I’m sure like me you have a meat grinders in your kitchen somewhere. Perhaps yours is newer than mine. I’ve been using my meat grinder since the mid-80s after I inherited it from my mother who had received it from her mother. It’s always worked perfectly for me.

Until last week when I went to make some deviled ham. My plan was to stick the undesirable ends of a ham I had into the meat grinder, add a few ingredients and have sandwiches for a week.

My plan had its first wrench thrown into it when the screw-in thingy at the bottom wouldn’t work so I couldn’t attach it to the counter. It seemed the threads were stripped.

Did I feel a sense of relief that this longstanding tradition of grinding meat for sandwiches could now be ended?

No. I began to consider how I could enhance the way the meat grinder worked.

It isn’t as though I even really like ground meat, nor have I ever. The point is I now must fix the stripped threads of the bolt or I can no longer use it. Of course, I can easily do that. But, can I make it even better? Can I find a larger end so it will attach to my wider counter?

If so, then I can grind meat like some kind of mad person. I’m envisioning tubs of ground chicken, ham and beef in my refrigerator.

Again, I don’t necessarily like this paste-like spread I lather on bread to have for a lunch, but it is a tradition.

While out for my morning walk, some guy driving a newer model European car flagged me over. I eyed him suspiciously because I knew he wasn’t from around here. Still, he seemed nice enough so we struck up a conversation.

As it turns out he’s checking out my little town because he’s thinking of moving here and as is typical of city people, he began firing questions at me a mile a minute.

“Where’s the real estate office? Are there homes in the country? What do people do here?”

The first two were easy. There’s never been a realtor in this town and there are lots of homes in the country.  The third question is a little harder.

Mostly what people do here is sit around drinking coffee and talking. There’s a ton of stuff to talk about so it takes all day long. If they get tired of sitting, they walk around until they find another person they can talk some more to.

In the evenings, people get their pickups out and drive around. There are only eleven paved roads in town, but they drive slowly. That way they can see everything that’s going on. For example, who has their garage doors open and what they have in there.

Whatever they see in the evenings, they bring up for discussion at morning coffee. The details are analyzed and carefully noted for more conversations that will arise throughout the day.

It may sound dull, but it isn’t. For example, if it’s seen that Frank is missing the extension ladder in his garage but ToniJo now has one in her garage, there are conclusions that can be drawn.

One is that Frank is secretly seeing ToniJo and letting her use his extension ladder. Within a few days Frank and ToniJo are engaged to be married. He’s moving into her house where he’s been keeping his extension ladder. They’re planning to honeymoon at Lake Tahoe.

Then, ToniJo hears and is mad at everybody because she can’t stand Frank, who lent his ladder to his cousin, and her nephew gave her the ladder that’s in her garage. She forgot to tell all of us that so we’re mad at ToniJo for keeping secrets from us.

One of my favorite bloggers who writes Lorna’s Voice nominated my blog for the Versatile Blogger Award. I have a high degree of respect for Lorna because she’s a great writer, hysterically funny, and she can hem trouser legs.

As my acceptance of the award, I was asked to copy the badge for it. Since I couldn’t figure out how to do that, I decided to make my own badge (see above badge image). I then thought I’d make my own award, the Giddyup Bloggers Award,pass it on, and award it to Lorna as well.

I was asked to name some of my favorite bloggers. Although I can’t figure out how to add multiple links in a post, many of my favorite bloggers’ names are on my blogroll. (If I leave someone out, please forgive me and know I didn’t mean to.) Briefly, these are why the bloggers are my favorite and I nominate them for every possible award, including this one:

1. Notes from an Alien. This blog is run by a recently published author who has an amazing amount of information for writers. I also enjoy the goofy banter this serious writer and I engage in at times.

2. Freedom, by the way. Although I’d sworn off blogs with a political theme, I love this one. She is eclectic and full of spunk with a great sense of humor.

3. Run4joy59. This blogger is a busy person who also blogs. Her posts are chock full of activity and she writes from her heart.

4. Eternalsolitude. He is a film maker in Brazil who posts amazing photography. The posts he writes are thoughtful and inspirational.

5. Drinkswellwithothers. This blogger has obvious skill and talent as a writer. If you haven’t visited his blog, check it out for some great reading.

Finally, as acceptance of the award I have to fess up to a few things about myself. Here are those:

1. I still have all my wisdom teeth which is why I always win arguments. But, I didn’t start teething my wisdoms until my mid-30s so that’s telling a lot.

2. One of my first crushes was Leif Garrett. We had one thing in common during my middle school years. We were both made for dancing.

3. People always tell me they can’t tell when I’m joking which is why I decided to be joking all the time to make it easy on everyone. For the exceptional times when I am serious, I try to remember to state that.

4. Not only can I break goats to race barrels, I can also team train them to pull wagons.

I think I’ve said enough. There’s no reason to over share.

With the news of a large amount of space debris falling somewhere on Friday, or perhaps Saturday, like everyone else I began to wonder what I’d do if it fell on me. According to the news, if it falls somewhere near me I’m not to touch it because I might get hurt. I should also contact local law enforcement if I find any space debris.

