist sushi once you’re in there? It is the best sushi bar in all of Kennesaw! Mike had the sashimi salad and I had the spicy tuna roll, and I figured what the hell…so I went ahead and shared a Japanese beaver roll with my husband. You know, just to say I did.

God, I miss sushi. I don’t think you can make sushi with eggs. I wonder if they have a good sushi bar up here in the mountains? I’ll have to make a point of finding out.

Until the next time…I’ll be eating eggs!

 

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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cabin goddess with a side of moose

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Kriss MortonTonight’s guest is writer and Cabin Goddess, Kriss Morton. For more about Kriss, please click here for her website.

I have been reading the antics of what I have crowned the Amityville Farm here on Erica’s site with a whole lot of amusement. I have had chickens and goats here at the cabin since moving in so I know part of what she is going and will be going through. I also have pigs that we keep and raise for slaughter but not here at the cabin. For the last few years I haven’t had anything because of the demands of school. The one thing I have had since moving here, is my container garden.

How can you live in Alaska without growing something, even if it is a basic pot full of basil! Each year my wine barrels and various containers yield a bounty of  things like lettuce, tomatoes, sweet peas, various peppers, potatoes, zucchini, tons of edible flowers and a lot of fresh herbs, all but the basil. Basil is a great plant, it is not a hardy plant, you need to grow the seedlings in the pot and baby that plant if you want them to grow into maturity. Once you have a plant to a certain point it grows and grows and as long as you pick the basil you will have enough to keep you smiling and your pad thai singing all summer long. My porch was the perfect place for basil. Not to hot, not to shady just the right amount of shade when needed.

I did not choose to live in a cabin without running water It just happened back in 2005. We have cabin clusters in Fairbanks for many reasons, the main one is it is so expensive to live here and the cost of fuel is astronomical for heating it makes economic sense to not pay 1200 a month for a tiny one bedroom in crack alley. In fact, with the huge population of college students, just I was when my fiance Geoff and I rented the cabin, it was a logical step. In fact there is a badge of honor to say you were a cabin dweller. Most people would have moved by now, but not us we are just to cheap and lazy. Plus we like our cabin it is beautiful despite the fact there is no bathtub or water or indoor plumbing.

I may have to use an outhouse when it is -50 and shower at the laundromat, gym or the student union, but I could have fresh veggies without it costing us an arm and a leg. I had been growing small crops for years and doing container gardening so I was pretty up to speed and here in Alaska I knew I could really have a great thing going and help lower our food bill. The only thing I needed to remember is in Alaska one must always be wary of  placement of crops to minimize the wildlife eating them, mainly moose. Though I still go squee every time I see them I had already experienced them eating all my veggies but the tomatoes and herbs. So I made sure this time I placed the other stuff on the porch.

I was not worried about the herbs but with them being smaller plants and needing more light I had my herb garden anchored to the railing of my small porch. I had all the normal herbs transplanted from seedlings thriving in rectangle flower boxes, except for my lavender and my basil. They were in their own large pots in order to grow huge plus basil is a picky herb to grow. I was not worried about them being moose-safe because how was a moose suppose to get on the porch, right? Five open steep steps up and six down on the other side? Naaaa no worries at all.

Apparently a determined moose won’t let a bunch of steps and dexterity challenges deter him. In fact, if you have big antlers (the moose equivalent of having big cahoonas) you go anywhere you like! You survived the winter without the jackass up the road totaling his car and making you late to hang with the sexy cows and the herd why not treat yourself to some of the fresh food being grown on that unsuspecting hippie princesses front porch! Heck, she even had a HUGE pot of great looking basil, your favorite. The ladies would not be able to resist you! Wow look at those greens… oh and look zucchini, and sweet peas, and pansies, and … nom nom nom insert loud munching sound here and you have what I awoke too one afternoon while napping.

There was this rumbling, the cabin shook and it was getting dark. Oh god was it an earthquake? No wait that sounds like someone eating a salad with their mouth open, What the hell? I slowly got up and went to the window, it was bright and sunny on the side of the cabin. No one was running down the street being chased by a zombie horde. There was no fire off in the distance because the big one hit. The shadow and the noise seemed to be coming from the front porch. Damn it  a dog was out there and into my plants! Stomping over to the door ready to shoo it away with harsh language and possibly a stare down if it was one of those 200 lb tank dogs from up the road, I threw open the door and almost ran into a wall. This was no dog unless someone has been experimenting on campus with animal genetics. It was a wall of brown, a very tall wall covered in brown fur. It was a taller than my door wall of brown, with antlers which from the sound of things apparently to be partaking of a little salad for lunch via my garden. I had a moose and not just any moose but a bull who was over 9 feet tall with the antlers. GREAT there goes my garden, I guess I was wrong about those steps.

I quietly shut the door and swore. Sure the noise had woken me but the half-gallon of ice tea and my bladder were also to blame. I swore and  I paced talking to myself telling myself to be patient I could hold it and the moose would only get one crop it was summer I could grow more. I paced some more called Geoff to tell him and bitch because he would not believe it otherwise. I paced some more, called my mom to tell her the moose was eating my herb garden and chat about the drama at the golf club for an hour. I paced some more squeezing my legs together for another hour.. and moaned and groaned.

Pretty soon the noise stopped but shadow cast through my front door windows showed he was still out there. What was he doing, napping? Didn’t he know I needed to pee? I started yelling at him calling him all sorts of hurtful things. I cast curses in his direction, banging on the door only to have him make this deep chesty huff and shift his weight against the door making it groan. By then I was so desperate I was getting delusional and thought if the moose managed to get on my porch he could breech the door so I stopped. Plus I really needed to pee. You do NOT startle something that can take out an SUV and walk away unscathed. These guys, especially the bull moose, are not very approachable or friendly and even though he would not be able to charge me on the porch, I don’t think I could nudge him to get him off without him taking out the porch or me in the process, so I waited.

