Contemplating Happiness

Cooking for Myself

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Mon, 20 Jan 2020 21:30:00 +0000

Someone said that my husband is blessed because I like to cook. Maybe that's true, but the real truth is I am

even more blessed.

I am so fortunate that he is a hearty eater, adventurous about food, has no food issues worth speaking about and is not a picky eater. It would be no fun at all to cook for someone who wouldn't even try something new. Both of our sons are also fun to cook for, for the same reasons, and so are their respective girlfriends.

The real truth is that I'm kind of cooking for myself. I want to feed my loved ones healthy, nourishing and delicious food, because I love them, but that is only a part of it. Cooking is a major creative outlet for me. It would be so disappointing if my efforts were met with ambivalence or outright rejection.

That is not to say I haven't had some spectacular failures. A particular tamale casserole stands out in the family memory. Despite the failures, my guys are all willing to at least try any food I set before them.

It might seem like an insignificant thing, but if you are the cook in your household, I think you'll get me. I like to cook. He likes to eat. AND he is a very hard worker who is physically fit and can eat all he wants to without concern. Lucky me, I can cook and bake as I please, and he can eat as he pleases.

I also think that it is profoundly satisfying to have some control over health and wellness in our lives. The first place to address long-term wellness is on your plate. As much as I love gardening and contributing to our food supply in a healthful way, it would be wasted effort if my family would only eat chicken nuggets.

The selfish side of all of that is to have someone TO cook for. Someone I want to cook for. If I were unhappy in my marriage, cooking might feel like a chore instead of a joy.

The blessing is mine. I get to embrace a creative desire in myself and use it to support health and happiness in the ones I love.

Chocolate-Covered Compliments

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Sat, 21 Dec 2019 00:38:00 +0000

Compliments embarrass me. Gifts make me feel a little anxious and unworthy...and embarrassed, too.
Fortunately, I don't blush, but say something nice to me and I FEEL like I am beet red. Oh, and I probably don't believe you. (Unless, that is, you are complimenting my Chicken Tetrazzini, which I actually DO believe is completely wonderful and of course you love it.)

Then yesterday, I was listening to a YouTube video. I hadn't even clicked on it; it was just the next video and started to play. My hands were full so I let it go and I listened. Mathew Boggs was talking about feminine qualities and male energies/ female energies. OK. Interesting stuff.

One of the feminine qualities he spoke of was the ability to accept gifts with joy--and accept compliments with pleasure.

That stopped me in my tracks.

I suck at that. But I can see that it is an attractive quality to accept what is offered to you with grace and a full heart.

I have always believed that a cornerstone of masculine identity and validation is to feel like a successful provider. It is important to let a husband know that he makes you feel cared for and secure. I try to tell Sweet Hubs often that I appreciate how he provides for us, from the deer he brings home to checking the air in my tires and building me spaces to grow things.

Sweet Hubs is generous in providing for me. I can see that he feels good about taking care of me and about himself for taking such good care of me. While I am pretty good about expressing my appreciation for the many ways he provides, I don't think I have been any good at all about joyfully accepting the seemingly small gift of compliments and those gentlemanly acts of chivalry.

If someone handed me the small gift of a delicious chocolate truffle, I could accept it with genuine pleasure, feeling no embarrassment. I wouldn't ever say, "Oh, no! I couldn't possibly accept that chocolate. I don't believe you: it isn't chocolate. That can't be right. I don't deserve any chocolate."

Starting today, starting NOW, I am going to start regarding those compliments like little pieces of candy: a sweet treat to be appreciated in the moment and accepted without embarrassment. I will teach myself to open my heart and let sweet words in without sprinkling salty thoughts of how wrong you are all over them.

I will cover those compliments in chocolate.

Make-Ahead Turkey Gravy That REALLY Works!

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Mon, 11 Nov 2019 16:39:00 +0000

You know how it goes: you have pulled your turkey out of the oven or roaster or oil-free fryer or whatever and it is resting until carving time. Now it's time to put the rolls in the oven, steam some veggies, finish up getting the feast plated up and ready to serve. Who has time to stand there, stirring gravy???? Yeah, nobody. So you end up with lumpy gravy, raw gravy, burned gravy or some other disappointment.

Instead of trying to cram one more thing into crunch time, make your gravy ahead, and trust me: this is delicious! It makes a lot of gravy, and all you have to do is warm it up. You probably have all these items in your pantry already. Plus, if you are making a small dinner of just a turkey breast or capon, you can totally fake it with this gravy.

1 carrot, scrubbed or peeled, trimmed
1 rib of celery, scrubbed (include leaves!)
1 small onion, trimmed but keep the peel
1/2 cup of butter (one stick) divided
1/4 cup all purpose unbleached flour
**2 cups of chicken stock (not broth)
**2 cups of beef stock (not broth)
(**or 4 cups of turkey stock if you have it**)
1/2 cup good white wine or sherry, if you like
1 bay leaf
8 whole peppercorns
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
salt and pepper to taste

Chop your veggies either by hand or in the food processor. In the food processor, chop the carrots first, then add the celery and finally the onion. By hand, chop in whatever order suits you.

In a heavy-bottom Dutch oven, melt 1/4 cup butter. Then add the veggies and saute until they are starting to soften. Add the bay leaf, thyme and peppercorns and saute until their aroma makes you smile. Add the wine or sherry and let that reduce and thicken, then add HALF of the stock. Bring this up to a simmer over medium heat, stirring occasionally, and then you can turn the heat down to the lowest setting and simmer for about half an hour or so.

Remove the mixture from the heat and remove the bay leaf. When it is cool enough to not hurt your blender, blend it until very smooth. Meanwhile, melt the rest of the butter in your dutch oven. When the butter is melted, add the flour and cook, stirring constantly until it goes from golden brown to something just a bit darker. Add the other half of your stock, stirring constantly, and then your pureed stock and veggie mix.

Cook over medium-low heat, stirring, until the gravy thickens. Season with salt and pepper to your taste.

Refrigerate it until turkey time, or even freeze it. If you are giblets person, then cook them and chop them the day of your feast and add them shortly before serving.

10 Things to Know About Cooking and Kitchen

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Wed, 18 Sep 2019 16:52:00 +0000

Store your red spices (chili powder, cayenne pepper, paprika) in the refrigerator. They're perishable!
Do not store spices, oils (or really any food) in the cabinets right next to the stove or in the cabinet above the stove. The heat from your stove will shorten the life of those items.
Olive oil is perishable. If you put olive oil in a clear oil bottle that you keep on your counter, then only fill it with as much oil as you will use in a week. If you use a dark bottle or keep the oil in a dark, cool cabinet, you can fill it with a month's supply. Any more than that? Refrigerate!
Whole wheat flour and corn meal are also perishable.
Liquid measuring cups and dry measuring cups are NOT interchangeable.
If you are adding nuts or berries to a recipe for muffins or cake, stir them into the dry ingredients before adding the liquid. A coating of flour keeps them evenly distributed in the batter, rather than sinking or floating while it bakes.
Cutting out biscuits with a biscuit cutter? Push straight down without twisting. Your biscuits will rise higher.
No matter what the recipe says, you really don't need to sift all-purpose flour. Sifting is a holdover from the days when you needed to sift out any weevils or foreign objects, and when flour wasn't as light and pre-sifted as what we buy now. If you're making biscuits, bread, regular cakes, cookies, etc., you can skip the sifting. Stir the salt and baking powder or baking soda and spices in with the same spoon you're going to mix with. One less thing to wash! If you are baking with whole grain flour and want to sift out some of the bran, that is an entirely different story...
Cutting up fruit or veggies for a recipe? Do that the easy way. Instead of cutting the core out of the apple or pepper, cut the fruit away from the core. Strips of pepper on a pizza are every bit as good as rings of pepper and prep time is much less!
Use the right kind of salt at the right time. Salt meat liberally well before you cook it. Overnight is great. But if you're roasting veggies, salt those near the very end. If you're making bread with commercial yeast, add salt in the beginning of the mixing to help govern the action of the yeast. If you're making bread with real sourdough, salt at the end of the dough preparation, after the flour is fully hydrated. And don't skip the salt in desserts! A little salt to support the sweet will enhance the flavor without tasting salty.

