Epic Snowmobile Trip

 Last Sunday, a warm and blue sky winter day, Mike drug me out of the house and off to experience and epic snowmobile trip.  We arrived in the McCoy Creek parking lot just before noon, a bit concerned to be the only vehicle in the lot.  We drove the snowmachines off the trailer, turned on the SPOT, our avalanche beacons, and away we went.  And went and went!

Turns out, around here, Sundays are good days to go ride.  About a quarter of the way into the trip, we spied 10 or so sleds off trail.  And that was it.  No other snowmobiles to see the rest of the day.  We had the thousands and thousands of acres to ourselves.  

We rode along Palisades Lake to climb up to Black Mountain.  A stop for lunch of warm tomato potato soup spiced with red chili flake packed in the Thermos which kept it steamy hot.  Further on west until we came out to see the flats of Grays Lake.  As we were in Idaho which requires a $45 per sled permit, and being waaaay on the east edge of Idaho, we continued on the trails alone.  As we turned north, I began to notice outbuildings worthy of an overnight stay if we got ourselves in a bind.  At these lonely spots on the landscape, one remembers it is a machine that is transporting you across the white, loney, open, desolate, deserted landscape.  

The image below is what we call a snow donut.  When the sun hits south facing hillsides on these warm afternoons, snow will break and roll down the side of a hill making lovely donut shapes.  This is a very large snow donut.  Worthy of a photograph. 

At the end of the day, Mike and I got a solid 70 plus miles on the sleds and saw a LOT of beautiful, high country.  The machines worked perfectly and combined, only needed 7 gallons of fuel to top them off.  I wish you could have ridden along with us on this epic trip! 

Our neighbor lost her husband while I was off in Tennessee.  We met at the local amazing restaurant called Graze and enjoyed a wonderful meal and very good conversation.  She is anxious to help me with the garden this summer and I would be greatful for the help!  My breakfast - avacado toast.  Eric, the chef, inspires me with his beautiful, creative food.  On this dish are two perfectly poached eggs atop arugula, pickled red onions, thinly slice radishes, a sliced avacado atop a crispy piece of sourdough bread.  Finished with a slash of pickled mustard seeds.  I came home and promptly figured out how to make pickled mustard seeds!  It was divine!  I am hoping we meet there again soon! 

Lately, I have been following Substack describing themselves as "a new economic engine for culture."  I'm not sure I understand any of it, however, I have discovered some great writing.  I even subscribed to The Department of Salad whose author, Emily Nunn will laugh you right into making beautiful, delicious salads and new tasty dressings.  Just the recipe for the perfect vinegarette was worth the $50 fee for a year!  This lovely piece "On Not Loving a Wall" made me think of all these kinds of people I have in my life (and am oh so thankful for - you know who you are!!).  There may be a day when I move this blog to Substack, but for now, I'll just keep paging through the articles, wondering how it all works......Let me know if you are a Substack-er.  We need to talk! 

Ice Fishing Musings

Why would anyone want to leave their warm Saturday morning bed at 4:15am on a dark frigid morning - outside temperature -3F - and go ice fishing? 

The most difficult part is sepearating one's self from the warm bed.  The house was chilly as I pre heated thermoses, made some breakfast burritos, warmed soup to take along, and brewed coffee.  Once awakened, things improved.  

Mike had taken care of the logistics the day prior.  The red dually diesel sat outside the door, plugged in, with snowmobile trailer hitched on and snowmachines loaded.  The pull along sled was loaded with tackle box, fishing poles, and ice auger.  Helmets, coats, insulated bibs, gloves, and other warm wear was laid out and ready.  

The drive to New Fork Lake is about two hours.  We left the house about 5:30am to find black ice and snow packed roads, slowing down the drive and keeping me a bit stressed out the entire way.  At the parking lot, dusk was revealing the outlines of mountain tops behind a fog bank of cyrstalized floating ice crystals.  Hanging like a low cloud, the ice crystals fluttered down to the ground forming a thin layer of sparking diamonds.  The parking lot was 9F by then. 

We were meeting Benni and Don, two seasoned ice fishermen, ahead of us about a half hour.  Their tracks traversed the forest service trail.  At dawn, the light was flat, glasses were fogging up, and the wind blown drifts were hard to see.  Mike led on and we found the lake and our two fisher friends.  

Upon our arrival, augers drilled through the 8 inches of ice, water erupting upon the drills penetration.  A large spoon with holes is employed to remove the ice chunks and one then drops a lure, baited with stinky smelly sucker meat, down the hole to the bottom.  We were fishing about 20 feet down.  Then one jigs and waits.  And waits.  And waits.  Mike waited all day. 

