the yankee in the southern kitchen

The other day I was told I should be blogging recipes. You know, the delicious dishes created using our very own farm grown products? And after I stopped laughing (because we all know I'm not your typical farm wife, hanging around the kitchen with my quilted apron, whipping up home cooking each night. My favorite thing to make for dinner is reservations. But truth be told, I do actually know how to cook, and I can be coerced into doing it now and then. And when I do cook? It's amazing. I don't do anything halfway. Even when I trip over my shoelaces, it's a major production, so it should be no surprise that when I cook, I make a show out of it. Why, just a few weeks ago I made the most amazing strawberry, blackberry, blueberry shortcake for the 4th of July. My version of my grandmother's biscuit recipe is legendary (and no, it doesn't come from a box.)

And I'm not the only one cooking around here either. My husband, formerly known as the IDP, currently known as the High-tech redneck, is somewhat of a gourmet cook. Though his legendary biscuits were used as weapons by our kids on more than one occasion. He wants me to make it clear he has fine tuned his technique since then, but just between us, it's because he's finally following my recipe. To be fair, the man has his own arsenal of delicious dishes and secret recipes tucked away. If we're lucky, I just might talk him into sharing a few of them.  

But first, I'll be sharing my summertime berry shortcake recipe. I'm thinking, in the old time tradition of Sunday dinners, that would make a perfect day for sharing. So check back Sunday mornings for the first of many Leaning Duck Farm recipes.

Until then, I'm going to watch the hubby spark up the grill to make a few steaks (with locally harvested beef and his very own secret recipe rub.) You'll have to come back another time for that one.

For the first weekly recipe, go visit my new page, Now We're Cooking. 

Until the next time...I'll be writing one heck of a pig story to share with you! 

who put the B in BLT?

How many times have you eaten a ham sandwich, or bacon and eggs, and thought about where your food came from? And I don't mean your refrigerator, your freezer, or the nearest fast food restaurant.

I'll admit, before I moved to the farm, I rarely did. I ran through the drive-thru at McDonald's and ordered my food without a care in the world (other than making sure they didn't put pickles on my burger.) But after raising five piglets up to market size, I see things from a totally different perspective.

Actually, it was when our chickens laid their first egg. That egg represented food raised right on my farm. It was the best egg I'd ever tasted. And anyone who's ever eaten truly farm fresh eggs will likely agree with me. And I'm not talking about those grocery store packaged eggs claiming to be cage free or free range. Don't believe the hype. Those chickens aren't really free.

Free range chickens

Our chickens roam free.  Just ask my neighbors. My hens are frequently found standing on their front porch, knocking on the door, looking for bread handouts, like the little beggars they are.  Other than stale bread from next door, they eat grass, and bugs, and whatever else chickens eat in the wild. We give them a little grain to supplement (and to ensure they keep coming home) but they mostly forage for their food. 

It's the same with the pigs. They forage in the field, living the good life. Oh, we give them food too--they've practically eaten everything there was in the pasture--but it's always healthy food. No candy for our pigs. I'm not sharing my chocolate with anyone.   

See pig run

Unlike factory farms where the animals are kept confined on concrete, our animals have free rein within the confines of the fence. And they've all been known to roam outside the lines.   Basically, they're treated like family...sort of.  I mean, I'm not in the practice of eating my family. And I'll admit, when we cooked up our first rooster, Clooney, I felt like I was on that TV show, Fear Factor. It was like I was eating a friend, or something. But by the time we had Napoleon for dinner, I was over it. He was the best pork roast I'd ever eaten.

So, I'm sure you're wondering what I'd say to the question, "How can you eat your pets?" 

My answer is simple. I would never eat my pets. My dog is like my child, for crying out loud. In fact, my kids would probably say I like the dog better. It's not true. Well, mostly not true. Ok, it might be a little true. But that's only because the dog is home and the kids have their own lives. And the dog never talks back. Or asks for money.  Or steals my last root beer.

As for the pigs? They drew first blood when they tried to eat me. After that, all bets were off.

Until the next time...I'll be fattening up the last two pigs. 

bittersweet bacon

Back in December when it was suggested we add a few piglets to the farm, I remember thinking, "Oh, piggies! How cute." And boy were they cute. Five little bundles of pink. Each of them just a tad bigger than a bag of potatoes, but much more wiggly. I had no idea how much trouble those adorable little buggers would be.  

And yet, all these months later, suddenly the destruction of each house built for them (the house of straw, the house of sticks, the proverbial house of bricks) the divots left in the yard--both here and at the neighbor's house--during their frequent escapes, and the fear coursing through my body each time I had to step inside their pen to feed them, all seem like mere bumps in the road. I've enjoyed their odd brand of company, their sweet faces--even as they were smeared with mud and muck--and even their horrible smells...ok, so maybe not the smells.  But I'll surely miss them once they're all, well and truly, gone.