Enough Is As Good As A Feast

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Wed, 11 Sep 2019 13:00:00 +0000

That was Mattie Ross' line in "True Grit": "I've had enough, and enough is as good as a feast."

I think it is a key to a happy life: not riches, but richness. Not having it all, having enough. And having the good sense to know what is enough.

It happens so often that the phrase "just enough" is like a code in our house. We'll buy some load of bargain lumber or another used material for a project and invariably, it will turn out to be just enough to finish the project. Usually, there will be no more than one or two boards left over. Or Sweet Hubs will think up a new project and look at his inventory of bits and bobs and he'll have.... just enough.

I used up the last package of green beans from last summer's garden about 3 weeks before this year's beans were ready to harvest. I still have one package of green chilies left and the new ones aren't quite ready yet. Just enough.

My goal for this huckleberry season was to get 52 two-cup packages of wild huckleberries in the freezer, a batch of huckleberry jam for storage plus enough for a few fresh huckleberry desserts during the picking season. I put 56 packages of berries in the freezer, made the jam, made the cobblers and the pies.... more than "just enough" this time, by 8 cups of berries.

Maybe huckleberries are an unexpected measure of a life? Sometimes the unexpected allegory is surprisingly meaningful. They are tiny, sweet, flavorful bits that take some time and effort to obtain, and they add a special flavor to our life. They are never taken for granted and are just special enough that we are careful to not overuse them.

I can think of other things that share those same attributes. Can you?

10 Things That Made Me Smile Today

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Tue, 10 Sep 2019 21:03:00 +0000

In no particular order of importance...

The way my sweet dog holds the tennis ball with just his front teeth, so it looks like a lime green bubble, and the cute expression on his hopeful face.
The way Sweet Hubs' dog wags just the tip of her tail, rattlesnake-fashion, to greet us in the morning.
Smooshing a slug that was eating one of my zucchinis. Little creepy creeps!!!
A nearly perfect lunch: a thick slice of homemade sourdough bread, with some unfiltered, cold-pressed organic olive oil to dip it in, one beautifully ripe tomato, a few slices of cheese and a handful of each roasted pecans and olives. Only thing missing was a glass of wine, but this is a work day.
The pure and simple pleasure of a beautiful loaf of sourdough that I made, because it represents how much I am learning!
The nitrogen smell of a rainy morning.
The morning goodbye hug, when I can press my face against his chest and just breathe him in before we part for the day.
A message from my dear friend. Always a joy to hear her voice, especially when she is telling me something that makes her laugh.
Picking tomatoes, beans, squash and cucumbers.
Waking up on the green side of the grass.

A Walk in the Woods

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Sun, 02 Jun 2019 17:20:00 +0000

I went for a walk in the woods today.

The sky was blue and the air still held a kiss of springtime cool, though it was warm enough for a tank top.

As I strolled around, looking at what was growing, I thought of the walks I would take with my Dad when I was a child, and of the times he would let me come with him when he went trout fishing.

I must have seemed like a mosquito in his ear on those walks or fishing trips: a talkative, imaginative child bubbling over with questions and ideas. Looking back now, his patience was saintly. He did tell me sometimes that fish wouldn't bite if we weren't quiet. Then I would quietly line up his bait worms on a nice, flat rock, so they would be ready for him when he needed one. I'm sure that was helpful.

It was high in the Colorado Rockies that those observing, contemplating, conversational strolls happened. I can still see my Dad in my mind's eye, walking along with his hands clasped behind his back. Mom never went on a walk that I can recall. My sister and brothers were much older and busy in their own lives, so if they took walks with Dad it was basically before my time. Or maybe they didn't? Or maybe Dad didn't have time for an evening stroll until later in his life? I don't know. Whatever it was, I got the ribeye on that deal.

Sometimes, my Uncle Jack would go, too. Then he and Dad would usually talk about religion or politics, subjects upon which they agreed but still managed to have heated discussions. I think they each enjoyed having a sparring partner to argue with, arguing being kind of a family sport. Or we would try to identify the growing things, a game at which I got to be fairly good by the time we moved away.

Now I take my own quiet walks, usually in solitude, but sometimes with my Sweet Hubs or furbabies in tow. Now I am trying to learn the names of the growing things I see in this new place. But in the fullness of time, I take a simple, soul-filling walk in the woods, and it feels like Dad is walking along beside me. He would have loved this place.

He Is In The Garden

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Sun, 26 May 2019 23:41:00 +0000

I find Him in the garden. I see His hand at work when little seedlings push their brave heads into the light of day. I see it when I plant one little seed, about the size of my pinkie nail, and get so much zucchini that I'm ready to try to burn it in the firebowl before the plant is done producing.

I find Him in the woods, and in my own back yard. I see Him in the beautiful synchronicity of the seasons. When I learn more about the relationships between fungus, bacteria, plants, soil, sun and rain, I see His omniscience at work.

When I see the blush of a ripe nectarine, or smell the fresh basil, or feel good soil in my hands, I am reminded of His love for us. He cares for our hearts and minds and bodies. All of the nutrition we need to get well, stay well and live well, is here in the garden, and it is wrapped up in beautiful, fragrant and fascinating packages we call fruits, herbs and vegetables.

It's a quiet place, but humming with life and vibrancy. I am ever grateful to have this in my life, but it is important to know that it isn't just here. The hum of life bursting forth in the spring and the resting sigh of autumn's end are all around us. Even if all you're looking at is a potted geranium on your window sill, a pile of onions in the grocery store or a hummingbird sipping nectar at your neighbor's feeder, He is there. Showing you.

I find Him at the water when I stand, waiting, in the long stillness for a fish to bite my hook. I find Him when I hide, watchful for the deer or elk that will fill my freezer. I see His sense of humor in the duck's waddle and His playful nature in the bouncing, frolicking spring babies.

We need these things, these places, to center ourselves, feed our souls, calm our hearts and feel the love that is all around us. As I sit here typing this today, my wind chime is ringing softly and the branches of pines trees are swaying gently. The calls of geese are carried to my ear and rain clouds skitter across a leaden sky. My heart says that this is the world, breathing.