The buzz of a fish hitting bait is an unmistakable feeling.  Sometimes the fish hits again.  Sometimes not.  

The morning stayed cold until, at last, the ice crystal fog blew off to a bluebird sky day, the sun warming our black gear.  The day turned glorious.  Benni caught a nice big fat lake trout (I canned this trout the next day).  Don kept getting hits.  I caught a pretty rainbow trout and turned it back to the black cold water through the hole.  Later, a lake trout would find my lure and be returned to the lake, none the worse for the event.  Mike kept waiting. 

Benni cooked up a hot burger for lunch.  That burger, slapped between a bun with ketchup and mustard was one of the finest lunches ever!  What a treat to be in the middle of nowhere on a cold February afternoon eating a hot burger.  

We rode around the lake, drilling holes here and there.  I learned that riding on slush isn't as frightening as it seems and none of us got stuck in the wet slopping watery snow.  The weight of the prior night's snowfall cracks the ice which causes the flood on top of the iced lake.  

We quit and packed up around 3:30pm and arrived home just at dusk after a long and full day. 

So why go ice fishing? 

To remember that you are still tough enough.  To ride a snowmachine in the early dawn light onto a lake covered in ice and be a bit terrified.  To look down into a black hole drilled in the ice and imagine fish biting your lure.  To feel the hit of a fish on your bait and then to feel the wiggle to get free.  To see the fish come out of the hole and onto the snow.  To release the fish back to her home. To eat the most delicious and memorable lunch.  To hang with friends.  To squint into the brilliant light bouncing off the dazzling snow.  To ride atop a lake covered in ice, cracked with the weight of snow, and flooded with water and not die.  

What happened to January??

The gravel road, Tin Cup Junction Road, runs straight north from directly across our driveway.  The straight road is just short of a mile distance when it abruptly bends to the east and carries on to State Line Road; total length just shy of two miles.  

The road is quiet with nary a vehicle to get in the way of a dog walk.  Rooster and Ruby charge ahead, smelling smells, digging for mice, and depositing smelly piles of dog pooh along the way.  "Good dogs, good dogs - leave your poopers here," I praise them.  It's a country road.  Picking up dog poop is not required out here (thank goodness!  I'd need a shopping bag to contain Rooster's piles). 

We walk to Robinson Lane, just after the bend, which is the one mile mark.  There we turn around to gather in the view now looking south and notice the other smells the south wind carries to our noses.  There are three farms we walk by, one old garage near the road smells of wet wood and musty dark places.  The dogs always chace each other and play hard when we turn around and head back south. 

I walk in my tall leather topped Schnee boots.  The soles are "air bobs" and create punctuated patterns in the snow.  On ice, these boots are a death wish, but with snow, they grab and go.  Every now and then, a patterned piece lifts to the sky.  Hence this picture.  You can see Ruby standing in the distance in a hole, fuzzy, but that is her! 

I just finished a remarkable book.  Not usually drawn to history accounts, I was attracted to the review of this book, the review written by Ryan Holiday, an enthusiastic reader who shares his reviews on the plethora of books he is reading.  Usually on a montly basis.  I strongly recommend adding your email to his email list.  Click on his name above to find him.  

Anyway, his review of "Dead Wake:  The Last Crossing of the Lusitania" by Erik Larson piqued my curiosity.  He finished his review saying, "I won't spoil this book, but I will say the more I read about Woodrow Wilson, the more I hate him."  Now this guy is kind of a Chill Guy so when he said "hate" it got my attention and I figured I better read the book.  

(The link above is for an audible book.  I checked this book out of our local library.)

I did not grow to hate Woodrow, but I did greatly enjoy the book.  Larson builds characters so well.  I felt like I knew them all as they sailed in their ginormous ship.  The same company that built the Lusitania built the Titanic - which incidentally sunk two years prior.  It was not, however, a torpedo that sunk the Titanic.  

There is a problem with books of war, however.  As a child, we were put to bed at news time, 10pm.  Off to our rooms, lights shut off, but ears wide open.  When the news was over, Dad would watch the black and white war movies and the sounds of whistling bombs dropping from noisy fighter planes carried into my restless brain as I listened to the roar of planes, the explosions of bombs, the sounds of war.  Dreams of war have plagued my sleeping hours all of my life.  Rarely do I recall those dreams, but this book stirred those memories. 

As I paged through this accounting of the Lusitania, one night I awoke at 2am from a dream of being wrapped in a blanket hiding under something so the overhead planes searching for me would not find me.  War, talks of war, and more war.   Five stars for this book, a very good read. 