Remember how I said I do not have running water? Well we have a sink and under the sink is a bucket for the gray water (the water we do dishes with, wash up with, drain our pasta into and dump by the outhouse in a gray water pit.) When I became more lucid I realized I was going to pee my pants very soon, I have had five kids, the fortitude and staying power on my bladder was not going last much longer. I was giving a whole new meaning to the jazz hand combo pee-pee dance, in fact I am pretty sure I created a bunch of new steps and gestures and a few new swear words too. It was a work of art, but I did not care by three hours into the Great Moose Stand-off of 2005. I grabbed the bucket from under the seat, dumped some laundry soap in (no clue why but it sounded good at the time) using our toilet seat we keep in the house I put it over the bucket and I peed. I peed like a diabetic cat, I peed like a beer guzzling frat boy, oh god I peed and it was great. I was ready for the next three hours of the stand off.

Adjusting my tie dye, wiping the sweat off my brow and with an air of determination I stood up, moved the bucket back under the sink to be dumped when I was finally free to leave my abode and thats when I realized it. The roaring in my head while peeing was not in my head after all it was the noise of the @)$$)@)E moose walking off my porch backwards and moving to the next victims cabin. I grabbed the bucket and stomped out yelling at him expecting to see all my plants decimated to stubs, it had after all been over three hours of never ending munching and napping. But wait, my sweet peas were still climbing their trellis, my peppers still ripening on the vine…. my basil.. WAIT my BASIL the HUGE beautiful babied and nurtured basil was gone. Down to the roots, nothing left in or around that pot but a hoof print in a small pile of spilled dirt. Apparently moose really like basil.

Since then I have grown many a thing, raised many a chicken and survived the moose filled summers without another incident. What I has not happened is growing a potful of basil. I hear whispers from around the neighborhood of other basil eating incidents every summer. I wonder if is the same bull, or one of his calves. They still come to eat my trees and occasionally will sample the lettuce, but no one has ventured on my porch since that fateful day.

We have since gotten a compost/combustible toilet (burns it gone) and so we do not always have to go to the loo in the middle of the night in the middle of winter. I convinced Geoff we needed one after being emotionally and physically decimated from the Great Moose Stand-off of 2005. Maybe I can risk another pot of basil this year, Chicken wire this time? Perhaps surrounding it with my tomato plants? Surely it would be safe to try after seven years…naaa I will just buy it from those that do not have a basil thieving, hostage taking moose living in their neighborhood.

I was not always a writer and a book blogger. While finishing up my English and Journalism degree, I started my blog to talk about living in a dry cabin in Alaska. We had no internet here till late last summer so I did all my blogging via my iPhone, call it my own little social experiment. I had a serious blog that I had created for a class in social media. But what has become Cabin Goddess was a way to chat, show off my photography and stay in touch with friends in the lower 48.  Last summer I started eating better again, things slowed down with school wrapping up and I was able to start making my famous dishes and I blogged about them I became an aspiring foodie blogger. Sometime in the fall and early winter a bunch of aspiring indie authors found me and I discovered the world of book blogging. Today I write daily with my own book project, I post reviews of books I read and I still share my cooking even pairing it with a review for more fun, I still share my antics of cabin dwelling in the Interior of Alaska and share my photography and when I am not doing that I can be found cuddled on the couch with a crochet hood doing my zen crocheting. With a man, a cat, my kindle and a frying pan I always know I will get through the day, even if I cannot use fresh basil in my pasta sauce.

Thanks Kriss! Anyone who can get a moose and the word cahoonas in one post is welcome here any time!

Until the next time…I’ll be cooking up the next adventure at the Amityville farm!

just a little nookie

I feel like a bad girl. Like I’m doing something illicit. Some sort of affair. You know…getting lots and lots of…errr…nookie?

Oh, get your mind out of the gutter. Not that kind of nookie. I’m talking about my NOOK. You know…e-reading device? Downloading books? Reading? Yeah…I’m on a journey lately, and I haven’t come back just yet.

I talk about my OCD a lot, and honestly, I do sort of think of it fondly. It drives my husband crazy sometimes. Like when I listen to the same song over and over again for days on end. Or when I watch the same movie over and over again for days on end. Or read the same book…yeah, you get the idea, right? Well, it’s comforting to me. And once I burn the images or sounds into my brain and get over the obsession, I’m on to the next thing.

So, lately I’ve been on a reading kick. And admittedly, the stories I’m reading aren’t exactly the classics. They aren’t edited. They aren’t even good (although some are). But they are most definitely addicting. And so it starts. The newest O in my little world of OCD.

Fan fiction.

Ok, so yes…I’m embarrassed to admit what I’m reading, and so I won’t, not exactly. So keep it to yourself, ok? But only because I actually want to maintain some level of respectibility in the world. I will say it started with that new firestorm, best seller, crazy erotic fiction novel (and subsequent sequels), Fifty Shades of Grey. When I became completely obsessed after reading the series, and discovered it started out as fan fiction, I had to see what all the fuss was about.

And so it began.

I’ve been on a week long bender and I’ve barely come up for air. My husband is beginning to worry about me. And my eyes refuse to focus when I pull them away from the text on the screen. I may need an intervention here. But hold off until I get through the last several stories I downloaded. I need to read those first.

I’ll get back to you.

But for now, I have a date with my Nook, and probably an eye doctor.

Until the next time…I’ll be reading!