If space junk falls where I live we might not know what it is. We’ll likely use it to build something, like a chicken coop.

Along with the potential problem I could be facing in a couple of days, I’m also remembering Sky Lab. A few friends and I had a great time when we found out certain adults were terrified of Sky Lab falling. With our teachers who feared Sky Lab, not much was accomplished in their classes that week. We just talked about Sky Lab.

Long before Sky Lab, I remember many animals being sent into space. I don’t remember any cats, but I did find an old photograph of cats preparing for space. As expected, the cats don’t have big smiles on their faces about a trip into space like I remember the chimpanzees having.

A lot of the animals returned and I can remember at least one being launched into space a second time. Others didn’t come back and the news referred to them as “lost.” I was very young but I remember thinking how different it would be to be a monkey lost at the park versus being a monkey lost in space.

In the end, I’ve concluded two things for sure. One, I hope all those animals lost in space have now been found. Two, I hope everyone will be safe from falling space junk. And, safe in general.

Unlike my sisters’ kitchens, my mother’s is one I’ll never understand. Her kitchen’s basic arrangement is “my good” and “you can use.”

The only change I’ve seen in recent years is that a dog, Tucker, is allowed in the kitchen. He is even fed and watered in there. When he’s finished, his water and kibble bowls are washed and put away in the cupboard where his dog food is kept.

Some of my mother’s stuff that is good I’ve known about my entire life. There’s what she calls her good dishes set which she keeps behind glass doors so she doesn’t have to dust it. I’ve never touched any of it because I know I’m not supposed to. The dishes are made of pink glass, which my mother says makes them good.

Most of the time, the good is not so evident. When I open the cabinet to get a cup for coffee, I feel my mother watching me.

“No. That’s one of my good cups. You can use one of the ones toward the back.”

After I drink my coffee, I return to the kitchen to wash my cup.

In my mother’s kitchen, everything has to be washed immediately after use. When I saw “Fiddler on the Roof” as a child, I perked up when Golde told Tevye she had to sweep the house before they left their little village of Anatevka.

Although we didn’t live in a village and we weren’t Jewish, I believed Golde’s reason for sweeping and my mother’s for keeping clean dishes might be similar. I could be way off track, but if my mother goes someplace at least her dishes are clean.

Her good will also be in plain view.

“Don’t use my good dishtowel,” my mother calls when I’m ready to dry my cup.

“Why is it good? It’s hanging over the sink.”

“You should know better. Can’t you tell it’s good by its pretty design? There’s a dishtowel you can use hanging on the door beneath the sink,” she says.

I’m not someone who brings cooking utensils when I go to a family member’s house to cook. The same isn’t true of my sisters. One comes with a garlic press in her purse.

It began years ago when she was whipping something up in my kitchen.

“Where do you keep your dang garlic press?” she yelled after opening and slamming shut all of my drawers.

She didn’t have kids yet so she was frustrated because my garlic press always winds up with the kids’ other play dough tools. My rolling-pin, meat hammer and cookie cutters are somewhere with the play dough and garlic press.

Since I’m the kind of person who can, in a pinch, cook meals with tin cans and a bit of wire or a whittled stick, I don’t absolutely need certain utensils. This sister doesn’t understand if a garlic press isn’t handy, an X-acto blade does the same thing.

My other sister is closer to my thinking, but still different. One day while cooking in her kitchen, I opened the drawer where I believe everyone keeps silverware. Her top drawer was filled with hand tools, like screwdrivers and crescent wrenches. I found her silverware in the bottom drawer where I usually keep the bread.

Over time, I’ve developed a map of her kitchen because it’s so unique. One cupboard, where I would keep canned goods, is filled with power tools, like her drills and sanders. Her canned goods are stacked on the floor in the broom closet.

It might seem like this sister does no cooking. She does quite a bit, just not in the kitchen. Instead she cooks everything outside on a grill that can run on propane or wood. She also has one of those portable tailgate grills she brings when she comes to my house. Since I have a grill I can tow out of the garage with my pickup, we usually have an argument over her bringing her grill. 

“Hey!” she yells in the end. “I’m saving you the trouble by hauling my own grill over.”

That’s the very reason I haven’t bothered trying to find my garlic press for the other sister.

image wikipeadia

For now, I’m retracting a post I wrote several months ago about my decision to not date.

I think it’s been over eleven years since I’ve been on a date. I’ve learned I can easily stop a date from even happening with the asking. I know it’s supposed to be a modern world, but in my tiny world if a woman were to ask a man for a date it would be taken the wrong way. 

I’ve been asked on dates for the last few years. 

“Since you’re divorced now I thought it’d be all right if I drive over to your town and come calling on you.”

I had visions of eventual dates where I’d be wearing a gingham dress with flounce-y bloomers and a matching bonnet to square dances. These are common dates, but not so interesting to me.

Another guy was less direct. “I’ve been developing a crush on you.” And he gave a little giggle.