His wife weighs in on his January 21 missive with some of her favorite reads for 2023.  Once again, my curiosity is interested in the title "Raw Dog: The Naked Truth About Hot Dogs," by Jamie Loftus.  This link too is for an audible book but I got our library to borrow it from another county in Wyoming (which costs $2) and picked it up last night after exhaling a big breath when I closed the book on the Lusitania.  

Okay, there is a dramatic difference in writing between these two books!  Loftus writes like she has taken some of the meth from the Haunted Meth House herself!  She is ragged and all over the place!  I like her.  The font is smaller (Mike says there is larger font in history books because old people read history books - baaaaah!), her writing is manic and impatient.  I am certain I will never eat a hot dog again (well, maybe I need to try a Costco hotdog....) and I haven't even gotten to the slaughterhouse chapter yet.  This one is going to be amusing and entertaining.  My dream cycle is certain to shift....!!

And here, a picture of my very good friend, Rooster, after our afternoon walk as he prepares for a nap. Sleepy eyes! He is such a joy!! 

Latest Obsession

The fastest growing sport in the country, Pickleball has become my latest obsession.  Having played hours of racetball with Diana Carlson back at the Ottawa YMCA, the translation into pickleball wasn't too tough.  I started the second week in November and recently kept up with the Big Dogs on the court!  It's addictive, it's fun, it's social, and it's a good workout.  The only downside is that I really do not have time and certainly will not have time come summer. 

Of course, I realize it is only I who make these decisions on how I spend my day.  Now over a year into retirement, it has occured to my daft mind that I am now living the BEST DAYS OF MY LIFE!  My audiance of bread lovers would be crushed if I put aside bread making to play pickleball.  I love my garden and greenhouse and must plant in the dirt.  There isn't much I really want to give up!  Living the full life and loving it! 

Our trip to New Orleans started off with an ominious beginning at 3am the morning we crawled out of bed to get up to Jackson for our 7am flight.  As I turned off my clock alarm, there it was, a message saying, "your flight has been cancelled."  After some phone calls, we were rebooked and arrived at the New Orleans Marriot - right in the heart of the city - at 1am.  I was able to deliver my two presentations the next day to nice crowds of interested people.  

My favorite part of the trip was happening upon this marching band practising in a parking lot down by the river.  Watch the video and turn up the sound!  They were awesome!! 

We had a great visit with nephew Taylor, his lovely wife MC, and their cute creation, Buck!  A delicious jumbalia and guacamoli I shall try to recreate, we were so happy we could hang! 

Walking around this historic town was very nice, given good weather and a New Orleans kind of ambiance.  It was nice to be so close to so many historic places. 

This last picture is from a cafe stop for beignets; those powder sugar coated fried puffs of deliciousness!  

Of course, winter decided to arrive when we left.  Thanks to our awesome care-taker Sammi, all was in order and good shape upon our return!  

It's been warm here and the snow is sloppy and settling.  I checked bees yesterday and both hives by the house are alive and buzzing.  The horses chomp on hay, bored and well-fed.  

Mike is taking the dogs for a walk - I've got a pickleball game to play!!  

Letter to the Editor

Seven or eight years ago, as Chief Willy was signaling that his days as chief were numbered, I decided I wanted to be the next Chief of Jackson Hole Fire/EMS.  If there was a town in Wyoming that could embrace a woman fire chief, it would be Jackson Hole.  

To prepare, I started an intense reading effort on every leadership book I could find.  My days as a battalion chief and fire marshal were long days and by the time I rolled into my Hoback home there was never time for reading so I got a subscription to Audible books, a "free" credit every month.  I would play my books driving back and forth to inspections, north to Moran when I was their battalion chief (BC) liaison, then west when I transistioned to the Station 2 and Station 6 BC liaison, and then on the drive south, homeward bound.  To this day, I cannot discern which was the more odious drive; the 28 miles north to Moran in the summer or the 7 miles to Wilson on the crowded, backed up two lane highway to Wilson.  Both routes always yeilded copious amounts of reading time. 

As I ticked through the plethera of leadership titles, I learned many things and began to see similarities in books.  These similarities, I knew, were the blocks to the foundation of good leadership.  Take care of your people, be a good listener, be empathtic, insist on integrity, be accountable, be confident, be humble.  

There were two weeks before the deadline for application.  I had filled out the application and I knew my strengths and my weaknesses.  But as the days ticked closer, I realized I loved the job I had so much, I just really didn't want to leave it.  My application was not get submitted. 

And for the next five years, I had the privelage to serve under the best fire chief of all, Chief Brady Hansen.  Chief Hansen understood he didn't know much about my job as fire marshal and he told me as much.  We would meet once a week (when he remembered) and I'd fill him in on things I thought important, he would do the same.  Chief Hansen gave me free reign to run the Prevention Bureau and be a battalion chief the way I thought it best served the community.  He encouraged continuing education and memberships into national organizations.  He taught me so many good leadership skills. 