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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the lawnmower man

I’ve lived in this house for two months now. Sure, I still have a few unpacked boxes. Some things stacked in corners without a permanent home. Rooms that have yet to reach their full potential. Weeds in the yard, desperately waiting for my husband to fire up the landmower. Oh, he’s mowed the yard once or twice. Maybe a few more times than that…I’ve lost track. I mean, mowing the lawn isn’t exactly high on our priority list these days. It falls somewhere between unpacking the books that don’t have a shelf yet, and organizing my spices. But since I do actually cook (the bet be damned, I’ve done a lot of cooking around here!) the spices are in progress.

But despite the perpetual hush of our sad little push mower, I still hear the growling sound of a mower on a daily basis.

Because I live next door to the fucking lawn mower man!

Yep, that’s right. Sandwiched between me and the Goonies, lives a man who clearly needs more OCD therapy than I do. He has roughly two acres. Two acres that once belonged to the farm I live on. And he climbs aboard his trusty steed, firing up the engine on that bad boy to mow the crap out of those two acres.

Every. Freaking. Day.

And I do mean every freaking day since I moved in.

At first I thought I was just really bad at keeping track. I mean, who mows every day? I don’t think even Major League Baseball mows everyday (and guys, feel free to tell me if I’m wrong). But this guy…the very same guy who warned my husband about touching his do dong after pulling weeds (in case it was poison ivy) this guy loves his grass. I mean LOVES his grass. Or hates it. I guess I don’t know which. We love ours. We nuture it and watch it grow. Then we shoo the chickens to the long patches and wait for them to trim it down a little.

Lawn Mower Man rides around like a crazy man on a gas powered tractor slicing his grass at the knees, trampling what survives the blades with the wide tires of his beast. Yep, I’m thinking hate.

Well, I’m starting to work up a little hate on this side of the property line.

Hate for the sound of the engine roaring to life at eight am on a Saturday. Hate for the sound of the engine roaring to life at five-thirty pm on a Monday…or a Tuesday…a Wednesday…a…errr…you get the idea, right?

The man has no idea he’s a walking time bomb, just begging for a PMS attack to creep up on him like a fucking stealth ninja! Doesn’t he know I could just snap one day? They’ll find me, dressed in camoflage leggins, hiding in my tall grass, lobbing water balloons filled with weed killer into his yard.

Ok…so maybe I’m getting a little carried away. Maybe I should just bake him some cookies and leave a trail to my side of the property line. I mean, if he loves to mow that much, couldn’t he at least just ride on over here and do my lawn too?

After alll, isn’t that what they call being neighborly?

Until the next time…I’ll be playing my music loud enough to drown out the mower.

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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sometimes a rainy day is just what the doctor ordered

I used to dread a rainy day. Especially a rainy Monday. It tugged on my mood until it was dragging the muddy ground. But when my miserable sunny Monday morning twisted into a gloriously rainy Monday afternoon, I found myself switching sides.

I’m not the only wife to argue with her husband. I’m fairly certain. And with two very distinctively stubborn personalities, it always makes for an exciting showdown. So when I told Mike I wanted to stay in town after an argument, he didn’t put up a fuss.

He left me there.

Of course, I hadn’t quite thought things through. I was eight miles from home, no car, no husband, and I hadn’t had any breakfast, so I was cranky and hungry. But it was a beautiful day, so I resigned myself to wander the streets of Blue Ridge, looking for things to entertain me.

I had no idea they started the wine tasting so early in the morning. It was barely ten-thirty and I was sipping blueberry wine on an empty stomach. After a few different varieties, I wandered back to the streets to the next stop along the way, wondering how I was going to get home.

I texted the kids (they were due back to town sometime that morning) asking them to swing by to get me, and they told me they hadn’t left Atlanta yet. This meant I still had almost two hours to kill and I was already a litle tipsy.

Nothing like a few samples of fudge to take the edge off the hunger, right? Ok, so more than just a few samples. But who can resist homemade fudge?

I stopped at the local malt shop and grabbed a bite to eat and bit the bullet, calling my husband to come get me. I wasn’t giving in, mind you. He had already texted me to apologize for the argument. I can’t say I’d completely forgiven him yet, but I was running out of things to do.

By the time he arrived, and we finished eating (the burger I ordered was far more than I could eat alone, especially after several pieces of fudge) the skies had opened up and we found ourselves several blocks from the car, in the  middle of a deluge.

We stood under an awning, watching the rain fall as thunder shook the sky, and listened to an old man tell stories of what the tourist town was like when he was a kid. He pointed out the fudge shop across the way, and said it used to be a cafe. And the antique shop down the block had once been a hardware store. He talked about the time the river flooded and the dam broke, and how he and his sister had danced around in the muddy water as it washed out the sidewalks.

We were there for more than an hour as the rain beat down from above, listening to his fascinating tales, forgetting what we had argued about in the first place. When the rain let up a little, we made a run for it, laughing hysterically as we got thoroughly soaked on the way to the car.

By the time we got home, the sky was blue again…the last traces of rain all but gone. It was as if the rain had made a visit for the express purpose of holding us hostage under that awning with the man…forcing us to hear about a simpler time. A time we both yearned for, but had never truly understood. It was what drove us to move to the farm to begin with. And here we were, seeing it first hand through the eyes of someone who had lived it.

It really put things into perspective. Life has a crazy way of doing that, I guess.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking at rainy Monday’s with new eyes.

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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greetings from amityville

The flies are (mostly) gone. The leaks plugged. The septic fixed. The ghosts are quiet. The chickens kept to their side of the window today. Hey, I even have most of my unpacking done.

Things are beginning to settle in, down on the farm.