Today, we attended the memorial service for a dear and cherished friend. The service was conducted out of the order they originally planned and so it was that I found us attending a regular worship service first. It's been a long time since I attended any kind of church worship service; certainly I had not been to this church. What's more, I didn't really know any of the people in the congregation. I listened to the "worship team" offer their songs and prayers. I listened to the pastor deliver his sermon. I listened to the testimony which some of the congregation felt moved to offer.

And I watched.

And I thought a lot about how moved some of those good people were, in that moment and in that place and by those words.

I observed the way that some people leaned in to the fellowship of their fellow worshipers. People who held their hand up in that spiritual feeling. All these things, I saw. So why didn't I feel that, too? Why didn't I feel compelled to state my epistle on the wonders that have been worked in my life?

Many people find great nourishment for their souls within the walls of their church. They find friendship as well as fellowship. Maybe they find forgiveness, encouragement, redemption, peace or wisdom. Church, for them, is where they feel closest to God.

Me, I find Him in the garden.

A Legacy

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Thu, 17 Jan 2019 23:45:00 +0000

Even though they were never slimly tapered hands with beautiful straight fingers, my hands were once very nice. I’ve always been able to grow long, strong nails that were nicely shaped and feminine. I have never babied my hands. It shows. My always-crooked fingers are more so. The skin of my hands is dry and has that criss-crossed look of crepe. I have scars and a liver spot.

And you know what? I don’t mind, not one little bit.

I am almost 55 years old and my hands are a badge of my work ethic and my skill set. They may not be pretty anymore, but I am proud of them. My hands are my expression of self. If you want to see who I am, who and what I love, what I am passionate about and what is important to me, watch my hands. If you want to know what I know, watch my hands.

My hands know how to do things without my brain having to pay much attention. Like typing this post. The words come from my brain and effortlessly flow from there to the keys of my computer. My hands know some of the notes and chords on a guitar when I read the music or make something up.

Much of the normal work of my life seems to happen independently under my hands while my brain is doing something else. My hands know the answers: is the bread dough ready? Is this avocado ripe? Is that a teaspoon of salt? Is the oven or skillet hot enough? Is that pot clean? Does that plant need water? Do you have a fever? Is that a tick? Did that jar seal?

My hands know things that my aging eyes can no longer see very well (especially without glasses!), like how much time is left on my kitchen timer or the thickness of a basket I’m making.

They creak and crack and when I wake up in the morning, they are so stiff they barely work. They are bony now and usually hurt. But I love my hands. I am grateful for every useful day they give me. I am proud of all the things they know how to do.

My hands will tell you at a glance that I have not been an idle woman, and that I am not a young one. My history is written here, in these two hands. So is my future. They serve me well. So, I don’t care that my hands give away my age or even add some years. I still keep my nails polished and I still wave them around when I’m talking. All that am and all that I have learned can be discerned when you look…at my hands.

Potato Bread Will Never Fail Ya

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Thu, 06 Dec 2018 17:08:00 +0000

Ah, Potato Bread! The surest way I know to win friends and influence people. They will fall under the spell of your homemade potato bread, slathered in a good butter, their eyes will roll blissfully upward and you can just feel their love and admiration pulsing in your direction.

No. Seriously.

I make a lot of different styles of potato bread, but this one is the most reliable. Even if you don't know thing one about making bread, if you have a solid stand mixer, this recipe will give you two big loaves of fabulous bread. It rises only once in the bowl and once after shaped, so it can be on your table pretty quickly for homemade bread. It keeps better than any non-sourdough bread I know of, too!

Leftovers reheat beautifully, make amazing toast, garlic bread, French toast, croutons, or the grilled-tomato bread that makes my heart pound. Please, please try it today.

You really do need a stand mixer, though. I don't think any of us are strong enough to do this one by hand. If you can, I'd like to meet you but I don't want to shake your hand. You'd kill me.

The Ultimate Potato Bread

1-1/2 pounds of russet potatoes, peels ON and well-scrubbed.
1 Tablespoon salt plus 2 teaspoons salt
1/2 cup of warm potato water (leftover from the cooking)
1 Tablespoon yeast
2 Tablespoons olive oil
4-3/4 cups unbleached all-purpose or bread flour

Dice your potatoes into smallish cubes, cover with water, add the Tablespoon of salt, and simmer until they are tender. How long this takes will depend on how small you diced them. You knew that, right?

Reserve 1/2 cup of the potato water, and drain the potatoes. Now either spread them out on a baking sheet or leave them in the colander to dry for at least half an hour. This step is critical. If you leave them in the colander, give it a shake a few times during the half hour to rearrange the potatoes so they can all dry.

When the spuds are dry, re-warm the potato water if needed (it should be a smidgeon warmer than you are) (or exactly as warm as you are if you're running a low-grade fever?) Sprinkle the yeast over the water and stir it in gently. Let that rest about 5 minutes until it is creamy looking.

Meanwhile, plop your taters into the bowl of a great mixer like my Best Beloved and, using the mixer paddle, mash the spuds. I know it is crazy to leave those peels on there, but trust me. So mash them pretty well, add the olive oil and the rest of the salt, and just beat them until they are smooth. Some lumps don't matter at all, but the lumps should be small.

When the yeast-water is ready, add that to your potatoes and mix that in for a minute or so. Then change to the dough hook. Here's where it starts getting weird.

Add the flour, about a cup at a time, until it's incorporated into the potato mixture, taking about 3 minutes of mixing time to do that. When the 3 minutes are up, turn the mixer up to medium (you might want ear protection for the next little bit) and mix that dough for 11 minutes.

If you're an experienced bread baker, this dough is going to look totally wrong to you for a while. But this really is going to work.

After the 11 minutes, you'll have a soft dough that is still a little sticky. Cover the mixing bowl with plastic wrap and let the dough rise for 30 minutes. It may not have doubled in size, but that's OK.

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees. If you have a large cast iron Dutch oven or French oven (the oval one), heat that in the oven at the same time. If you don't, then prepare a large baking sheet or two smaller ones. You can either lightly grease the pan, line it with parchment paper or sprinkle it with cornmeal.

Using well-floured hands, pull that sticky dough out onto a well-floured surface. Cut it in half and shape each loaf. A sort of football shape is traditional, but you do you. To make the traditional loaf, gently flatten the dough into a disk. Try very hard not to tear the dough on the bottom side, since that is the part that will become your beautiful crust later. Roll it up into an oblong, pinch the seam together and then gently pinch and roll the ends under a bit so that all seams are on the bottom.

If you are using a Dutch oven for one of the loaves, then shape that loaf into whatever shape is going to fit in your Dutch oven. Then place the shaped loaf on an unrimmed baking sheet (or the back side of a rimmed sheet) or a pizza peel or you can channel me and use one of those flexible cutting mats. Whichever you use, sprinkle it well with cornmeal or flour to keep the dough from sticking. Place your loaves seam-side-down. Cover the loaf loosely with plastic or an overturned bowl big enough that the dough won't touch it. If you are baking both loaves on a sheet pans, cover them lightly with plastic.

Let your loaves rise for 25-30 minutes. Using a very sharp knife, score a few fairly deep slits in each loaf. You aren't going to brush on any kind of crust treatment like an egg wash or heavy cream. You could if you wanted to, but the beauty of this bread is partly its papery crust.