The day would come when I would understand he would be leaving at his five year mark which was just after my 20 year anniversary of being in the fire service.  After careful consideration, my early retirement was planned for May 2022 with Chief Hansen's retirement later that October. 

Today, Jackson Hole Fire/EMS is under the reign of what will certainly go down in organizational history as the most wretched leader the organization has ever had to suffer.  Aggressive, confrontational, bully, and vile are descritive words of his leadership style.  None of the books I read provided these words as leadership building blocks. 

Many in the organization remark at my good timing to getting out.  I would not have lasted a month under this type of tyranny.  You would have seen the orange glow of that bridge burning from way up in Moran.

If I were Chief, I would lead with three priorities.  The number one priority would be serving the community.  Everything we would do would have to pass the "does this serve the community" question first.  When responders complain about being split up into groups of two at two stations rather than one group of four at one station, they would know the right answer by how each answer best serves the community.  All know that taking a rescue truck out of service, selling it for pennies on the dollar, does not serve the community and stands as one of the most heinous acts this Chief has mindlessly succeeded at while yanking away a valuable resource from the people in south Teton County. 

The second priority on my list would be taking care of our people.  All people; the operational staff, the volunteer cadre, the administration staff, fleet maintenance, the prevention bureau.  Each of these groups have different needs and no one has spent much time listening to their needs.  A recent administration office upheaval is yet another act of the sword from the current chief.  Moving everyone's cheese is not a great leadership act. 

The third priority would be fiscal responsibility with this community's tax payer dollars.  Most staff recently received overdue raises.  Most but not all.  Again, taking care of everyone is of paramount importance.  Selling a quarter million dollar functionable rescue truck for pennies on the dollar is hardly fiscally responsible.  Sending no representation to the many state wide meetings, to the Fallen Firefighter memorial, to train, to build relationships - although it takes finances to make these things happen, it is hardly fiscally responsible to not spend that money for these priceless investments in training and relationship building.

There are good leaders and there are bad leaders.  My heart goes out to everyone at Jackson Hole Fire/EMS while they try to do their job under a heartless, angry, vindictive, bully.  There have been some good changes under his sword but the price everyone is paying is far too high.  I admire the tenacity of those who choose to stay.  To endure the threats, the fear, the negativity, to have to pick up your office space and get crammed into a new and smaller space - they hold on because they know the importance of their job, they know how they can help in an emergency and they know they can prevent tragedies.  These are the true heros of this community; no matter what job title they fulfill.  Their stress and anxiety is real and I hope their wait-time is short. 

Running into a fire, working a car crash on icy roads, and wondering if a crawl space is filled with live gas are easy tasks compared to what we are asking of everyone now at Jackson Hole Fire/EMS.  Take care of yourselves, take care of each other.  You are in a low frequency/high risk moment in the department's history.  

Take care.  

Take care.  

  

 

 

   

Raw Milk

Gerald Warden stands at least 6 foot, two inches tall.  Maybe even taller.  His insulated one piece coveralls were unzipped down to his waist the last time I saw him in the tiny Freedom post office.  Suspenders held up the hidden pants underneath and provided more vertical extension to his lofty frame.  His muck boots propped up the bottom of the unzipped insulated legs, the boots covered in muck.  

Gerald is somewhat of what I'd call a hayseed-type of guy.  This day, he was a good two days since shaven, allowing one to ponder that it had been that long since he had bathed as his black mop of hair looked as greasy as the lenses in his thick, much-scratched glasses.  Gerald is always smiling and always talking.  He will talk to you for hours if you give him the time. 

Gerald milks cows.  The black and white cows, lumbering in for their morning milking, teats swollen, milk sacks hanging full.  This last week in August had been rainy all week and the girls lumbered in to the milk house through mud, sinking up to the first joint of their legs.  

Milking cows is not easy work.  It may been deemed one of the most difficult ways to make a living, if one leaves out coal mining and picking cotton.  There are no sick days, no vacation days, no days off.  When a cow needs milked, she needs milked every day and she is on a schedule.

Gerald sells his milk to a local farmer's market.  Raw milk has beneficial qualities, good bacteria and a delicious taste, unlike any store bought milk.  The glass jar filled with the lovely white liquid sports a lofty head of cream.  If you are careful when you open and pour that first couple of cups, you will enjoy the fatty deliciousness of fresh cream.  