And it’s about time, right? Of course, right about the time things settle into normal is when change comes up to tap on your glass.

I don’t mind the change, mind you. I find it exciting. Then again, sometimes change means reverting back to how things were. Especially when the baby birds who flew the coop decide to fly back to the nest after all.

Yep. I have kids moving in again. Funny thing is, I’m looking forward to it. And not just so I have someone else to do the dishes (but don’t think I’m not pleased about that). I’m looking forward to having family around again.

Oh, I may change my mind…give me a month or so and check in again. Lucky for me, things will probably change again by then…like they always do.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for the next thing to change.

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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when the chickens come home to roost

I know you’ve heard it before. Everyone says it. But this time, I’m telling the truth. I have the smartest chickens ever. And not just smart, but brave…or perhaps stupid. Probably just really hungry.

Shall I start at the beginning?

The HenriettasMy three ladies…I call them the Henriettas because they remind me of three very proper Victorian ladies in their neck-high black dresses and black bonnets. They run here and there across the yard, always together, as if they are really just one single unit…one big chicken with three heads.

We’ve been working diligently in training the Henriettas to “free range” in the yard without a fence, while also teaching the dogs to share the space without dining on fresh chicken.

The girls…the Henriettas…wander the yard in the day and head back to their coop as night falls. This has worked out perfectly for the past week. Oh, there was one little incident where Indiana Jones, the mastiff, chased one of the chickens around the house to the front porch windowsil, where she had to be rescued and carried back to the rear yard. Completely unscathed, I might add. But otherwise, the transition has gone off without a hitch.

Fast forward to tonight.

All day long, the Henriettas watched people go in and out of the house through the kitchen door, and the cat via the open window. I brought them bread and fed them from the back porch. They lingered at the bottom of the steps for a while, watching me through the window as I cooked (careful to avoid using chicken), and snacked on chips.

It wasn’t long before I heard a tap…tap…tap on the window behind me. I turned to look and to my surprise, all three chickens were standing on the windowsil, tapping to get my attention.

I swear I wasn’t cooking chicken!

Ok, I did have several loaves of very nice bread sitting out where they could be seen. And chickens LOVE bread.

I went outside and tossed a few pieces of raisin bread to the ladies and went back to my cooking.

Tap…tap…tap…

They were back. This time, more insistent, and bread wasn’t cutting it. I wasn’t sure what they wanted. It was beginning to get dark, so I shooed them toward their coop and marched back to the kitchen to finish my foraging.

I was digging around the refrigerator for something to drink when I heard it. It was a familar sound, but certainly not one I was used to hearing from inside the kitchen.

Brooooaaaakkkk!

Holy crap!

I spun around to see my chicken…one of my precious Henriettas…standing in the middle of the kitchen table. She looked at me as if it was an every day thing to have a chicken in the kitchen…I mean…a live chicken in the kitchen.

I admit it. I screamed. And not because I was scared. I wasn’t. I screamed because the dog was in the kitchen with me, and the chicken was tipping over the glasses and vases, and other assorted things people had left on the table, not expecting a chicken to be wandering around up there. And the dog was reaching (and he’s really big, so it’s not much of a reach) to see if he could grab the chicken. Even the dog knew chickens didn’t belong in the kitchen.

No one came running when I screamed. No one came to help me wrestle the dog, or rescue the chicken. I had giant flapping wings tipping things over everywhere and a big drooling dog pushing me out of the way. But I managed to grab my phone to snap a few pictures…because who would have believed me otherwise?

It took me a few minutes to remove the chicken from the kitchen. I had to put the dog in the other room, and carry the chicken outside, and then shoo all three Henriettas into their coop for the night. I’m sort of looking forward to tomorrow. I can’t wait to see if it was a fluke, or if the chickens suddenly think they should live in the house like everyone else. I can’t blame them…but I don’t think I’ll indulge them either. You just have to draw the line somewhere!

Until the next time…I’ll be baking bread and pulling feathers out of my hair!

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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hey, is that a bear under there?

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Leslie PiferTonight’s guest is writer, Leslie Pifer. For more about Leslie, click her picture to visit her website.

Born and raised in the hills of Western PA, I am a bit of a self-proclaimed and proud of it country bumpkin.  As such, I’ve been reading Erica’s country adventures with much amusement.  I told her, she hasn’t seen anything yet!

My parents’ property is 23 acres, the majority of that is woods, so we have had encounters with many a wild animal.  Now THAT is country living!  We’ve had deer walk through the yard from time to time, and well, anytime you went in the woods, you could easily come across a deer or two.  A couple years ago, we saw a freshly born fawn while out on one of our walks, which was pretty cool.  Little thing was still wet from being birthed!  Its Momma was not happy, and was creating a fuss, stomping and snorting, and huffing at us from some unseen location, so we didn’t stay too long or get too close, but even my Dad had never seen such a new fawn, so it was quite an experience for us all,

Of course, we had more than our fair share of squirrels, chippies (er, I mean, chipmunks), raccoons in and out of the yard, stealing from the birdfeeders and whatnot.  Every year, someone sees a couple turkeys, or a flock passing through.  I’m told that just recently they had a few nice big Tom’s in the yard, complete with impressive beards, which would have been neat to see.  I’ve only seen the Tom’s from a distance in the past.  Mom says that she got some good pictures, but has yet to send them our way.

There are coyotes in the woods; my sisters and I have never seen them (Dad has while out hunting) but we have heard them.  The sound of a pack on a chase on a brisk, crisp, clear, cold winter night…is eerie, yes, and mostly indescribable.  When the howling and barking stop, you can assume they have overcome their prey.