Yesterday, the IDP and I went to pick up the pigs we'd dropped off on Monday. On this trip, they rode, not in the back of a trailer, but wrapped in small packages and tucked into boxes. There were no more of the barking sounds I had no idea pigs made. No more bumping me with their flat noses. No more trying to eat me. No, this time, they were on their way to being someone else's dinner, and as much as I told myself I wouldn't be sad, I was. No matter how hard I tried to dislike them, in the end, they were pretty sweet piggies (Hey, I'm being sincere here, not referring to their delicious taste.)

But sadness aside, this was our first major sale on the Leaning Duck Farm. Though we ended up breaking even when you factor in the initial cost of purchasing the pigs, add in the food costs, and the actual processing costs at the end. But despite the "break even" cash outcome, we'll still end up with a year's worth of food in the freezer out of the deal, and a valuable lesson learned. We'll definitely do things differently next time.

Still, we ended up with very happy customers. People who have already told us they can't wait for the next thing we have to sell...turkeys for Thanksgiving...farm fresh eggs on a weekly basis...goat's milk in the future. And more pigs. So as crazy as life was with pigs around, I guess we're going to do it all again.  

But not yet. I think I need to rest for just a little while. Being a farmer is serious business. 

Until the next time...I'll be working on my next book. 

leaning duck farm

I don't think I've ever mentioned the name of our farm.  The name Leaning Duck Farm may sound a little odd, but it has a deeper meaning that may not be immediately obvious. You see, when the husb...I mean, IDP, and I got married, we blended two existing families. So my kids, with the last name Lucke, and his kids, with the last name Dean, came up with a new name for our family. We were thereafter known as the Lean Ducks. We even (jokingly) called our house, Lean Duck Manor. We always dreamed of owning a farm one day, and carrying the name with us, so when IDP and I dragged ourselves to the mountains over a year ago, we knew what we would name our farm.

Of course, as it happens in marriage, the two primary forces often disagree. In this case, I wanted to stick with the traditions of Lean Duck Farm, and the IDP wanted to change it up a little so it made more sense. And everyone knows a leaning duck is better than a skinny one...? (This is where I scrunch up my face in confusion.) I still don't get it, but the farm is now officially Leaning Duck Farm. And our mascot is...a chicken.  

Resident chicken mascot

That's right, we have forty-four birds (thirty-one chickens and thirteen turkeys) but not a single duck.

Don't say it, I know what you're thinking. How can you have a farm named after a duck if you don't have any ducks? Well, we had ducks. The evil garden gnome (also known as the fox) ate them. I keep telling IDP we need more ducks, but so far, we just keep adding to the other feathered varieties around here.  But mark my words, we will have ducks again. And soon.

But for now, I guess I'd better go feed the chickens before they beat down the kitchen door to steal my loaf of sourdough bread. Those chickens love their bread.

Until the next time...I'll be painting the dining room. 

pigs, pullets and pumpkin seeds

We've just passed the halfway mark in July, which also marks the halfway point for summer, meaning not just July, but all of summer is half gone. But worse than that, I've missed another pumpkin planting deadline.

For the countless year in a row, I've forgotten to plant the pumpkin seeds. Just like the Christmas cards I buy each November--then write out and address but never mail--I've stocked up on pumpkin seeds, yet again, that will never find their way into the dirt. Which means I will be buying my pumpkins from the farmers market again, instead of watching my very own seeds grow into mighty pumpkins before my eyes.  

I have just one thing to say about that...crap.  

I've lost track of how many years I've wanted to plant my own pumpkins. Ever since the year a rotting jack-o-lantern ended up in the compost heap and we discovered an entire pumpkin patch growing in the back yard. Totally in the wrong season, I might add.

I was sure I would have a proper pumpkin patch once we moved to the farm. I had my rows of seeds lined up on the counter, just waiting for someone to dig me a hole. Oh, I know what you're thinking, "go dig your own hole," right? But it doesn't take a genius to realize I'm not cut out for digging holes or preparing planting beds. I'm more of a  director . I'm the one who says, "no, a little more to the left, honey. That's it! Now back to the right...just a little more." Then I drop the seeds in the hole and push the dirt back over them. I'm really good at pouring stuff on the ground. Just ask the chickens. I'm their favorite feeder. Even the little pullets (young hens for you non-farm people out there) follow me around outside. They know I'm good at dumping the grain on the ground, but when it comes to serious farm stuff, it's time to call for the hus...I mean, the IDP.

Of course, even the virile IDP needs help from time to time. Just this weekend, I assisted in building the TCU (transport containment unit) to take the first two pigs to the giant freezer in the sky. I did an excellent job holding the wood panels while he screwed them together then secured them to the flatbed trailer. I even made design suggestions. Just between us, I had way better ideas, but you know men, you have to make them think it was their idea...shhhh.  