Unfortunatley, Gerald had a batch of milk that was contaminated with the bacteria E. coli that week of late August.  He, and the many other dairy farmers in Star Valley Wyoming, rarely tested their milk.  The facts are unknown to me other than Gerald's milk made some children and an adult very ill.  Some of the children spent days in the hospital.  All survived. 

But Gerald's contaminated milk has made all of us who are part of a community providing farm products for others to enjoy to take pause and contemplate our risks we take selling to the community. 

Mike and I love raw milk.  We buy from a farm south of our place, about a 15 mile drive along the Salt River, by the turn near the stinking springs, through a pastoral countryside that makes you want to whistle a measure of two of Beethoven's Sixth Symphony (the Pastoral Symphany).  One turns into the dairy farm to drive up to a muddy corral with grand Jersey cows, muching away, filling their milk bags for tomorrow's milking.  At the end of the graveled potholed drive, sits the milk house.  Open the door to the smell of chlorox.  This is what sold me on her milk.  This and the delicious liquid filling the clear glass jars.  A half gallon glass jar filled with whole, raw milk costs $2.  The milk lady happily takes Venmo.  Please return your jars.  We take the risk and enjoy a gallon a week of fresh, raw milk. 

People like Gerald are protected under the Wyoming Free Food Act, but rumor is, Gerald is getting sued.  There are plenty of litigious lawyers sitting in Jackson Hole Wyoming just tapping their fingers on their solid walnut desks waiting for something to do.  It has un-nerved an entire community of dairy farmers, cheese makers, bread bakers, soup creaters, and others who contribute their talent and time to build quality products for those willing to pay a bit more for something local, something real. 

Last year, I baked a myriad of sour dough bread, rolled balls of sour pizza dough, simmered pots of glorious fruit jams, fermented jars of delicious sauerkraut, and picked parsley leaves off of stems to make fresh chimichuri, all of which customers bought up in minutes.  Most of my offerings were sold out within a half hour of being posted online.  As a provider, this was very rewarding and satisfying to be, well, so popular!  People complained there should be a limit to how many loaves others could buy of my bread so more could enjoy the crusty loaves of sourdough.  My little home creations brought in over $7K last year, which helps pay for the ingredients and some fun things. 

But now, I take pause.  Gerald is a warning call for the rest of us to hear.  There are rules and I am a rule-follower.  Even with rules, things can go bad quickly when dealing with a potentially pretentious and often entitled clientele.   

As 2024 launches, I have some decisions to make. 

 

Repurposing

 One of the things Mike and I share is the love, the challenge, and the quest to repupose used things for a new use, new life.  It is a bit of a game for each of us.  This week's repurposing adventure revolves around finding a grain bin showing up on the local social media sight.  Turns out, the round metal bin was just down the road and cost about as much as what a wooden storage shed would cost - AND LOOKS SUPER COOL!!  

The old Sioux grain bin was reportedly moved 40 years ago to that farm about six miles to our north.  When it was moved then, the bin - built on a pair of skids - was simply pulled down the road, right on its skids.  We were too far for skidding it home!

The owner cleaned out items stored inside.  Mike drove the tractor over, parked the truck and trailer, and began the process of sliding it - carefully - onto the trailer.  The process involved a cable, a pully, and several lenghts of chain.  

After one hiccoup and some regrouping, the bin sat atop the trailer, was strapped down, and off  Mike went with the very wide load; me following in the tractor at 10mph, which, by the way, is a very good way to enjoy the scenery on the way home.  

Allow me to muse.  The color of galvanized metal is the loveliest color of all!  Steel grays, blues and silvers ripple over the corregated metal.  Flecks and stripes of corral red appear here and there to accentuate the gray blue palate, signs of age, where the slow process of oxidation has beat out the galvanization and rust has won.  Beautiful colors!  

There were many #RightHereRightNow! moments throughout this effort.  The late afternoon light dousing the scene with its golden hue and warming our backsides.  Holding one's breath during the process, hoping nothing broke or tipped over.  Watching the bin go down the road to its new home, cars jamming up behind it, sneaking over to see if they could get around the slow, wide load.  Thinking about how awesome this grain bin will look at the corner of the repurposed greenhouse.  

A wonderful holiday gift for the ranch!!  

Home.  Just as twilight and the temperatures were falling. 

Resolutions

The new year is just around the corner now.  Winter has moved to the landscape covering the ground in a foot or so of white, bright snow.  Walking the dogs is now skiing the dogs and we slide our way around the edges of the property, marveling at the mountain range to the east and laughing at the dogs digging their way down to prospective mice.  

Making resolutions at the turn of the year has been an annual tradition.  This year, I have created a new hashtag even though I really don't understand what a hashtag is or what it does or where it goes.  #RightNowRightHere!  Noting these moments that are so fine!  Pausing, as we did yesterday, to be aware of the "now".  Our shadows stretching way out in front of us, Ruby wondering why we stopped, the snow covered mountains in the distance - these lovely moments.  