These last couple years, we’ve had some of our most exciting, and potentially scary visitors.  We had one or two in the yard when we were teenagers, but not like what has been happening lately.  I’m talking black bears baby! But, this past year and a half, it’s been Black Bear Central at the Pifer house! 

It all started in late November 2010.  It was deer season, and one of my Dad’s buddies was hunting down behind the house when he noticed that a patch of clay, dirt, and leaves had been disturbed around some brush piles, like something had been digging.  Of course, Dan went to check it out.  What did he find?  A black bear had made its den to hibernate for the winter under the brush! Of course, Dan showed Dad, and Dad showed us when we were home for Christmas that year. 

For some reason, despite the fact that I did have a future phone, I never took the time to google it, and did not believe it when I was told that when bears hibernate, they are not out cold like we have been led to believe all of these years.  So, we all trooped down into the woods, to check out Yogi (I know, we have GOT to get better at naming these animals!  Rocco, Turkey Lurkey, and Yogi are just not original!)  We got close to the den, couldn’t see well, just a mound of black fur behind sticks and leaves.  I decided to get closer.  I tiptoed around the side, and squatted down, despite whispers from Mom and Dad to be careful, about 6-8 feet from what must be the front of the den.  I was not worried, because I truly thought bears were practically dead to the world when hibernating.  I can tell you now, they are NOT!

I had my camera out and ready, searching for the best possibly angle.  With the way he was curled up in there, plus the fact that it was dark and hollowed out in the den area, it would have been very tough to get a picture in which you could really tell what you were seeing.  This frustrating process probably only took a few seconds.  Then, without warning, Yogi shifted, and I was staring into his (thankfully) groggy eyes!  If you have never stared into the eyes of a 200-300 pound black bear, I can tell you, while amazing, it is not something I would recommend! 

With what I thought was major grace, courage, and will, I stayed crouched, still and silent for a few seconds, until I was able to focus the shot, take it, and slowly back away.  I’m told it wasn’t all that graceful (I rarely am) or still.  My sisters were amazed I was able to take the picture, or that it turned out as well as it did, as apparently, I was shaking, and more than just a bit!  I did get the picture though, and it was the best shot gotten all winter. 

We did go back to see Yogi again during our break, but it was a warmer day, and we were unable to get close at all.  From across the gully, we could see him sitting up in his den, shaking and shaking, very much like a dog shaking the water off itself.  He knew we were there, and made enough noise, not growling really, but definitely warning sounds to stay away.  We stood across the gully for a couple minutes, just watching in awe, until we decided to let him be for the rest of our stay.  I know my parents checked on him every now and then, and he stayed through the winter, leaving abruptly sometime in March.

He may not have gone far, however.  Last summer, there were probably at least seven, yes SEVEN black bears in the area, all of whom were spotted in my parents’ yard.  We had several visits by lone bears, one of which my sisters and I witnessed while home over the summer.  I also have a very blurry, through the screen door picture of a very large Momma and quite large, likely yearling cub just lounging on their backs out in the middle of the front yard one early summer morning. 

Then, there was Memorial Day weekend bear sighting.  I was actually home, but missed it, as Mom forgot I was there, and didn’t think to wake me up.  Yeah, I’m still a little bitter about this one.  So, it was 4AM, and Mom was up for one of her middle of the night bathroom visits, when she heard something outside the bathroom window.  The windows are open all summer, which is how she heard this funny noise.  She pulled back the blinds on the bathroom window to see two bear cubs maybe two feet away, one actually on the front porch leaning against the railing, the other just off the porch, leaning against the outside railing, each taking turns tipping the hummingbird feeder and slurping the red, sugary contents.  It took two times of my mom yelling at them to get out of there to get them to move.  They took off up over the hill, where their Momma was messing with the compost in the garden.  The three bears took off down another hill (and at this point Mom and Dad are running through the house, watching their shenanigans through various windows…and still forgetting me…) where they were joined by what is assumed to be Momma Bear’s last year’s cub.  It was crazy!

So, the four on Memorial Day Weekend, the big Momma and cub lounging in the front yard, and at least one lone bear makes seven!  But, it could easily be more, as there were quite a few appearances by a solitary bear, and they are somewhat difficult to tell apart when they appear alone, and days or weeks apart, not to mention the fact that they were often seen from behind as they were leaving.  But, yes, THAT is country living!    Of course there are many other stories I could have shared, and I may still write them, but I thought that this story best proved my point; Erica, you haven’t seen anything yet! 

Big thanks to Leslie for sharing her bear with us! I’m sort of looking forward to running into some bears…ok, not running into bears but maybe seeing them from a safe distance. Like the internet! Yeah…I want to see my bears from the safety of the internet. I did see a groundhog the other day. They sort of look like small bears, right?

Oh well. I’m sticking to chickens for now!

Until the next time…I’ll be very careful about peeking under branches from now on!

the only constant is change

It’s funny. The way things change. Your kids grow, become adults, bring their significant others to spend the weekend when they visit, and you fall right back into your old patterns. In the end, nothing really changes, does it?

Mike and I were graced with both of the older daughters this week (and their boyfriends) and I must say, it’s been a pretty nice week. All of our hopes for the kids when they were younger, back in a time when the stress of adolescence and parenting seemed to get in the way, finally realized as we had family dinners, bonfires, and outings without a single temper tantrum, argument, or tear shed.

Progress.

And yet, as I wait for morning to dawn and the kids to pack up and leave, I’m left with a sadness. Because as much as nothing changes…everything changes. In life, the only constant is change.

Even my little chicks, once cute little balls of fluff, are now exhibiting normal chicken behavior. Oh, I’m not saddened by that. I can always get new chicks, but it won’t be the same. These were my first.