Now, if you are using the Dutch oven method, spray the pot lightly with pan spray, slide the dough gently into the pre-heated pot and quickly as you can, plop that lid back on there. Bake the bread for 25 minutes with the lid on, uncover it and bake it the rest of the way, another 20-25 minutes uncovered.

If you are baking the loaves on baking sheets, just bake them for 40-50 minutes. Either way, the loaves should be a pretty dark brown for bread, sound hollow when gently tapped. Let them rest at least 20 minutes before slicing and then brace yourself for the wonderfulness that is about to happen.

What I See -- Michelle

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Sat, 17 Nov 2018 15:58:00 +0000

Cheers, St Happy Tummy!

Drum roll, please..... get ready folks, because here she is: my own personal patron Saint of Happy Tummies! Yes, you have seen my dear friend Michelle mentioned in this space before, several times. She is the one I want to be when I grow up, which will be a challenge, since I'm old enough to be her, uh, older sister.

That light shining behind her might actually be her halo, because she basically saved my life. At least, she saved my guts. But enough about that.

I have learned so many things from Michelle over the years, it is mind boggling. She is an amazing combination of beautiful, humble, intelligent, naive, girly and fearless. Would you believe that the stunning lady you see in that picture actually read up on the benefits of adding the elk's tongue to the ground meat, cut that out HERSELF and tried it? Fearless, I tell you.

Michelle deep-dives into topics that interest her and learns so much. But she is, blessedly, not susceptible to the mental bunny holes that derail me so often. When I need a friend to bring my brain back up to the light of day, Michelle is my go to.

I love her sense of adventure and her ability to relax and enjoy at the end of the adventure. And I love her steadfastness Of all the people I know, Michelle has the most consistently faithful and committed heart. It is a strength and a weakness. What a joy that her husband is a precious and honorable man who protects that faithful heart. I could not be more happy that they found each other!

There is a paper-thin line between tenderhearted and overly emotional. Michelle has a laser ability to be the support in a bad time and still knows when to say, "suck it up, Buttercup." She is not the woman who falls to pieces over a minor shock. She is also not the woman who can see one her amazing sons off to school on the other side of the country without a great many tears and some serious chocolate and wine therapy. She knows when something really is worth crying or worrying about. What an amazing talent!

If I had met this remarkable woman in my 20s, I would have been too intimidated by her to think she would be my friend. Well, aside from the fact that when I was in my 20s, she was still in elementary school. But let's not quibble of timelines. The simple truth is, I had to grow more comfortable and confident in my self before I could stop being afraid of gorgeous people and be wise enough to look beyond the pretty package into an even lovelier soul. I thank heaven every day that I finally got the chance to really SEE this exceptional human being, and that she honors me by calling me "friend".

What I See--Alita

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Tue, 01 May 2018 21:46:00 +0000

Oh, Alita!

What can I say? We've known eachother for so many years! Alita and I became acquainted first because our husbands worked together. Later, she and I worked together and have just kind of bonded...sometimes over the strangest things.

Alita is sweet when I am snarky. And then Alita can snark when I feel sweet. I think she is probably the most. giving. person. ever. Seriously. If I broke both my arms, Alita would actually fly to Montana to wipe my nose for me. Other parts, too, but let's not go there. (Brain bleach, please.)

In many ways, I think Alita's life journey has been one of the most complex of all the people I know. Her heart is the purest of the pure, but she has a healthy dose of salt to keep it all in balance. And yet, I don't think she has any real confidence in how special and amazing she is.

One of the things that many, many women struggle with (I think) is not feeling "allowed" to be angry. We want what we want when we want it, but do not feel that we have the right to express that. Alita may be the queen of that. :-) When she is frustrated or disappointed, I can see the internal struggle play across her beautiful face. And then she stuffs the frustration or disappointment down, where it very well may fester into a migraine.

She is creative and expressive and mothering and total buddy material. She hates computers but her hobbies belong on Pinterest. She hates shopping for clothes, but could spend half a day in a hardware store. Alita is beautiful, painfully unaware of that fact and thinks that she has cankles. When she says that, I roll my eyes so hard I can see my brain. She is the consummate wallflower and drives me batsh!t crazy with that. But I love her dearly for her humility.

I love her faithful heart, her consistent ability to give of herself, her perserverance and that occasional flash of ire that makes her approachable. Otherwise she'd be dang near a saint, and who can relate to that? Alita is the kind of friend who makes me want to aspire to be a better, kinder person. Everyone needs an Alita in their life.

What I See - Holly

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Wed, 07 Mar 2018 00:05:00 +0000

I thought I'd run a little series on this topic, so let me start with a disclaimer: there is no order of importance here. I'm actually writing this in an order based more on longevity, but that is imperfect, too. Please don't read any meaning into who I write about in what order. :-) Love ya!

I have often said that you can tell a lot about a person by who their friends are. I have also mentioned how special my own friends are. Of course I think they are special, they're MY friends! But every one of them has qualities and life experiences and talents that inspire me and inform my life in some way. Today, I want to tell you a bit about Holly, and what she teaches me. Maybe it will inspire you to take a long look at the friends you love, and consider what they teach you.

Holly is the poster child of insightful journeys of the spirit. She is a seeker with an analytical mind and a huge curiosity. I love how she is so wise and intelligent, at the same time as being as open and naive as a child. She is profoundly humble. I don't think that she has any idea how beautiful and special she is. That's part of her charm.

Holly is the unique friend who understands that usually-hidden part of my personality: my tendency to wander down mental bunny holes and think about something from so many points of view that it wears out most people to even know what I'm thinking. She can spend as much time in those mental meanderings as I can. Most people just tell us we "overthink" things. A very dismissive way to describe it, by the way. If you have a bunny hole thinker in your life, please don't call it "overthinking". It is much more discerning than that. I'd be willing to bet that the people in your life whose insight or quick comprehension you admire, they're probably prone to bunny holes.

One of the things that I especially admire in Holly is her graceful rebound from some astonishing hardships in her life. Like many such beautiful souls, the painful parts of her history have made her both wise and wounded. Being able to live with wounds without bitterness or carping is a special gift. It gives her great empathy but also a realistic eye. That's a rare combination, don't you think?

I also love to be around intelligent, well-read, well-rounded people who are NOT know-it-alls. She is very accomplished, educated and working in a high power career...and still feels like she isn't very smart. Bwah hahahah. Not very smart. Funny.

So, yeah. She's pretty awesome. Smart. Funny. Curious. Wise. Humble. Beautiful. Insightful. A clean freak. When I look at my precious friend Holly, I see amazing.

And she likes my cooking!

Goodbye 2017, Hello 2018!

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Mon, 01 Jan 2018 20:54:00 +0000

A new year! A new year is a time for me to reflect and to plan to re-center myself and my intentions.

I don't make resolutions, generally. If you've been reading me for a while, you have heard that before. For me, trying to be better, do better, learn more and so on is an all year thing and not something I try to take on in one big bite at the beginning of the year. I still try to reflect on the past year and consider what I learned, the mistakes I made, the things I could be doing better.

There is an old superstition that says that whatever you do on the first day of the year, you will repeat all year long. While I don't believe the superstition, I think it's a fun exercise in setting your intentions for the upcoming year.

So in the spirit of both the remembrance of a year gone by and the plan for a happy and successful 2018, I will share my thoughts and plans with you.