But when it comes to planting, I'm going to defer totally to him. That way, when it all goes to shit, it wasn't my idea. Speaking of shit...I may just dump the damn seeds in the pig pen. There's plenty of fertilizer in there. In fact, I'll bet pumpkins would grow like weeds in there. And the worst thing that could happen is nothing happens. Who knows, I might even end up with super-pumpkins. I could win a ribbon at the fair or something.

Or I could be stuck with the stinkiest pumpkins in Georgia. But at least I'd have pumpkins! 

Until the next time...I'll be lining up my seeds for planting day.

runaway joe strikes again

I met some of my neighbors this evening while I was combing the area, just after dark, on a  quest to find my vanishing Dogdini, Joey. As I cruised down the narrow country roads, I spotted a group of men standing outside chatting, so I stopped to show them Joey's picture and asked them to keep an eye out for my errant dog. Then with no hopes of finding him before bed, I headed home.

 "I didn't do anything...it was the cat!"

It wasn't fifteen minutes later when a giant truck pulled into my driveway with Joey riding in the front seat. It was deja vu all over again. It's been a while since I've had to organize search parties to find Joey, but I certainly haven't forgotten the process.

I once got a phone call from a neighbor telling me there was something that looked suspiciously like a reindeer running around on my roof. 

“A reindeer?”  I asked.

"A reindeer."

Well, minus the antlers. Apparently there was a random refugee from Christmas town running from the front of the house to the rear and then back again.  On the roof. Presumably looking for the chimney.  I didn’t pay much attention to the call (I figured Mrs. Jones had been dipping into the spiced rum a little early) until about an hour later when I noticed that my dog was missing. 

It suddenly dawned on me that in the dusky light of evening, my little pitbull mix could pass for one of Santa’s reindeer missing its horns.  So I ran outside like a flash, and looked up at the roofline of my house.  There, like Dasher without his sleigh was my little Joey, scampering around with a stick in his mouth—undoubtedly something he pulled out of one of the gutters. 

I shouted for him to "SIT!" and hauled ass up the stairs to my daughter's room where I discovered an open window (minus the screen) where Joey had obviously gone out.  I leaned out of the window and called until he came trotting to the window and climbed in, tail wagging a mile a minute. 

Joey has always had a knack for disappearing.  There was one night in particular when one of the girls heard him crying, but couldn’t find him.  She looked in the closets to see if he’d been locked in.  She looked outside her bedroom door to see if he was waiting to be let in.  She looked in her sister’s room, to see if he was trying to get out.  But he was nowhere to be found, so she went back to bed.  After a few more minutes she heard him cry again, and thought the sound was coming from her bathroom, so she opened the door, but he wasn’t in the bathroom. 

He was outside the bathroom window.  On the second story roof yet again.  Somehow he was trapped on the roof.  How long he was out there is anybody’s guess. 

So that brings us to tonight. Runaway Joe is sleeping soundly in the living room, exhausted after his latest, unsanctioned, adventure. I seriously need to get JoJack on that dog.

Until the next time...I'll be sleeping soundly now that he's found. 

jimmy crack corn and I don't care

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times. I'm a writer...not a farmer. And yet, no matter how many times I've stated (rationally, without tears or temper tantrums) that I would not be taking over "farmer" duties, I still find myself out there dealing with every pigtastrophe that comes along. So why am I surprised that on the eve of piggy's last supper I find myself aiding and abetting the resident farmer (also known as IDP around here)  as he reinforces the transport vehicle for the trip to the giant freezer in the sky? Who knows.

I suppose I did sign up for this when I agreed to live on a working farm, didn't I? So I guess that's why I found myself at the grocery store at ten o'clock tonight, buying magic feed corn (more specifically, animal feed corn that seems to work like magic when trying to capture escaping pigs.) I wasn't happy about it, but I kept a smile frozen on my lips the whole time I searched the store for said feed corn.

Though, I'm fairly certain anyone in my immediate vicinity scattered, spreading like the red sea before Moses, as I wandered though the aisles, singing quietly to myself.

"Gimme crack corn, or I'll hit you with my cart...gimme crack corn or I'll hit you with my cart..."

There were a few other verses, but I won't go there.  Not now that I've finally calmed down. Especially since we did manage to catch one of the pigs and got it safely loaded it into the trailer. Oh, and IDP finally got bit by one of the pigs--hard enough to leave a mark--so after all these months of complaining about the evil pigs, I feel vindicated.

We still need to capture one more in the morning so we can take two in this load. This is my least favorite part about living on a farm. It's right up there with having to bury a baby chick that died of natural causes in the night. But that's the cycle of life I guess. And I can at least sleep easy knowing the animals raised on my farm are given the best possible lives while they're here. I mean, how many chickens do you know that got to watch the Dancing with the Stars finale from the front porch? Not many, I'd guess.