But life, as settled as it is finally becoming, is hardly dull. Today, Indiana Jones, the mastiff, managed to chase one of the Henriettas completely around the house, forcing her to perch on the windowsil until I rescued her. So for the first time ever, I held a full grown chicken in my arms as I carried her back to her sisters in the yard, and she didn’t try to escape.

Progress.

Now if I could only convince the dogs that the chickens are not play things. Perhaps the toy chicken I bought him as a puppy is coming back to haunt me now. I wouldn’t doubt it.

And I felt better today. Not quite 100%, but not horrible. And my husband whispered to me that he was happy. Something I rarely hear these days. So how can I complain about that?

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring…but I’m sure I’ll look forward to the changes while missing the past. That just seems to be how it goes.

Until the next time…I’ll be saying goodbye to the kids and waiting for the next visit.

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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chicken soup?

Ok, so I’m feeling like crap today, I’ve felt like crap for a few days now, and I think to myself…hey, I’ll just have some chicken soup. But then I look outside at the chickens grazing in the yard and wonder…can they smell it from there? Will they look at me differently if I suddenly make a pot of chicken soup just to make myself feel better? And why do I feel so guilty? I didn’t feel this guilty when I made egg salad for lunch yesterday. I didn’t feel guilty making eggs for breakfast. And yet, here I am feeling guilty about chicken soup.

Maybe I’ll just grab a bowl of cereal. Surely the chickens can’t hold that against me.

This living on the farm thing is starting to give me pause. What happens if the husband follows through with his threat to get baby pigs? Will I be able to eat bacon again? And what about bees? If he gets bees will I still feel comfortable eating those Honeycombs I had for breakfast? It’s one thing to eat those unfertilized eggs from the chickens (it’s not like they can ever be chicks or anything) but it’s completely another to eat someone I knew personally. I mean, would Fern EVER consider eating a BLT sandwich if Wilbur put the B in BLT? It would be a little too much like eating my cat or something. I may find Henry Chow thoroughly annoying when he decides he’s too good to use a dirty litter box, but I would NEVER consider eating him. I certainly can’t imagine eating the Henriettas.

This is how vegetarianism got started, isn’t it?

Until the next time…I’ll be eating macaroni and cheese!

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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just another Tuesday on the farm

Where do I begin today?

Things down on the farm are coming along nicely. Not only are the baby chicks growing, but the Henriettas were given another chance to free roam the yard yesterday and today, and despite a scare (I assumed they had been taken by a hawk or an owl when, in fact, they were in the bushes hiding) all is well. So crisis averted, but my nerves were shot. Then, as if that wasnt’ bad enough, I got sick at the grocery store.

Who does this?

Me, apparently. Oh well. At the end of the day, all I was left with was exhaustion, and I can certainly live with that. In fact, we’re old friends.

Or mortal enemies, I can’t decide which.

But, not to worry, my story has a happy ending.

The kitchen is clean. The kids are visiting. The chickens are all safely sleeping in their pens. And I’m tucked into bed, where I’ve fallen asleep six times while attempting to post this blog. Life, as they say, is back to normal.

Until the next time…I’ll be trying to get a few hours of sleep before the dawn!

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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happy mother's day

This year is the first Mother’s Day when, not only am I too far from my mom to spend the day with her, but my children no longer live with me. This, coupled with a wicked case of PMS, has been a recipe for more tears. Thankfully, my youngest daughter was able to make the trip, and I may not run out of toilet paper after all (since I’ve already gone through the tissues and the paper towels, that was going to be my last resort.) Now that my tears seem to be somewhat dried out, I’m going to give myself another reason to cry (you can lose weight crying, right? It certainly seems to burn a lot of calories) I’m going to reprint my tribute to Mom, because you can’t say these things often enough while people are still there to hear it, and you’ll wish you had said it infinitely more often after they’re gone.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you!

Dear Mom,

Thank you for teaching me why it is bad to put a cat into the washing machine. (Especially when it is full of hot soapy water and cloth diapers.)

Thank you for putting the marshmallow peeps and black jelly beans in my Easter basket every year to keep me from eating too much candy! And thank you for eating all of the candy I didn’t like so it didn’t go to waste!

Thank you for learning how to sew so you could make my clothes for me when I was little. And thank you for using the rick rack trim because it still makes me laugh to say that!

Thank you for cutting my hair when I was little. And thank you for taking pictures of me with the terrible haircuts so I can prove how bad they really were!

Thank you for always making my birthday a special day all on its own, even though it falls just a few days after Christmas.

Thank you for never making me eat liver and onions even though it was your favorite.

Thank you for watching the Wizard of Oz with me every year, even though you were afraid of the wicked witch.

Thank you for letting me believe in Santa Claus long past the age most kids did.

Thank you for eating the pickles in my McDonald’s hamburgers because you knew I didn’t like them, even though you didn’t like them either.

Thank you for teaching me how to bandage a wound using toilet paper and scotch tape!

Thank you for knowing how to bake everything from scratch even though you don’t like to cook.

Thank you for making sure I had the best Halloween costume every year! And thank you for teaching me that sometimes the best costume is the one you made from scratch!

Thank you for teaching me that it’s ok to like younger men.

Thank you for teaching me that you don’t have to be a good dancer to have a whole lot of fun doing it!

Thank you for making sure I knew at a very young age that it was ok to draw pictures of my parents, but only if they were wearing clothes!

Thank you for introducing me to the music of Elvis Presley and the Jackson 5.

Thank you for letting me make my own mistakes sometimes, even though you could have stopped me.

Thank you for teaching me how to back up the car. (Oh wait, never mind, that was Dad.)