2017 was our first full calendar year in our new home. I had always looked forward to seeing each new season unfold here, and 2017 is the year that happened. Each season was beautiful to behold, in spite of the fact that last winter was fairly brutal (the worst in 20 years, we were told) and this winter is shaping up to be about the same. So we labored through many, many feet of snow, the constant need for a fire to keep us warm. This taught both of us some important things, like to push the snow way back from the beginning of the plowing/shoveling, because there will be more coming and you run out of room to stack it.

We learned that some things grow very well here, and that our garden needs something. I'll be reading about that. Zucchini plants should not be yellow, and should be able to set fruit. But the lettuce and beets did fantastic. My kale was grand, the tomatoes were lovely. Broccoli Raab and Broccolini are NOT the same thing and I don't care for the former. The best of all, I think, were the green beans. Wow did we ever have beans. We ate them fresh often. I pickled some, froze a bunch of them. My basil did great, the lemon thyme was wonderful, mint and oregano and parsley... yes. This is good country for culinary herbs.

2017 was the first year we had nice guest accommodations, and the visitors to use them. Oh, what fun that was! We had a grand time with a series of guests, enjoying different activities with each one, but enjoying wine and food and beautiful Montana with all. Each one made us feel so blessed to have them in our lives. I absolutely do judge people by their friends, and by that measure, I am friggin awesome.

It was also the year of my gut's salvation. It was nearly a year ago that my cherished friend Michelle succeeded in convincing me to try kefir. I bless her every day for that, for words do not do any justice at all to the transformation in the way I feel. It was also the year I learned much more about making a traditional sourdough culture and using it successfully in bread. The combination of those two things has given me a freedom in my health that beggars description. I don't think I will ever be 100% free of IBS issues, but I am so much better that thinking about it almost enough to bring me to tears.

2017 was also my Year of the Mushroom. My natural reaction to a mushroom was to recoil. 2017 taught me about hunting for morels, new ways to cook mushrooms, new types to try, and (thanks to my darling youngest son) taught me about the health benefits of mushrooms. I love learning new things and learning about new delicious things that support good health is even better.

The year saw me circle back in my work life, returning to full-time work in insurance. The woman I work for is an amazing and inspiring boss and I love working for her. I have gotten old enough that I am not looking for a grand and growing career anymore. I just want to do good work for a good place and use the skills that come most naturally to me. This seems to be that place, and Teresa allows me the space and the tools to do it.

2017 was the year the first year in which I did not see my youngest son for an entire year, since he was born. Our oldest son was able to be here several times, but it didn't work out for the youngest, or for me to go to him. There are no words to describe how achingly I miss him and his sweet Risa.

So what will I do today to set 2018 off on the right foot?

I will cook a real dinner, with homemade bread and whole, healthful ingredients. I believe in the value of eating real food as strongly as I believe in anything, and I consider the wealth of healthy delicious foods available to us as a gift from God.
The house is straight.
I am writing. There is a new book swirling around in my head, unformed and unwritten. 2018 should be the year to see it begin to take form.
I took my damn nutritional supplements. I really struggle to remember to take pills of any kind and always have. Even if I leave them on the counter, near the coffee which I NEVER forget to have, I can look right past them. For the record, when I remember, I take flaxseed oil, lion's mane mushroom, a joint-health blend, turmeric and cinnamon.
I drank my kefir. The food I love to hate. It is totally weird to me that something I detest makes my mouth water. I figure that is my gut's message that this is good food which I need.
I'm going to spend some time reading and some time playing my guitar.
I will reach out to friends and family and just let them know I care about them.
Right now, I'm going to carry some firewood up so that Sweet Hubs doesn't have to. For, of all the things I should devote time to every day, my marriage is at the top of the list.

What will you do to set your intentions for 2018?

Small Life, Small Stress, Small Wonder

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Mon, 25 Sep 2017 16:15:00 +0000

I sit here drinking sweet, creamy coffee and enjoying the falling rain (which we so desperately need). You may have seen news reports about the fires in Montana. I think the state has suffered more acres of fire than it has since the Great Burn in 1910. While we haven't had any fires very near our house, we have of course been on high alert and have been thoroughly smoked. The rain is a relief and a blessing.

We have enjoyed a summer of hot days in the lake, plentiful eating from our garden and some amazing quality time with dear, dear friends. Now it's time for fall fishing, dinners outside by the fire and long talks in the hot tub.

What can be better for your health than near-zero stress, plenty of activity, good, fresh food, two good dogs and few worries. We are both working at jobs we like, with options available for growth in other arenas.

And yet I feel like I am not doing as much as I could, should...would. I intended to cook more with Holly. I intended to hike with Michelle. I have a book that wants to come out. Practice my guitar until I don't struggle so much with playing an F chord. My garden needs weeding, and I didn't get around to planting much of a fall crop. Oh, I also intended to get more blogging in. LOL.

I started a second job recently. Back to the world of insurance. What was I thinking? :-) Switching gears gets more difficult as you age, you know. I answer the phone and have to really think about what to say. Where am I?

We entertained some new friends a few days ago, and I hear of all the cool things they're doing (they're retired) and I don't even make a picture of that kind of free time. Maybe someday. My days are full and my life is full. They're full of good, fun things, full of a strong loving relationship, full of warm thoughts of beloved friends and family, even when I haven't talked to them in a long while.

The largest stress in my life these days is a constant concern that my loved ones know how deeply I care for them. So to you, my dearest ones, I send all my love and warm thoughts.

Community

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Thu, 27 Jul 2017 15:47:00 +0000

I've been struggling to frame my thoughts on this subject for the last several days. As so often happens, tragedies around me put me into a quagmire of overthinking and a heart aching for the pain of people I might not even know.

The story made national news. Ten people were killed by a flash flood in central Arizona, near the town of Payson.

Payson was our home until last year. Sweet Hubs grew up there, and I lived there for 35 years. When I think of what makes a community special and admirable, it is clear to me that Payson has those qualities. It was a lovely place to grow our family and we lived there very happily.

The people come together to help neighbors and strangers alike. They care for strangers who have been evacuated from their homes. They support neighbors who have huge medical bills. In this particular case, people from Payson helped with the search, brought great support to the searchers and prayed with all their strength. Now they grieve with the survivors and families.

Maybe I am over-generalizing here, but it seems as if being part of your community for a city dweller consists of things like paying your HOA fees and maybe serving on the board, and attending assorted fundraisers to support the museums or organized charities you favor. Being a part of your community in Small Town, America means bringing a covered dish to the bereaved, cookies and Gatorade to forest firefighters, cash to the benefit to support the young family with the stricken child, blankets to your neighbor whose furnace went out and dinner to the elderly neighbor down the way. It is a personal, hands-on approach to helping others. You help them one at a time, as needs arise. It is not the same as donating money to a cause; it is putting your own actual hand out to touch another human being in need.

When you know the people who are affected by some tragedies, I think it opens your heart to hurt for and want to help the strangers who suffer other tragedies. Yes, Payson people (me included) often grumble(d) about the huge influx of summer visitors from the desert, the ones looking to cool off in the pine trees after spending all week in the cactus and asphalt. But let something like this tragedy at Water Wheel happen, and it doesn't matter that these were visitors. Payson people were there, searching, comforting, supporting, waiting, helping in any way they could.