It's easy to get caught up in life, especially this time of the year with so many things needing to get done and plans needing to be made.  Take a moment, pause, and enjoy the moment.  Then do a hashtag #RightHereRightNow!  Maybe our photos will all go somewhere together......I just don't know! 

Slow Foods reopens next week.  I've enjoyed the three weeks of trying new recipes and not cooking quite so much.  Here is a glimpse of kitchen outputs. 

Pickleball

It was my fifth time on the pickleball court.  

A game, somewhat like tennis, a little like racketball, and a bit similar to pingpong, I was lured to the game by friend Janet.  She tried all summer to get me to play but the lawn needed mowed, the dogs needed a walk, the garden need tilled or harvested, and there certainly was a giant bowl of bread proofing that had to be divided and put in the refrigerator for its overnight proofing.  

Finally fall came with its killing frost and the market closed for three weeks.  I took the plunge on a sunny November afternoon, walking out onto the green and blue courts amongst mostly strangers (Janet was there, thank goodness), keen at serving a thousand mile per hour serve complete with top spin in my direction. 

That first time was rough, but I was good enough to come back.  And I did come back. 

The weather turned from late fall to winter, a snow storm decked the south court with slushy white snow, the gate was locked, and the green screening taken down.  The outside courts were closed for the season. 

Inside we all went.  Inside the Thayne Civic center gymnasium where children scream at the top of their voices, creshendoing into crazy bird-like screeches resonating back and forth off the white concrete blocked walls.  The children leave, the pickleball games begin.

It was just my fifth time on the pickleball court. 

I got scooped into a game by a bunch of strangers.  A man, no taller than me, decked out in court safety glasses, wearing some kind of black strap on his right arm, a muted red tee shirt with the number 16 and a pair of shorts, stood on the sideline tracking our score.  This was rather unusual. Of course, everything is new and unusal at this stage of learning!  Scoring in pickleball is one of the more difficult things to learn so it was a bit of a treat that this man was tracking our game.  He stood in the narrow space between the edge of the net and the wall and barked out the score.  "One, zero, two".  "Two, zero, two".  And then some players showed up for the other court and he abandoned us to our own score keeping.  Off to track his own score. 

Games on both courts finished about the same time.  I moved courts and as our group of four was getting set to play, the Scoring Man is suddenly standing at my left.  He glares me down and orders me - and I mean orders me - to serve the ball.  "SERVE THE BALL!" he barks.  I look at my team mates, they are not ready for me to serve the ball.  I look at him and he glares back.  "SERVE THE BALL!"  So, I serve the ball. 

"Your serve is very close to being an illegal serve," he enlightens me.  "It's very close, watch that you don't go above your waist!" he barks defiantly.  Then he turns and walks to his court to play. 

Today was my sixth time on the courts.  Scoring/Barking Man, whose name I have learned in Mike, was absent today.  I exhaled a sigh of relief.  The women to men ratio is 5 women to 3 men.  We play, we laugh, we curse, we all put everything we can muster into this effort of moving our not-so-young bodies to hit a plastic ball with holes from one side of a net to the other and staying within the gray lines.  It is challenging, frustrating, exhilerating, and fun.  I like this game! 

At a break during my fifth time on the court, Scoring/Barking Man graces me with his wise pickleball wisdom and I learn a few things.  He grabs his bag, reaches in, and pulls out a gallon ziplock bag filled with a lot of somethings.  "Here," he says, somewhat kindly, "would you like a zipper pull?"  I am astonished and giggly with delight as I pull out a blue and purple zipper pull.  Thank you, Scoring/Barking Man!  I knew there was a marshmellow heart in there somewhere!!  

Next time I see him, I will be a better player and he will get a tube of my Lip Stuff for his bag.  We are destined to be pickleball friends, I just know it! 

 

Thanksgiving

 If fall is the best season of all, Thanksgiving is the best holiday of all!

I hope this Thanksgiving finds you merrily cooking up delicious food to offer family and friends who gather around your (or their) table to celebrate all the amazing things life brings.  Food connects us.  It brings us together and unites us in flavors, smells, and sensations.  The crunch of celery, the smell of garlic simmering in hot oil, the taste of a perfect vinagrette, the laughter of joy.  

Early darkness and few days to work outside have provided ample time for dreaming.  I want to make a story/cook book.  Each recipe will have a story of its own, building the recipe into a living thing.  I will start here, on this blog site, to "practise", however, some of the best of the best will be held back for the actual cookbook.  