Thank you for showing me that it’s perfectly ok to send your eggs back (in a restaurant) until they get them right!

Thank you for going to karaoke with me, and thank you for getting up there to sing just so we could laugh at your singing.

Thank you for telling the very best dirty jokes.

Thank you for being a nurse so I have someone to call at two in the morning when I think something is terribly wrong with me, and thank you for telling me it’s probably just gas.

Thank you for knowing how to draw blood so you could tell the nurses how to do it when it was my turn to have blood taken.

Thank you for being strong enough to survive the things that would have killed weaker people. And thank you for flipping the bird at us while you were on a ventilator so we could find some humor in a scary situation.

Thank you for teaching me that being a good mother doesn’t always mean being a perfect mother, and some mistakes can be happy accidents!

To all you mothers out there…have a Happy Mother’s Day!

Until the next time…I’ll be missing the kids who couldn’t make it here today.

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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ok, who drank my wine?

I’m blogging about wine again. How many times does this make in such a short time? I don’t even know…I’ve lost track. But despite how it may seem on the surface…I swear I’m not a wino.

Really! I rarely drink wine, or even wine coolers, and I steer clear of anything stronger at all costs. I don’t take aspirin unless I really need it. Hell, I don’t even finish my prescriptions as directed! I’m a lightweight at best, and a control freak at my core, so consuming anything that takes the control out of my hands and puts it somewhere in the unseen mist is truly rare.

Enter the great game changer…PMS.

Someone up there is laughing at me, I know it. Laughing a sadistic little laugh and pointing. Pointing at my puffy eyes, splotchy skin, and bloated gut. Well, laugh on, you cosmic sadist. Go ahead, laugh on. I refuse to be broken by you, or anyone else. Do you hear that? I. Refuse. To. Be. Broken.

Oh screw it. I’m broken. All I do is cry.

Cry. Cry. Cry.

I cry when the sun goes behind a cloud. I cry when I step into the pant leg of my pajama pants, falling into the kitchen sink, splashing water onto my freshly washed Eddie Bauer sweatshirt, forcing me to change my clothes. Then I cry when I discover someone put the bag of chocolate chips away with only three freaking chips left in the bag. And let me just say…who does this? Someone with a death wish, perhaps? Someone foolish enough to tempt fate in the middle of the month? Someone with a broken cell phone and therefore can’t check the dates on the calendar? Oh, I suspect I know who you are…and you’re the same evil soul who drank the last of my fucking wine too, aren’t you?

Wackiki WabbitAnd people, if you don’t already know this (and you really should) please don’t eat the last of the chocolate AND the last of the wine right in the middle of PMS week. It’s just not fair…or smart…or safe for that matter. I’m already unstable…already eyeing you like a hamburger in the Bugs Bunny cartoon with the castaways stranded on the desert island…so don’t tempt fate here. Play it safe. Bring me chocolate and back away slowly. Offer me wine and hope I slip off to sleep quickly.

Or sleep on the couch and keep one eye open.

I’ll be the one wandering the house aimlessly after dark, with a menacing groan, as I bump into walls on a futile quest for chocolate that may have been left in packing boxes. Something I may have missed from Halloween…or Christmas…maybe Easter.

If you notice a trail of chocolate powder leading through the house, it was probably me as I fed from the baking cocoa when I ran out of other options, because YOU couldn’t leave well enough (and my chocolate) alone.

Zombie invasions? Pfft…I laugh at zombie invasions. You’d better start reading up on how to survive an attack by a PMSing woman!

And you know who you are!

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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would you like fries with that?

Welcome to the Weekly Friday Guest Spotlight

Dionne ListerTonight’s guest is writer, Dionne Lister. Click her picture for more about Dionne, or click here to buy her new book, Shadows of the Realm.

When A Trip to Mcdonalds Turns into the Twilight Zone

Hi everyone. I know I’m not Erica, but bare with me. I’d like to start by saying thank you to Erica for inviting me to do a guest post on her blog – so thanks!

In keeping with this entertaining blog I’m going to attempt to be funny, well at least slightly amusing. My story today focuses on an exciting trip to McDonalds.

Two years ago, whilst accompanying my husband to a sailing regatta (think wife amusing kids all day while husband sails and has fun) I decided to take my then two and three year old boys to McDonalds. I tend to stay away from fast food and rarely have the courage to take the kids out in public, because let’s face it small children are unpredictable and scary.

So, fighting my natural instincts, I pulled into the local McDonalds. My eldest was able to unstrap himself from his harness so I warned him not to open his door. Predictably, yes I know I said they were unpredictable but in some things I am psychic, he opened the door anyway. I was so happy (not) to see he had hit the car next to us, leaving a small dent. As I wrote a note to stick on the other car, I growled low in my throat. We hadn’t even gone in and already my day was plummeting towards crapsville (a place I visit all too often).

After placing the note under their windscreen wiper I managed to maneuver the kids into McDonalds without further incident. I actually ordered food and made it to the table unscathed, until…

Mr 3yo (henceforth referred to as Kid 1) wanted to drink his orange juice and walk at the same time. I said ‘No’, he ignored me. Predictably, the cup slid out of his hands and landed on the floor. It’s amazing how liquid seems to expand when it makes contact with the floor, turning a cup’s worth into a bucket load. The explosion threw juice within a five metre radius. Any parent reading this will know how it feels to be stared at by a room full of strangers like you are dog poo that just squished onto their shoe.