So here we are, the "new neighbors" in rural Montana. I see the same small-town attitude toward community here, and I love that. It's good for my soul to see the generosity and kindness in people. It offsets the headlines by reminding me that people really are good and kind and caring. No, that isn't the kind of story that makes the headlines. It's the story of life. It's the story of community.

Of Ticks and Radishes

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Mon, 19 Jun 2017 19:38:00 +0000

What a strange day it was!

I found a tick burrowing into the skin of my neck. Horrid little creatures. Have you ever noticed how, after having an encounter with a tick, spider or mosquito, we imagine every little twitch and itch must be another creepy crawly thing on us? Alas.

I also got a thistle sticker in one finger and slammed another finger in the door. These three things made me think it was going to be a bad day, but I was wrong. For the sun came out, I got to work in the garden a while and picked some radishes and salad greens.

Radish tops are lovely things, pretty as the bright radish root itself. It has always felt like a waste to me to throw those tops away, so I looked around for ideas. I tried roasting them like you would kale for chips. Total disappointment. Don't bother. The flavor is good, but the texture is just..... not.

Then I saw a recipe for radish top soup. Hmmm. I changed it up a bit, using what I had on hand, and bless my britches, it was good! Be advised that if potato soup makes you fart like a steer, this will too.

Radish Top Soup

4 good sized potatoes, peeled and diced.
About 4 cups of loosely packed radish tops, trimmed of the tough middle rib.
1 leek, well washed and sliced thin.
2 ribs of celery, with the leaves, diced.
About 4 cups of good chicken stock, homemade is best. 😉
1/2 cup of half and half or heavy cream.
Salt and pepper.
Two tablespoons or so of butter.
Chenin blanc to taste.

Melt the butter in a large saucepan. Add the leeks and celery and saute until translucent, while sipping some of that Chenin blanc. Add the potatoes and radish tops and saute until the tops start to soften. Sip some more. Add the chicken stock and simmer for about 30-40 minutes, until the potatoes are soft soft soft. 30-40 minutes should be ample time to finish your first glass of Chenin blanc.

Puree the cooked potatoes and radish tops in a blender or using your stick blender (my method). Return to the saucepan and bring back to a good simmer on low heat. This should only take about 5 sips. Stir in the half and half or cream, add salt and pepper to taste, garnish with a few thin slices of radish and serve with more Chenin blanc and some good bread.

Well, OK. You got me. I actually made my soup with Guinness to taste, but still......

I served this with grilled chicken drumsticks, a salad fresh from the garden and yesterday's sourdough bread. Strawberries for dessert and life is good.

Garden of Discrimination

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Thu, 01 Jun 2017 18:39:00 +0000

I worked a while in my happy little garden.

Seeds are germinating, the transplanted tomatoes and peppers, etc., are settled in happily. Among these are three artichoke plants I am excited about having. I love artichokes!

I planted them in a bed of good soil, deeply dug and well drained. I formed a little well in the bed so that water will stay in the bed to soak in, instead of running off. I pulled weeds that were already showing up in there.

One of those weeds was a thistle. We have a lot of thistles around; they are a ubiquitous weed here. The irony struck me that I was battling thistles I didn't want in a bed of thistles I did want. Thistle discrimination is what that is. Right?

Help Me, Rhonda!

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Fri, 19 May 2017 13:50:00 +0000

OK, so I went a little bonkers in the garden and am sure I overplanted it. If half of what I planted actually grows, it will be a jungle out there.

If anyone out there has a tip for how to just frickin' chill when you're deciding what to plant, I'd love to hear it. It doesn't help that I love vegetables and fresh foods and it's spring! Spring time makes me hungry for bright, fresh foods, green things, sunshine, tank tops and long, quiet evenings outdoors.

I look forward to the waxing warmth and coming summer every year. And every year, I look forward to the cool, crisp autumn with its beautiful change of color and light. Then I look forward to the first snowfall. This past winter, I sure was looking forward to the LAST snowfall!

The change of seasons, the seasons of life, growing babies, new adventures... each thing is a wonder to behold and I love seeing it all unfold.

Last night, Sweet Hubs and I were sitting on the porch looking down at the lake and I saw something I couldn't identify swimming out there. So I got the binoculars and had a look: it was a pair of Canada geese with their gosling. To quote my friend Alita, Oh My Giddy Aunt! That little fuzzball was swimming around with all the joy and abandon of childhood, mumsy and pops keeping a close eye for predators, and I was charmed right down to the marrow. Then Sweet Hubs pointed out another family of geese, and this one had five goslings paddling their little flat feet around that bay, little dabs of fuzzy yellow on the green-blue water. Naturally, I just melted into a puddle of goo at that point. Is there something out there that is cuter than a fluffy gosling or duckling?

It's easy to see that some of the deer are pregnant, the way their midsections are bulging unevenly, one side pushed out forward, the other side back and that sort of thing. Even after their fawns are born, we won't see them for a while. Mommas keep them carefully hidden for a good while. If you happen to stumble upon one, curled into a dappled red ball, the adorableness of it is almost painful.

I'm sitting here, drinking sweet, creamy coffee and watching the day wake up. My house is a mess, thanks to time spent in the garden instead of doing my indoor chores, and I have a long list of to-dos. That's a good feeling, because at the end of the day I know I'll be able to stand back and see what I accomplished. The pleasure of a visible result for your labors is one of my favorites.

But it's spring, and I really want to be outside.

Foraging and Other Dirty Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Wed, 17 May 2017 15:58:00 +0000

It's morel season in this part of the world and this was my first year scrounging around for the little yummy mushrooms.

A nice, quiet walk on my own property, Sweet Hubs watching our four-legged furry babies, since the dogs kinda take all the peace out of it for me, and looking around for fungus. Aren't they a beautiful thing? I've found enough to have them with dinner several nights now. Morels are very expensive to buy. Finding some on my own patch of ground relieves me of the desire to buy some, just so I can experiment with how to cook them. Foraging is the most frugal kind of living of all, right? Oh, and just to be clear: yes we are hunters, and apparently gatherers, but I didn't collect the snail there to eat that, too.

My darling Sweet Hubs has been working on a garden patch for me. He built the fence, put together the raised beds, and now all he needs to do is finish a gate since a fence is pointless with a giant hole in it, right?

Is there a more beautiful place in the world to garden than this? Wild berry bushes on the right side there, a view of the lake beyond and a screen of trees around me make this a favorite place. I will probably want to put a little bench near there so I can just sit and look. Happy, happy sigh.

I planted the seeds yesterday and my nails are stained that happy garden-dirt kind of stain. There is a bit of a mud hole right at my feet when I stand at this vantage point and our clay soil sticks to my shoes like crazy. It's dirty work, but that's a big part of the fun.

Kudos to my Sweet Hubs, too, for his tact. He is a far more experienced gardener than I, but he is letting me try this on my own. He is sweetly answering my questions and giving advice when I ask for it, but he is letting my do it myself. I know that is difficult to watch a greenhorn try something and you see them making mistakes (which I am sure I am!), and letting them learn for themselves. How I love that man!