Until the next time...I'll be chasing pigs one last time (hopefully!) 

a tribute in pigtures

Well, the time has come. After seven months of adventures with our little piggies, their time with us has come to an end. First thing Monday morning, the trailer will be hitched up and the piggies will take their final bow. I'll admit, I'm a little sad to say goodbye, but at least I know they had a good life while they were here.

I really have no words to say today, so I decided to say it all in pictures.  Enjoy!

The Leaning Duck Farm homestead

Five little piggies cried wee wee wee, all the way home. 

Getting used to their new home

Tasty treats! 

Smile pretty for the camera! 

Piggies are getting bigger every day

Give us a big kiss

This little piggy goes to market

And to think, it all started with a few chickens

Well, I hope you enjoyed this week's photo blog. I know I enjoyed playing with the effects on my camera to take the pictures.  

Until the next time...I'll be saying goodbye to my piggies. 

to blog is human

Confession time.

Sometimes I share too much. I know. My elusive husband is forever telling me I have a terminal case of TMI syndrome. It's true. The world probably knows my scheduled PMS episodes better than I do. And my desire to share with the entire world is what prompted my husband to forbid me to share any information about him, thereby sparking my new relationship with the imaginary dead president, or IDP for short.

But deep down, I don't care. I like blogging. I like sharing. I like connecting with people on a deeper level and letting my hair (and my inhibitions) down. Well, in a strictly platonic way, of course. But this is who I am.

Blog girl.

Yes, blog girl can handle just about any situation thrown at her with grace and diplomacy.  I may be destined to trip over chainsaws, loose rocks, and air on a daily basis. And ok, I might be forbidden to play with fire or boil eggs without adult supervision, but I'm more than capable of dodging real life situations to make up way more exciting pretend ones instead. Whether it's marauding pigs, the plagues of Egypt, or evil garden gnomes, you're likely to find me right in the thick of it...possibly face down after tripping over my own shoelaces. But I'm out there. Sharing with the world. Holding nothing back!

Except the stuff I'm not allowed to talk about. But you didn't want to know about that stuff anyway.

Until the next time...I'll be waiting for my next adventure! 

the adventures of blog girl

Ok, confession time.

And no, I haven’t been drinking, just thinking. But let’s face it, that might be just as dangerous as the alcohol. Because even when I’m not playing Drunky Brewster, I laugh at myself. 

And I’m not just talking about when I fall down. But I laugh then, too.  No, I’m talking about laughing at my own jokes.  Or laughing at my own reflection in the mirror when I have tissues stuffed up my nose to keep it from running. I know we aren’t supposed to admit such crimes against humanity, but I do it.  And damn it, I’ll do it again. 

How could I possibly deny the humor in botched bikini waxes, flooding the stove, or getting locked out of the house in my underwear?

I skim through my old blogs sometimes and just laugh until I cry.  I pretend it wasn’t me struggling with a pair of homicidal pantyhose, or attempting to do contortionist type moves on a fireman’s pole (wait…back up…not a “fireman’s” pole…I’m referring to a pole like the one firemen slide down.  Oh, you know what I mean.) 

I just run through blogs and laugh.  At me.

When I’m not laughing, I’m writing things that will make me laugh.  And if it makes me laugh, I can only hope it will make you laugh too.  I have the best job ever…even if I don’t make a million dollars to do it. I am a full time writer/blogger/danger magnet who laughs at herself all day long. 

In some alternate reality, you would likely find me locked in a padded cell where I would be pumped full of happy juice while being spoon-fed by men in white coats.  All to keep me safe from the inevitable self-inflicted bikini wax.  

But bumps, bruises and wax burns aside, I’m perfectly content to live where I am, juggling chickens, pigs, a giant slobbery dog, an imaginary dead president playing the part of my husband, housework, writing, and life in general, all while somehow managing to stay upright...well mostly.

Even when I accidentally drink one too many wine coolers on a Tuesday night.

Until the next time…I’ll be saving the world, one giggle at a time.

have you seen this kitty?

A good friend once told me that if I was ever going to find a boyfriend I should never talk about my pets. Ever.

“Guys don’t want to hear about your pets,” she said. “In fact, NO one really wants to hear about your pets. It’s boring,” she concluded.

Though, I disagreed. Strongly. My pets were pretty damn funny. They had unique personalities and fascinating adventures all their own. Surely someone would be interested in hearing about my furry little friends. Maybe not boys…but surely the other girls...right?

Fast forward a few decades, several boyfriends, and two husbands later, and this same friend now has a “dogbook” on Facebook and we spend most of our conversations chatting about our pets.

So, of course, I was right all along. And even if it took me more than half my life to prove it, I’m more than willing to gloat. Not much has changed in the decades since middle school and high school, other than fashion and my bra size. (And thank God on both accounts.) I still talk about my pets fairly frequently. In fact, now people beg me to share my animal adventures "down on the farm.”

This is why it saddens me greatly to tell you we’re missing one ninja kitty. Henry Chow, ninja kitty, to be specific. The crazy, quirky, owl escaping, Himalayan rescue cat, with a distinctive accent and matching personality.