A title.  A title. I'm working on a title.    

So here is the first recipe. 

Inspired by Dr. Annie Fenn's Brain Health Kitchen - a cookbook filled with food that can actually improve one's brain health - I played around with a muffin recipe and made it brain-health-worthy.  

The Story of Brain Health Muffins  

Dr. Annie Fenn was my OB/GYN when I first moved to Jackson.  Coached by my mother who knew cancer well from her work in hospice, I found Dr. Fenn and she did her annual exams, sending me off with the required doctor's order for a mammogram to be scheduled at my convience. I have had an annual visit with my doctor and a mammogram every year since the age of 30.  

Dr. Fenn is a small and petite woman.  She has delivered countless babbies.  Pictures collaged on walls, notes from grateful parents.  Her examination room was like many others.  She sat in her doctor chair, below her patient, and listened and looked, proded and sampled, and offered words of wisdom.  "You will walk through menapause," she once told me.  I took her for her word and did just that! Is there any doubt that a doctor can guide you down just the road you should be going?

When I heard of her retirement, of course, I was happy for Annie and sad for me.  Luck would have it that I would find a marvelous replacement named Theresa Lerch, a certified nurse midwife.  Funny to be connected to so many women skilled in babies having chosen to not have any babies early in my life.   

In the last couple of years, Annie has watched her mother decline into early stages of Alzheimer's.  As a  physician and a passionate cook, Annie realized she was just the right person to take her education and her cooking skills to develop a cook book focused on foods that help "fend off Alzheimer's while still eating delicious food."

Many of you received her cookbook (see link above) last year from me as a holiday gift.  I hope you have found some recipes you enjoy.  Mostly, I  hope you have thought about the food you eat and how it can shape and change you as you walk through time. 

Annie's book has inspired this recipe and another;  the sourdough bread I proudly named "Annie's Bread".  Mike and my diet has had some subtle changes thanks to Annie's book and facts.  This Thanksgiving I say, thank you, Dr. Fenn!  

Brain Health Muffins

2 mashed ripe bananas (or 1 cup of pumpkin puree)

1/4 c olive oil

1/3 c maple syrup

1 egg (mixed up well)

1 t. vanilla

1 c. flour (whole wheat, gluten free - whatever you like!)

1/2 t. baking soda

1/4 t. salt

1/2 c. ground flax meal

1/4 c. pumpkin seeds

1 c. coarsely chopped walnuts

6 pitted dates chopped coarsley

Preheat oven to 350F.

The very best part of this recipe is that it is a one-bowl recipe!  Take one medium size bowl and mash two bananas (or use 1 cup pumpkin puree).  Add the oil, egg, maple syrup, vanilla.  Then in the same bowl, add the following dry ingredients; flour, baking soda, salt, ground flax meal, flax seed, pumpkin seed, walnuts.  And anything else your heart (or brain) desires.  I chopped persimmon up in this batch.  Try to mix the dry ingredients first then incorporate the wet below.   

Mix until all ingredients are blended and scoop into muffin tins sprayed with oil.  Top with a sprinkle of demerara sugar. 

Bake 18 minutes until knife comes out clean.  Enjoy for breakfast or dessert! 

Thanksgiving is a very special holiday and need not be reserved for just one day.  Gratitude is the secret to happiness.  End every day voicing some special good thing that occurred that day.  Soon, you will realize how lucky you are to be alive, to breath in the cold, crisp air as autumn excuses itself to winter.  Get out for a walk, eat good food, celebrate Life! 

Falling Forward

Most people, I have noticed, hate Daylight Savings time. 

I, on the other hand, LOVE IT!  Especially the first day, the longest day of the year!!  "What do you mean, the longest day of the year?" Mike askes with furrowed brow.  "June 21 is the longest day of the year," he proclaims, like he is certain I have lost my mind. 

Not true!  There are actually 25 hours on that first day in the fall!  Can't you feel how the day lingers on and on?  True, it gets dark much quicker but the sting of that early evening is dampened by the very long day you still have to enjoy.  Don't find me in the spring when we spring-back!  I am surley and grumpy and put-out that my hour is taken back away! 

Sunday and I sit on the deck swing and gaze across the field.  Because I have an extra hour!  Those rows covered in straw are next year's garlic crop. 

It doesn't take long and we all fall into the new day.  Arise to start the day and there is light.  Eat dinner in the dark.  Back to 24 hours and a readjustment for outside activities.  Add in rain, some snow, and copious amounts of sticky mud - taking the dogs for a walk becomes a bit more complicated.  

These days, there is grooming and bath time to figure in after a walk as well.  Here Rooster drinks and cools off in a mud puddle.  

The face only a mother could love.  