So my boots are all muddy and my nails are stained. I have sticks and things in my hair from pushing through trees to get at the mushrooms. Sweet Hubs pulled a tick from my hair before the little monster bored into my skin. It's a dirty, sweet life.

Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Sun, 14 May 2017 21:02:00 +0000

She doesn't know that it's Mother's Day. She still remembers that she has children, but doesn't always remember how many. She never remembers how old we are.

She loved the yellow roses, but she doesn't recall that she got them. Even when she sees them there in their vase, they mean nothing. When I call her, she won't be able to carry on a sensible conversation, but I'll call anyway. It doesn't mean anything to her, so I'll call for me. And I'll hang up feeling worse, but I'll call anyway.

There are thousands upon thousands of people like me in the country: people whose mother is still living, but who no longer have the mother they once had.

Who was the mother I once had?

She was complicated. She was strong willed, stubborn, creative and intelligent. She kept her feelings closely guarded and didn't generally allow people to get too close. She had her sister and her mother, all of them having gone through the war together, and so she never felt the need for any friends. She was both thrifty and extravagant. She was both selfish and generous. She was honest, and yet she was manipulative. In other words, she was just like all people: full of contradictions.

Mom taught me how to cook, sew, can and bake. She taught her children to not be wasteful, to try new foods with an open mind and be grateful for all that we had. And yet, she is one of the pickiest eaters I've ever met. We were allowed to walk in after school and tell Mom we were hungry, but say "I'm starving" and you'd get a lecture about what real starving was.

She left religion up to Dad. She also left breakfast up to Dad. She could pull off a Thanksgiving dinner for 40 people and no one brought anything, but she made the worst cookies. She was the tenderest nurse if one of us were sick, but I can not recall my Mom ever telling me "good job" or "I'm proud of you". Mom taught me how to look for the intent behind the actions, rather than having to hear the words. She taught me to do things for my own sense of accomplishment, rather than for the praise of others.

She was a formidable woman, who kept a sense of balance in her life that was worthy of a high-wire act. She was the strong one, the wise one, the one who wasn't nervous or full of anxiety. She was the best cook, the best seamstress, funny, witty, wise and bratty, too. She was an indoor girl of the first order. Going for a walk or tending a garden held no interest for her at all. But she loved to dance. She still loves to dance, come to think of it.

She insisted on excellent table manners, but she would sometimes tell a dirty joke. She never wore makeup but dressed to the nines for a dinner date. She had amazing legs (still does for an 87 year old woman) and exquisite nails, and hated the cowlicks in her hair.

In these late years, she focuses a lot on saying that she was a good mother. She has also said that her children think she was not a good mother. Is that dementia talking, or does she question her own parenting so much that it even affects her dementia? None of her children, to my knowledge, has ever said she was not a good mother. She was a good mother! She was not like any of my friends' mothers, that's for sure. Even with all the many years of hindsight, I still don't know if Mom intended to teach the lessons we learned, or if she was working out her own demons. She was complicated. She was profoundly affected by the traumas of her life, but buried those things and got her balance back. Somehow.

My Mom.

This and That

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Tue, 09 May 2017 18:23:00 +0000

Have you ever noticed that, no matter how long the coffee has been done perking, when you pull the pot out to pour a cup, more coffee is going to drip onto the burner?

I bought a trio of these big beach-ball looking things that look like they have eyes, to hang on the porch. They were supposed to deter the deranged robin who was repeatedly attacking our windows until he was bleeding and puking all over the glass. The robin didn't mind the eyes one little bit. This morning, a hummingbird was sitting ON the ball. Bird deterrent, my ass. The only solution we found was to roll down the security shutters until this crazed bird got over his insanity. You would not believe the mess he made, though. Bird pooh all over the railings, the porches, the furniture out there.... sheesh.

The grocery store in Sandpoint, Idaho where I frequently shop has a lovely produce department with lots of organic and standard fruits and veggies to choose from. Last night, I opened up the fridge to decide what to make for dinner and was reminded again of how blessed I am. We have an array of good food options in this country, affordable and readily available. I bought broccoli, a beautiful eggplant, Belgian endive, carrots, apples, pears, mushrooms, onions, shallots, limes, tomatoes, kale and chard. I meant to pick up some beets, but forgot those. Between their produce department and my freezer full of game meat, I can come up with something good for dinner pretty much every night. Last night, it was eggplant parmigiana by a fire outside and a nice glass of Riesling to go with it. Life is good.

Why is it that the more revolting a dog food smells to me, the better the dogs like it?

My last post was about the wonderful miracle that kefir has worked in my life. I did want to mention that it appears to be something that I will need to continue to do as a regular part of my diet. I don't think it works to just drink some kefir, add those good microorganisms to your gut and be done. If I skip kefir for several days, I can tell that I have done that and my tummy starts bothering me again.

Sweet Hubs and I went to a local greenhouse/nursery and I fell headfirst into my spring fever. Flowers! Herbs! Veggies!!! This is especially silly because the garden patch isn't ready for planting yet, and it's still too early for a lot of things here. That didn't stop me, though. The nice folks who own the nursery were there and we had a brief chat. How fun would it be to have a job in a greenhouse? Except for the rogue mice who break in and nibble off the sprouting seedlings. I am excited for planting time; packets of seed are waiting for their new homes. Beets! Beans! Lettuce! Chard! Kale!And so much more. It's going to be a fun summer. I love being able to eat as seasonally as possible and you sure don't get any more local.

Rooster Cogburn has learned to love chasing a ball almost as much as Chloe loves it. He has a wonderful habit of bringing the tennis ball to the water trough, dropping it in there while he gets a drink, and then bringing this sopping wet, slobbery, slimy, filthy tennis ball to me. From behind. And pushing it on my butt to get my attention.

Which it does.

Happy Happy Pee Pee Dance

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Thu, 04 May 2017 20:35:00 +0000

I mentioned in a previous post about my gratitude to my sweet friend Michelle for encouraging me to try kefir for my digestive issues. She had mentioned it a few times over the years, but being a doubting Thomasina like I am, I didn't really give it a lot of thought. Then Michelle twisted my arm up behind my back (a move she learned from her law-enforcement hubs) and told me to stop resisting.

OK, she didn't. But no one can resist Michelle for very long and I was getting desperate, so I tried it.

I ordered milk kefir grains from Amazon. There are a bunch of places to buy them.

The grains arrived in a little foil pouch, very quickly and with a complete instruction sheet. "OK," I tell myself, "Here goes nothing."

It took a couple of weeks for my kefir grains to revitalize, partly due to the fact that it was February and colder than a well-digger's patootie here, but I did finally get the thick, tangy, cultured milk product I was supposed to.

I've mixed it with strawberries and honey and vanilla. I've done a secondary culture on it with citrus peel. I've turned it into ranch dressing, kefir cheese and a coffee slush. No matter what I do to it, my taste buds don't appreciate kefir one bit. But my guts LOVE this stuff. As in L. O. V. E. it. Kefir still makes my tummy a little gurgly, but it isn't the oh-no-where-is-the-bathroom kind of gurgly. I honestly have not felt so good in my belly in twenty years.