We acquired Henry several years ago, when the kids’ begging caught me at a weak moment and I ended up carting home this strange beast. A cat, even the vet once called, “the most unusual feline,” she’d ever run across. It took him forever to fit in with the family, but once he did, he became a permanent fixture. He even formed a special bond with our resident ghost. But after picking up and moving with us—several times—the bad ass kitty that was taken (more than once) by owls, only to be brought back, went out on a grand adventure more than a week ago and never came back.

Poor, sweet, crazy Henry Chow, you’ll be missed…but most definitely, never forgotten.

Until the next time...we'll be mourning our missing cat. 

poison ivy is no joke (giggle)

Why is it the moment someone says, "This is no laughing matter!" I can't I stop laughing?  Ok, that makes me sound mean, and I'm not mean. Really, I'm not. I'm just finding this situation amusing for some unfathomable reason.

You see, someone in my house has poison ivy (thank GOD it's not me) and he has it so bad I may have tossed around the word leper... a lot (No offense to anyone who actually has leprosy--and for the record, he doesn't.) Sadly, my wicked streak of humor has not endeared me to him...at all, but it's all in good fun, right?

Well, maybe not fun for him. As it turns out, poison ivy is quite pervasive, and extremely uncomfortable. And the best remedies aren't exactly pleasant either. We've managed to slather my unhappy hub...er...IDP, in the thick smelly paste of an old fashioned sulfur-based farm remedy. It's on his arms...and his legs...between his fingers...and even on his face. And it stinks. And sorta burns. But it's supposed to cure the rash. And I'm sure it will...eventually. For now, he's wrapped up in paper towels, held together with bandage tape, making him look a little like a decaying mummy on loan from a museum in Egypt or something. But, I'm not laughing at him. Really, I'm not... not to his face anyway.

So, I'll bet you're wondering how he got this all over himself. Well, in his quest to clear the pasture over his vacation (yes, this has happened on while on vacation. How cliche, right?) he used a chainsaw to cut down small trees and vines, and as it turns out, this can actually send the plant juices into the air. Basically, my poor imaginary dead president created a sticky bomb out of the poison ivy vine.

I can only hope I really am as immune as I've been spouting, and not just incredibly lucky. But since my luck is not that good (I did trip over that very same chainsaw in the kitchen the day he used it in the field, slicing up my toes in the process) I have to believe it's my amazing immunities. Otherwise I'd have poison ivy all over my feet right now. And I don't. Thank goodness!

In closing, poison ivy may not be a joke...but it is really funny to make fun of. Until I end up with it. Then, I'll be singing a completely different tune. Something in D-minor, I suspect. 

Until the next time...I'll be applying the calamine lotion preemptively.  

a visit to the cabin goddess

Just over a month ago, I paid a visit to the Cabin Goddess blog for her 4th Wall Friday feature. She challenged me to put myself into the action within the pages of my book, To Katie With Love, and even include characters from Suddenly Sorceress (not yet released.) It's an interesting concept, one I would have never thought of on my own, and I was thrilled to participate. As a matter of fact, I think it turned out pretty damn good. What do you think?  Click the link below to visit the original post.

Margaritas and Senoritas and Karaoke at Don Juan's 

I'd love to know what you think of that post, and if you'd like to see me do the same thing for Suddenly Sorceress when it comes out next year, so leave a comment below! 

Until the next time...I'll be enjoying the rest of my holiday weekend! 

top ten avoidable disasters

In honor of the 4th of July, I've decided to write a post about avoidable disasters. Let's face it, we all know a story about someone who blew off a finger while setting off fireworks. Or set their hair on fire playing with sparklers. Or ate so many hot dogs they ended up in the emergency room having their stomach pumped. (Ok, so I might have made that last one up...but it sounds plausible, right?)

So, to make a fine point on this, I'm digging into my own history of avoidable disasters. Starting with number...

10. Try not to flood the stove. This one is totally avoidable for anyone who doesn't have a pot filler over the stove. I don't have one here at the farm, and no matter how many times I've begged for one, I've been reminded of the ONE time I left the water running. 

9. Steer clear of pole dancing aerobics classes. This sounds really easy, but when you have adventurous friends, it's amazingly hard to avoid. However, those of us with OCD should take note...people sweat and they put their crotches on that pole. I think that's all I need to say. 

8. Never feed pigs without adult supervision. I mean, sure, I'm an adult, but let's get serious...it's dangerous for clumsy people to hang out with pigs. They will totally eat you if given the opportunity. And falling down is the perfect opportunity.

7. Do NOT lock yourself out of the house in your underwear. I shouldn't have to give more explanation on this one, but trust me when I say, it's a bad idea. 

6. Be sure to open the fireplace flue before starting fire. Yes, I should have known this. And yes, I did it more than once. Why do you think I was forbidden by my husband to play with fire after that? 