The seasons come and go here in this country.  People load up their RVs and flock south, knowing what comes next.  They fly from the cold, from the snow, from the long, dark, cold, damp days.  I know the country where they go and it is filled with people, homelessness, crowded highways, and campgrounds.  There is crime and noise and plastic bags stuck to and hanging off cholla cacti, saguaro, and ocotillo.  I've been there.  Fly people, fly on south! 

These three flew back home north!!  Where the days are even shorter in the winter!  Evan, Dani, and Opal all came for a very nice visit here at K Lazy M Ranch.  Opal, just 18 months old has now flown, travelled in a car, and met and played with lots and lots of furry friends!  She is a very good dog!  Our table was complete with a visit from friend Janet.  How lucky are we, how lucky are we?  Good food, good wine, good friends and family.  What a grand evening for all!  

Rabbit raised by some friends and enjoyed by all! 

Mike leveled up some hardy board and painted it green just before the weather rolled into the valley.  The greenhouse is closed for the season.  It was a good year and now, it is time for a break.  

 

 

Unfinished Projects

The fall sun angles dramatically on the southern horizon.  Shadows stretch across short cropped green alfalfa fields, the golden light oozes over the landscape.  Today's walk is cold with a southern breeze, going back will be chilly.  

This is the time of the year to finish unfinished projects.  Dig up the gladiolas and daliahs.  Mike bangs the hardiboard lap-siding onto the north side of the greenhouse.  Think about cleaning the leftovers of moving, now over a year and a half past.  These long walks afford pause to ponder the Unfinished Projects.  Of course, walking does not accomplish any of this work!! 

Rooster smells the air for grouse but finds chipmunks and mice.  He seems equally overjoyed and frolics through the frost-dried grasses.  Hound's tounge weeds stand patiently awaiting the fur of an animal and I spend ten minutes pulling the tick-sized, velcro-covered weeds out of his wirey coat.  I leave the invasive weed seeds on the other side of the highway in the gravel road.  

Elk graze in the afternoon sun.  This morning we watched a herd of 150 elk cross the road just to the west of our place and settle on the hillside above the summer homes.  The calves mewing for their mothers, a bull bugling a half-hearted end of season call.  

Writing a blog piece is always unfinished business!  Now done, I need to go off and make some dinner!  Enjoy these last fall days; clocks get changed soon! 

Good Bye Fall

The season of spring has many likable traits, but fall is the best season of all. 

The weather forecast is messy for this upcoming week; rain, rain and snow, and then snow.  Watching the beautiful days tick to a close, we hooked up with neighbors Pam and Lou and floated our vessels down the Salt River.  The river cuts Star Valley in two - west side, east side - running north into Palisades Lake.  

This year, the river current is swift and there are challenging rapids.  Mike rows our blue raft, Pam and Lou follow us in their metal boat clunking its way into rocks over shallow spots.  The river smells cold and clean as we are all carried along past grasses turning yellow, aspens shimmering in reflections, and giant mansions built by the river.  It is a glorious afternoon for a float on a river. 

Fishing is challenging this time of the year for hobby fisherpeople.  Flying insects are rare and the fisherpeople play with knot tying, changing up flies, trying a different patterns, different colors - trying to guess what looks delicious to a fish. 

Mike drops the oars and casts; a stressful and not successful endeavor.  Corners of the river announce rapids ahead and we strain our necks trying to see what is coming around the bend.  

The problem with fishing is how easy it is to miss the view, the big picture.  I catch a couple of fish and prove to be the only fish catcher on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.  Mike "coaches" me to improve my fly fishing techniques.  I am certain I embarrass him with my amature rod-whipping.  We are the quint-essential couple; he coaching me along while I get frustrated and pissed and just do it the way I have always done it!  And I manage to catch a fish or two along the way - just think how many I could catch if I knew how to fly fish!!  (Five total for the day, by the way).

This nice lil cutthroat trout gulped down my fly toward the end of our trip.  He recovered well after my rough handling and zipped back off into his wet, dark world.  

We ended our afternoon pulling boat and raft onto trailers and heading out for a bite to eat.  The morrow's day weather forming on the western horizon.  

  

Here is today's saffron harvest.  One gets a real sense why this spice is the world's most expensive spice.  The beautiful red stigmas are plucked from the lovely purple blue blossoms where they dry on a paper towel.  Local saffron.  That's a real novelty!!  We will keep the heater on in the greenhouse until the month's end to coax more flowers from the hazelnut sized corms.  Then, I will dig them up, dry them, and store in the crawl space until next year.  This home grown spice is so priceless, I'm not sure they are for sale this year!!  I do believe there will be Paella on the menu a time or two this winter!