So I called my brother. Mom is in a care home with dementia, and she has had IBS issues for as long as I can remember. You can imagine that this is an unfortunate combination for her and her caregivers. Brother started Mom on kefir (she probably makes the same face drinking it that I do). He called me the other day to tell me that the improvement in Mom's ... uh.... "bathroom habits" has been dramatic. No more accidents!!! I almost cried. No, really. I almost cried. Of course, I texted sweet Michelle and told her about it.

I told my friend Holly. I told my sister. I told the lady at the grocery store and I've talked to the dogs about it. I might get a kefir tattoo and change my name to "I ate a salad and lived". Holly said she is trying cultured foods and her tummy is happier. Sister is planning to tell some friends of hers who have issues with such things. The lady at the store got a worried look on her face and backed away rather quickly, but the dogs wagged their tails.

To my friend, The Patron Saint of Happy Tummies, I send effusive thanks and all my love. To the kind folks who mailed me this magical little lump of probiotics, I hope you are blessed for all time with good health and enormous wealth at selling this product. To everyone else in the world, even if you don't have any gut issues at all, please do add cultured foods to your diet today. Read about the microbiome of your gut and how it affects your overall health. I'm adding kombucha to my diet now and I hope to try my hand at lacto-fermenting some veggies, if I ever get my garden going.

It took some heavy-duty convincing to get me to try it. Now I can't stop slapping my head for not trying it sooner. Go kefir!

Doggie Bluffing

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Wed, 19 Apr 2017 15:04:00 +0000

You may recall my having mentioned Chloe, our beloved rescue dog who is some sort of Cattle Dog, Aussie-Coyote-something mix. She identifies as a Cattle Dog.

Sweet Hubs and I argue cheerfully over whether she loves cows or hates them, because she barks and whines and carries on like an wild thing whenever she sees cows out the window from her spot in the back seat of the truck. As a side note, there is a gigantic black cow (probably fiberglass) as a sign of some sort north of Salt Lake City. It was always a highlight of the trip if we were driving past that during daylight hours, because Chloe went berserk and made us laugh. She nearly ruptured our eardrums with her excited high-pitched barking, but it was fun.

She knows to watch in certain areas when we are driving to town, because cattle may be close enough to the road to get excited about. As another side note, she is noticeably more excited about black cows than brown ones. I'm curious about that. If we are driving in unfamiliar territory, she watches open fields much more closely than forests. She's pretty smart.

Chloe has learned what "the other side" or "over here" means. If she is watching for cows out the starboard side, "over here" will bring her instantly to port. Like I say...she's pretty smart.

So we were driving to Missoula some weeks back, and there are quite a few herds of cattle sprinkled about between home and the city. Chloe was on high alert the whole time and having a grand time, barking her fool head off like the cows care what she has to say. (Let me say right here that I do get tired of this game, as she barks at whatever level of decibels it is that makes your ears ring, and I get weary of the constant whining and huffing she does until she gets close enough to one to bark at it.)

We were driving along beside a long field that was lousy with cattle, and Chloe was just having a grand time barking, whining and whooping, but they were all a ways back from the road. Up ahead, I noticed a few cows standing right next to the road, crowded against the fence and well within good smelling distance for Chloe. I said, "Roll the window down just a bit for Chloe and let her smell them."

Sweet Hubs pushed the button to let the window down a bit, Chloe stuck her head out the crack and SHUT UP.

Not a whimper, not a huff. No sound at all.

For all these years, and all these many miles, this whole entire time, she's been bluffing!!!

Chloe doesn't realize that she has now shown me her Achilles's Heel. Hushing her never worked because she was just too wound up and in the moment to hush. Now all we have to do when we can't stand her bravado anymore is roll down the window.

Silence.

Spring, Snow, Fermentation and Knives

noreply@blogger.com (Trish Iles) — Tue, 18 Apr 2017 20:00:00 +0000

I haven't posted in a while, have I?

Not that I wouldn't love to give you a valid excuse, but I don't have one. The snow is pretty much gone, finally, so I've been doing more outside stuff than I did through the winter. But that isn't really my excuse. I suppose that I just wasn't thinking of anything good to post.

So I'll throw some random musings out there.

A young couple who is very dear to our hearts had their first baby on Good Friday. He's a whopping baby at almost nine pounds and a beautiful blessing. It's interesting to me how so many women, even old ones like me, can instantly bring to mind their own first days as a new momma: everything from the happy confusion of those days to that warm, clean, kind of earthy smell of a brand new baby. The way it feels to hold their little round head in one hand and the tiny bump of a rump in the other and gaze in wonder at this miracle of God and the possibilities ahead. Something pleasant grabs at my heart whenever I think about it. My own first baby's birthday is in two days. He'll be 29. I still remember how it felt to hold him in my arms the first time.

A few weeks ago, the turkeys around here were just bonkers. The toms and jakes strutted, displayed and gobbled constantly. Just like domestic turkeys, any time they heard a loud noise (such as sweet hubs' drill) they would gobble at it. They also chased the hens around, while the hens appeared to try to ignore them.

That all changed a few days ago. Now the hens are more skittish and secretive. They have dispersed into smaller groups or singles and more of the toms are just being macho instead of horny. Yes, I think our neighborhood girls have their nest sites picked out and will soon be brooding. Spring!

A giant shout out to my darlin' friend in Arizona, MM. She has been encouraging me to try kefir (cultured at home for maximum good stuff) for my gut issues.

Oh my holy smoking cookies! OK. Yeah. I hate it. Seriously. Every time I drink it, I feel like a rat has been sleeping in my mouth. I don't care for the taste, even though I do like yogurt and pickles and sauerkraut and such. But you know what? It works!

Kefir has made a dramatic improvement in the way my guts feel. It still makes me very gurgly for several hours after drinking it, but that seems to be going away over time. Mostly, the constant feeling of having a weight in my belly, like I'd swallowed a brick, is pretty much gone.

And the other day, I had a small salad!!! Did you hear me? Raw lettuce! And I didn't spend the rest of the evening in The Throne Room. Whoo hoo, wootie woot woot!

I'm still tentative and timid about what I can eat, but I may yet get to a point of not worrying about it. Imagine that. So all my love, admiration and thanks to my precious MM. She is ALL that and a bag of chips!

Sweet Hubs and I walked around, somewhat aimlessly, trying to decide where, exactly, we are going to put the garden. This is not our first rodeo, of course. What usually happens is: we talk for weeks and then Sweet Hubs wakes up one Saturday morning and puts the garden whereever the mood strikes him, regardless of what he had previously decided. That works for me. He does this while I'm still in my jammies, so clearly I have nothing to complain about.

What will we plant? No idea. I'm sure tomatoes, potatoes, green chilis and jalapenos. I am hoping for lots of kale, chard, beets, herbs and maybe beans and peas. Wait. What? Peas? I don't even like peas. Maybe they're better from the garden, just like everything else is.

Last. Knives.

Yes, I have reached a milestone in my life. I now have two scars to prove that I should not be chopping veggies without my glasses on.

The first time, I was cutting up oyster mushrooms for risotto, using my big chef's knife and I cut my middle finger because it was closer to the edge of the mushroom pile than I thought.

The second time, I was cutting up oyster mushrooms for risotto, using my big chef's knife and I cut my middle finger because it was closer to the edge of the mushroom pile than I thought.

I guess I'm going to have to get one of those old-lady-chains to hang my glasses from, so they can be on my person all day.