5. Eggs can NOT be cooked in the microwave. Not even if you put them in a bowl of water to boil. They WILL blow the door of the microwave, and you'll NEVER get the little bits of egg from the air vents.

4. And speaking of boiling stuff...never leave the kitchen with a pan on the stove. Those same eggs will explode like 4th of July rockets if you let the water boil out. This is something I know just a little bit about. 

3. Keep your curling iron locked up when not in use. If it falls off the counter, it just MAY  end up toggling the on button, and you MIGHT just step on it in bare feet. This COULD cause second degree burns on the soft fleshy underside of your toes. If this DOES happen, toilet paper and tape can be used to cover the wounds, but it's gonna hurt. For a LONG time.

2. Never ever, under any circumstances, attempt your own bikini wax with a kit bought from the grocery store. This will result in disaster. Every. Single. Time.

And... 

1. Always watch for random chainsaws while walking barefoot in the kitchen. Tripping on a chainsaw (even if it's not running) will cause ugly, jagged cuts and abrasions on, and between, your toes. It hurts. And you're likely to get yelled at for being too clumsy to see a chainsaw on the floor. This will result in hurt feelings and possible intermittent moments of rage, especially if you have PMS. I recommend avoiding this situation altogether. 

And please...be safe on the 4th of July. Don't blow your fingers or toes off...and never put a lit bottle rocket between your legs while you take a sip of your beer. This has, thankfully, never happened to me, but since I live in the North Georgia Mountains, I've heard stories, and figured it might be a good idea to pass on this warning too. Happy Independence Day!

Until the next time...I'll be bandaging my poor toes yet again! 

just call me drunky brewster

It's been a month since I've been to karaoke. I know, because everyone told me so. A month since the last time I hung out with friends and sang. A month since I'd partaken in alcoholic beverages. And truthfully, I don't drink...much. I'm a lightweight. One drink and I'm good for the night. Two and I'm a giggling idiot. But tonight? Yeah, tonight I had three. And after three I start confessing stuff no one should ever have to hear.

Like, how my jeans were strangling me, and I wanted to take them off, but it was laundry day, so I was wearing my ugly underwear (thankfully, I've never been drunk enough to actually flash them.) And how the words underwear and vagina are almost always funny when used in any context. If their raucous laughter was any indication, the people at my table agreed. But seriously, some words just make you giggle, right? Oh, and for the record, I'm never wearing skinny jeans again. They're like a second skin, and believe me when I say, one is plenty.

But a fun time was had by all, and I was apparently the nightly entertainment. Everyone was watching to see the signs. "Will she trip and fall?" Umm...like the magic 8 ball says, signs point to yes. We are talking about me.  I'm the same girl who would undoubtedly fail a field sobriety test  stone cold sober. So, of course, I'm gonna trip as I walk up on stage. I do that every week. But of course, it's way more fun when I'm channeling Drunky Brewster...giggling my way to the microphone. 

At least I know my limits. I didn't drive home, and I didn't send any emails. Drunk emailing is the absolute worst. We won't mention the Facebook posts or tweets I sent though...ok?

And just for the record, I don't condone drinking. Like I said, I'm a lightweight and it takes very little to make me tipsy and goofy. But luckily, I didn't even drink enough to have a hangover. Though, I may never live down my ridiculous confessions. At least I can blame the alcohol.

Until the next time...I'll be deleting my FB posts. 

the dory fisher incident

So, I woke up this morning after only five hours of sleep, by a dog that wouldn't go outside for his daddy. No, Indy waited until Daddy left the house, then he came to wake me up, because I am the very best taker-outer of all. And I'm not complaining about the title--best taker-outer is an honor--but I would have liked a few more hours of sleep.

The problem with no sleep is it leads to a far more serious condition...lazybloggeritis. 

Now, this condition isn't fatal. I will survive. But it does take at least twenty-four hours of rest and possibly a few strawberry daiquiris to cure it. So since I'm under the paper umbrella for the evening, I figured I'd share one of the guest posts I did during my recent blog tour. Some of them were pretty funny, and I just can't share them enough.  

Finding Dory Fisher 

What’s in a name? That which we call a fish would still smell after several days…

Okay, so maybe that’s not exactly what Shakespeare meant, but trust me when I say names are important. I’ve devoted entire posts to this topic, but not exactly in the same context. I’m not talking about naming my firstborn or dealing with a name I was given before my personality was developed enough to fit into it. I’m talking about naming characters in a book.

For example, I have this new book… you might have heard of it: To Katie With Love. It’s a romantic chick-lit fraught with mystery and humor, but in the editing process, I was forced to ditch one of my character names...