“Don’t move!” Was my instruction to Kids 1 and 2 before I went to get a staff member to clean it up. Kid 1, practicing to be a man no doubt and employing ‘male selective deafness’ gets off his chair and walks into the danger zone. Making sure he made the most of the spillage, he slipped and fell. Kid 1 starts crying at this point because hey, enough people weren’t already looking at me with that you-are-the-worst-parent-ever-to-come-into-McDonalds look, and that’s pretty degrading when you consider some of the people you’ve seen at McDonalds. I had officially reached a new subfloor level in my life.

I was fighting back the screams, and the tears, by this stage. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse (and I have a warning for those of you contemplating parenthood, it can always get worse) I smelt a familiar smell. I looked over at kid 2.

I warily, and wearily, approached my nappy-wearing progeny to discover that not only had he pooed his nappy, but it had leaked out the legs and onto his clothes. At this stage I wondered if anyone would notice if I just slipped outside, leaving them there, and never came back. Choking back vomit because I am not immune to the smell of my own child’s poo, I dragged them both into the toilets.

After cleaning them up as best I could we hurried out of there, never to return. I am glad I don’t live there and no one would have recognised me. I have a new appreciation for tortured parents who brave public places with their little people. When my husband finished sailing and asked me how my day went, I laughed, handed him the kids, and walked away.

Thank you for visiting tonight, Dionne. Your post brought back so many memories of taking the kids to McDonalds.

Dionne has a new book out, Shadows of the Realm (The Circle of Talia) and I’d love for you to go check it out! It has a dragon on the cover, and you can never go wrong with a dragon on the cover!

Speaking of battling dragons…I have PMS again. And what’s up with that anyway? Does it really have to come once a month? Really? Yeah, I need wine and chocolate, and not necessarily in that order.

Until the next time…I’ll be digging through boxes for chocolate.

 

 

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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welcome to the chicken show

Well, it happened. I woke up with a miserable wine headache and decided I don’t love wine after all. It was bound to happen. Love like that is fleeting.

I was desperate to sleep in, especially with the lovely dreams I was having…lovely wine induced dreams, I have no doubt…but the husband was insistent. We had things to do today.

Such is the life of a farm family…welcome to the chicken show.

Here’s our oldest Henrietta (also known by their “chicken names” as Black Australorps.) She’s between five and six months old and should be laying eggs any day now. I ask her daily to hand over her eggs, but so far she just laughs at me in that chicken cackle she has. Oh, I’ll get her eggs…you just wait and see! Speaking of wait and see…you can just make out the green and purple irridescent colors in her black feathers.

 

As you can see, the baby chicks are getting bigger by the minute. We put them outside right next to the Henriettas to let them all get acquainted.

The little rooster thinks he’s the big man on campus, despite his size, and I have a feeling the Henriettas will teach him a thing or too before he’s full grown.

Have I mentioned yet how much fun I’m having keeping up after a bunch of birds? Who knew when my own baby birds left the nest several months ago that I would replace them (as if I ever could) with a bunch of REAL birds? They’re certainly a daily distraction, if nothing else. And one day soon, I’ll have fresh eggs. Do you hear me chickens? Get with the laying already!

So…remember how my husband dragged me out of bed at the crack of dawn this morning? Well, maybe it was the crack of ten, but it was way before I was ready, that’s all I can say. I cleaned the bathrooms, the living room, the kitchen (including washing every dish in the house…by hand!) and I even did a few loads of laundry in that scary basement.

But now, it’s time for bed…I need another night to sleep off this wine headache. And I think my dog agrees, and he didn’t even have any wine.

Until the next time…I’ll be dreaming of a live in housekeeper!

why I love wine

I love wine because it make me feel like a grown up.

A grown up who giggles like a four year old watching puppies play on the floor.

I love wine because it makes me brave.

So brave I contemplate running into the cold rain on my front lawn…in my underwear.

I love wine because of it’s anti-aging properties.

It’s proof positive that sometimes getting older really does mean getting better.

I love wine because you pour it into pretty glasses.

Pretty glasses just like the forty-two pretty glasses I just unpacked in my kitchen.

I love wine because it’s an all weather beverage.

Unlike lemonade or hot chocolate, wine is cold going in, but warm going down.

I like wine because wine doesn’t care if I’ve shaved my legs. 

Or brushed my teeth, or washed my hair, or sat around in sweat pants all day.

I love wine because it speaks French.

And it makes me speak French when I say Cabernet…or Chardonnay.

I love wine because it’s best friends with cheese.

And who doesn’t love cheese?

I love wine because it’s healthy for my heart.

After only two glasses I start to feel all romantic.

And I love wine because I drank some…

But I suspect I won’t love it in the morning.

Until the next time…I’ll be nursing a wine hangover.

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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damn bugs

A word to the wise…never leave the windows open after dark. Not when you live in on a farm. Especially a farm in the mountains. I learned this the hard way.

I can go up against an army of flies all day long, but bring in a few rust-colored wood roaches and I find myself standing on the coffee table, shrieking like a little girl, urging my husband to commit mass murder of the insect variety.

I still haven’t recovered.

I’ll probably have nightmares…visions of Will Smith battling the intergallactic cockroach in Men in Black. I think I might have to sleep with the lights on. I’m considering freeing my chickens to roam the house in search of bugs. But that might just cross some sort of line.

Remember how excited I was to be moving into the historic farmhouse? How thrilled I was to explore the history…to recapture the former grandeur? Yeah, not so thrilled anymore. I had no idea the recapturing I would be doing would involve bug nets. Can we get those flies back instead? Maybe the frogs? If I remember correctly, frogs eat bugs…that might not be such an awful plague, right?

I’m coating my skin in Off! That should do the trick. Yep, I’ll be sleeping alone tonight for sure. Hey, not to worry…I’m getting used to it.

Until the next time…I’ll be calling in an exterminator.

Copyright © 2000-2025, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
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