This guy is in his fifties. I haven’t seen it, but the word is he sleeps on the bottom bunk of bunk beds in his parents’ home. To each his own, but I was worried with a date would come the pressure of getting the guy home in time for his parents’ curfew.  

After years of not dating, some guy I’ve known for over ten years has entered the dating pool.

“If I wanted to take you on a date, where would I take you?”

My mind went wild over the possibilities. Deep sea fishing, wild boar hunting, diamond mining.

“To a cave,” I answered for no reason I can explain.

In talking to him it sounds like he’s been busy researching caves to figure out which one we should go to. Me, I’ve been contemplating Plato’s allegory of the cave.

image wikipeadia

I’m sure everyone considers the importance of the belt buckle. It’s one of those details in life I tend to overlook. A brief encounter I had today sent me into deep thought over it.

The rodeo is in town so there are quite a few cowboys around. One of them happened to be at the grocery store at the same time I was. We were both in the pop aisle. There’s a sale on pop this week so customers must climb on two or three lower shelves to reach the few pop containers left on top at the back.

The cowboy and I began climbing at about the same time. He was going for the cola and I had my eye on the root beer. I was a little surprised when I hopped back down on the floor because the cowboy was still up there reaching for his cola, kicking his legs and arching his back. I decided to stand there and watch. I figured he was showing off.

He said a few words and finally was able to drop to the ground with his soda. He saw me watching and said, “My belt buckle got caught on the shelves up there.”

Then I understood because he had one of those platter sized belt buckles with horses, ropers and calves in the foreground of a grassy pasture with two trees.

I’ve always worn the more conservative square frame pronged belt buckle. Unlike everybody else, I leave my belt buckle as an empty frame. I’ve never soldered my initials or anything on my square like nearly everyone else does. 

At this point I’m torn. I think my own belt buckle indicates a lack of willingness to make statements, such as this is my monogram or I like art scenes such as these. On the other hand, I don’t want to be hanging from my belt buckle on a shelf in the grocery store’s pop aisle.

In my little farming community, the weather is so important it is spoken of as a being.

“What’s the weather say?” is a question I hear constantly. The answers are just as vague.

“It’s saying a storm’s coming in.”

Going into the details of weather becomes perplexing, at least to me.

“Is the weather saying we’ll get some moisture?”

I live in an area where there isn’t a lot of moisture usually so even in our local churches we pray for moisture every Sunday.

It took me some time to get a handle on the concept of moisture and the personification of weather. I have one obstacle left. Everyone, except me, has a rain gauge. Of course the house came with one. Mine’s just missing the cylinder measuring thing.

There are problems caused by my missing cylinder. For one, when we do get moisture everyone rushes to check their rain gauges, then calls their measurements into the radio station. Their names and measurements are then read over the air, usually after the commodities report. I pay close attention to both of these because we all discuss the results later. Me and my moisture count get left out.

If the radio said Chuck had three points, we’ll discuss why Chuck got that and if Chuck really deserved that much moisture. (I never think so because Chuck irrigates all his crops.)

Points is a part of liquid measure I’ve never grasped. It’s been explained to me a bazillion times. I can’t explain why I can measure out an acre or a bushel or a peck just by looking, but I can’t tell how many points it takes to make a cup of coffee or soak my grass.

“My rain gauge said two points this morning? What’d yours say?”

In the beginning, I tried making something up.

“I had five points,” I said proudly.

“No,” the guy said. “You didn’t get no five points. You forgot to dump your gauge out the last time we had moisture.”

I can’t believe it myself, but that’s what I’ll be doing bright and early in the morning. If plucking chickens isn’t on your to do list tomorrow, be grateful.

This week was a busy one for me and I wasn’t so delighted when a friend called to say she had twenty plucking hens ready to head for the freezer. She asked for my help. I said I would because she’s my friend. I do believe only a real friend helps another with her plucking hens.

My experience has been that if I’m asked to pluck chickens, I can’t get out of it. I tried when I was old enough to join the other kids at the chore. Our mothers showed us what to do then stood gossiping on the porch while we prepared about fifty chickens for them to put up in their freezers.

After that day I resolved two things. One, I didn’t enjoy eating chicken. Two, the only part of the entire job I was willing to do, and even that part not eagerly, was the plucking. I haven’t wavered on either of these since that day back in about 1975.

My aunt is another person who asks me to help her with her plucking hens. She also doesn’t listen to any excuses I have. I’ve tried to tell her I don’t like it. She told me I was really good at the plucking part and she needed some help. I tried a different angle because my aunt has a strong business mind.

“Chicken is cheap to buy at the store now. If we put up all your plucking hens, it’ll take us all day. I think if we put pen to paper we’ll be losing money on this,” I reasoned.

She laughed. My aunt has one of those laughs that makes me laugh so I laughed along with her.

“You’re right,” she said. “But I’d be losing money if I fed hens that won’t lay eggs this year. Besides, you don’t have anything better to do so get your tail over here and help me.”