 For more on the Dory Fisher incident, visit Laurie Here's blog: http://www.lauriehere.com/2013/05/guest-post-and-excerpt-by-erica-lucke.html

Until the next time...I'll be recuperating. 

float like a butterfly, perch like a chicken

Ok, so Ali actually said, "...float like a butterfly and sting like a bee..." but since I'm not writing a post about bees, I figured my edit was appropriate. As usual, I'm writing about chickens. But it's not the typical..."aren't they cute sitting on the sofa watching the vegetarian cooking show?" No, this time I'm tackling something a bit more serious.

Chicken on chicken violence. 

That's right, my sweet little chickens have turned into scrappers. And why is that? Simple. The resident farmer (you know...IDP?) took away the table they were roosting on because he didn't want them sitting in the kitchen window anymore. 

The problem is they didn't get the memo--or maybe they just couldn't read it--but either way, they weren't giving up the primo spot with the kitchen view. Even after one of them gave up and settled on sleeping outside my bathroom window, that still left seven chickens to squeeze on two narrow kitchen window sills, with no table for the overflow.

I stood there, watching chickens pecking chickens, knocking them, one by one, off the window until I couldn't take it anymore. But since I was forbidden to bring back the table, I was forced to improvise.

And this is why I have a row of chickens sleeping on two saw horses outside my kitchen window. And one chicken perched on the front porch bench. And one outside my bathroom window. This doesn't even count the chickens that go the traditional route and perch in the coops, or on the back of the pigs. (Yes, I have a rooster that sleeps on one of the pigs.)

What can I say? What my chickens lack in sense, they make up in creativity! But would you expect any thing less? 

Until the next time...I'll be watching the turkeys perch on the water bottles and the feeders in their baby pen. 

a pro at crastination

This is Harvey doing the dishes

Weekly Guest Spotlight Featuring Harvey Chute, author of the upcoming Stone and Silt.

Thanks to Erica for honoring me with a guest post on her blog today. I'm filling in while Ms. Dean deals with the aftermath of her incinerated laptop - which likely got overheated from writing her little drabble, "Payback" last week.

Today is a perfect day for composing a blog post, as it offers me an excuse to avoid some needed household chores. Like clearing out the lush overhead gardens that are supposed to serve as our rain-gutters.

I live in the Pacific Northwest. Here, we get excited when the forecast calls for light showers with occasional drizzle breaks. The wetness of our lives surrounds us with greenery. That's all well and good when you’re walking in the woods, but distressing to see in our fuzzy moss-covered roof, which makes our home look like a set location for Peter Jackson's Shire.

The last time I cleaned out our gutters - during the Clinton administration, I believe - there were ferns growing up there. In lush soil that was home to healthy earthworms. Yes, I said earthworms! Yuck!

I'm a master at avoiding those unpleasant tasks. Procrastination is much maligned these days, but I take pride in elevating it to an art form.

This started in my college days, when I became a proficient juggler while avoiding my pile of calculus practice sheets. I started with three bean bags, which tended to stay put when they fell to the ground, and by the end of my first term progressed to four tennis balls. Differentiate that, Mr. Leibniz!

Then I learned a series of Beatles riffs on my cheapo guitar while avoiding English Lit reading assignments. I improved my frisbee-throwing skills while dodging chemistry labs. And, while carefully steering clear of my biology textbooks, I made progress in my ability to talk Daffy Duck-style. It's not as easy as it looks, folks.

I graduated from college with a middling GPA and, more importantly, a host of skills that have equipped me well to serve as everybody’s favorite uncle.

I tell you, though, I’m concerned about the next generation. My twin daughters have not acquired this procrastination skill. They should be genetically predisposed to the pursuit of frivolous avoidance activities. Like the ability to spin a quarter with one hand while catching a stack of them from the opposing elbow.

But no, not my girls. They come home from school and dutifully open their backpacks, covering the kitchen counter with their planners and textbooks and lined paper. Heads down. Pens skittering across the pages. They refuse to be diverted, and take pride in the impressive bumps of their writing calluses.

My wife and I worry for our offspring. We wonder where this sense of responsibility came from, and try to impose breaks for them. "Come on, girls, Jeopardy's starting!" But no, the little workers persevere, hunched over their books like two mirror-image Bob Cratchits.

Now school's out, and summer is here. The pace of our lives changes. I’m pleased to report that, on a ferryboat ride this week to the nearby San Juan islands, my girls spent an hour learning the Disappearing Quarter trick.

Perhaps there's hope for them yet.

~ ~ ~

Harvey Chute is the author of Stone and Silt, a historical mystery to be released on August 19th. Harvey blogs at harveychute.blogspot.com Well, when he isn't busy procrastinating, that is. 

Until the next time...I'll be back with our regularly scheduled programming

 

rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated

Yeah, I know...I totally skipped the blog yesterday. It's not like me, and yet, I've been caught doing just that a whole lot lately. It's really not intentional. Ok, so maybe a little intentional. Life gets busy, and stuff happens, and there are coppertones ALL OVER the place. (See Stephen's guest post from yesterday if you don't get the joke.) 

Basically, I'm a serial procrastinator. I told my hus...I mean, the IDP...that if I took a day off from blogging, I'd never get back to the every day habit. And I was right. Not that I'm happy to be right, in this particular case.  But there is some precedence for this. That time he told me to just give my diet a break and allow myself to cheat now and then, well, that blew my diet right out of the water. Why? Because one must learn to listen to their own gut. Or maybe that's just me. I need to listen to my own gut and stop being led astray by imaginary dead presidents with no stake in my dilemmas.

So, here I am, trying to make up for that missed day by writing something epic, and all I end up with is a bitch session about how it's not my fault I procrastinate (and yeah, I know it totally is, but where's the fun in taking all the blame?)

I blame the chicken sitting outside my bathroom window like a...a...peeping Tom. Wait...this is a peeping tom...tom turkey that is. 

Baby Tom, peeping at me.

This is a chicken peeping through the bathroom window.

Peeping Hen.

Until the next time...I'll be posting another guest post...cuz, it's actually time for one. 

we interrupt our regular programming

Tonight, as a special treat, we have author Stephen Kozeniewski guest blogging for me because I was lazy...I mean Indy got bit by a snake and I was taking care of him. And I'm milking that excuse for at least another day. And no, I'm not drunk (though I do occasionally partake, despite what some  might think) but I think Stephen is.

Eh, at least I get the night off, right?

Ladies and gentlemen...I give you, Stephen Kozeniewski...  

Steve and unnamed pussy

Attention followers of Erica Lucke Dean!
 
I now control the vertical.
 
I now control the horizontal.
 
I now control the fluff.
 
Yes.  That’s right.  ALL the fluff in China.
 
Because Indy is sick.  So while Erica is taking care of doggy I am spelling her for a day on her blog.  I know it’s not normally guest post day (Saturdays, 12:00/11:00 central) but, I mean, come on.  Her dog got bit by a Coppertone.
 
What?  Sun tan lotion?  Yes I know.
 
Her dog got bit by an ophidian of some description. 
 
So, for today, one day only, you get a blue light special on me: Snephen Kozanflumflum.  (I forget how it’s spelled.) 
 
First of all, I want to point out that I have repeatedly canvassed Erica to change the name of her blog to Shit Out of Lucke.  (Clever, no?  Not, “Clever: no” but rather the interrogative.  But also the first thing.)  And every time she has responded, “Did you know Cooper was based on Harry Cargill?”
 
Yes.  Yes, we all know that.
 
The topic tonight is booze.  The reason behind said pre-aforementioned topic is that Erica, as you know, does not and should not drink.  However, if Sex and the City has taught me anything (and it hasn’t) it’s that romance people like their booze.  And that Baryshnikov is a terrible, terrible lover.  So two things, really, that it didn’t teach us.
 
My poison of choice is bourbon.  It’s not very ladylike, which is good, because I’m not.  Ladylike.  (Except for pedicures.  Those are awesome.)  And, specificagally, a brand of Old Bourbon called Booze Crow.  I’m drinking it right now, in fact.  You couldn’t tell.  That’s how good I am at wordsmithery.
 
And why not?  But, more importantly, why?  Because I’m an author.  A scrivener, a la Bartleby.  A writesman.  And if there’s one thing that everyone knows that they didn’t learn from Sex and the City, it’s that writesmans needs booze. 
 
And why not?  But more importantly, why?  Take Hemingway.  Please.  [rimshot]  It is a well-known and popular fact that Hemingway drank excessively all his life with no ill effects.  (ed – Hemingway shot himself as a result of morbid alcoholism.)
 
Or, as another example, take Poe.  Please.  [crickets]  Ahem.  [clears throat]  Poe also drank his whole life, and also, with no ill effects.  (ed – Poe also took his own life due to morbid alcoholism.)  Or Bukowski!  (ed – Bukowski…well, he died of leukemia.  But the booze probably didn’t help matters.)
 
But what is it about bourbon, brownest of the brown liquors, and Old Crow, oldest of the brownest of the brown liquors, that causes me to recommend it so highly?  Well, because Old Crow is a classic.  My friends, to a tee, make fun of me for this predilection. 
 
“Old Crow is a bottom shelf,” they say, or they would, if they were still talking to me.
 
“Ahhhh,” I would theoretically reply, “But was it not Dr. James Crow, the eponymous ‘Crow’ of the title, who invented the single batch sour mash process?”
 
To which nodding all around would be my reward.
 
So, I guess what I’m saying is: Kids, don’t drink.  It’s not cool.  Be cool.  Like Erica.  And feel better, Indy.  There, I was nice to a dog.  Proof positive of my humanity in these situations.
 
We now return you to your regularly scheduled flibberjibbetflurmypassthebour

bon…
 
Blog:  http://manuscriptsburn.blogspot.com
 
Twitter:  https://twitter.com/outfortune

Until the next time...I'll be enjoying my much deserved night off.