Another thing that made it really special was that many cowboys in the area, including Cowboy Josh, Cowboy Tim, and Cowboy Pete, Cowboy Chris, Big John, Earl, Brad, Justin, Justin (another Justin!), Derek, Dave, and Tyler, paid homage to Tom by leading the funeral procession on horseback. They rode down the hill behind our house, escorting the family down the snowy road that leads to the cemetery, where Uncle Tom was to be buried. These same cowboys were the pallbearers at the funeral service, and filled up the first two rows of the church with starched shirts and vests, boots and Wranglers.

And their spurs jangled in unison as they departed the sanctuary.

It was lovely.

 
 
 
I’ve seen this kind of horseback tribute just a couple of times since I’ve been married to Marlboro Man.

As I watched last week, I cried and smiled.

 
 
 
Cried, because Earl led Uncle Tom’s horse. In keeping with tradition, Uncle Tom’s boots had been placed backwards in the stirrups.

 
 
 
Cried, because a life has ended.

 
 
 
Smiled, because Uncle Tom’s children were reminded in such a perfectly fitting way how much he was loved and appreciated.

And for that, I thank God for cowboys.

(Every time I read or hear the phrase New York City, I think of the Pace Picante Sauce commercial where the cowboys are sitting around the campfire and one of the guys reads the packaging of a jar of salsa and exclaims

“Why, this stuff’s made in NEW YORK CITY!”

And his fellow cowboys cry, in unison, “NEW YORK CITY???”

And one of them says “Get a rope.”

Still makes me chuckle.)

…Friday evening, and for the rest of the weekend we completed some projects around the house, including cleaning out a closet that could have been submitted to a certain show about collecting things…and watching lots of movies.

 
My boys and I watched Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story. I covered their eyes during two scenes, both of which involved kissing, then uncovered them for the rest of the movie, which involved an enormous amount of blood, broken bones, and fighting. As you can see, I’m very strict when it comes to movies I’ll allow my children to watch.

My youngest child, having inherited his mother’s propensity toward watching movies then becoming consumed with the real-life stories behind them, is now obsessed with Bruce Lee.

 
 
He found a dragon ring in my jewelry box that I bought awhile back because I thought it would make me look and/or feel tough, and would be something I’d wear that would surprise people because usually, 43-year-old women don’t wear dragon rings, and it would be, like, soooo unexpected and edgy.

I’ve never worn it.

Not once.

And actually, it’s a gargoyle.

So never mind.

 
 
“Whaaaaa…CHA!”

 
 
So here’s how my baby’s obsession has manifested itself so far: We ordered two of Bruce Lee’s books Saturday night. Then, when I went upstairs to kiss him goodnight later, he got me in a headlock (a gentle one, but still) and practiced a few martial arts moves on my person that he’d seen in the movie. Then he said, “Mama, have my books come in yet?” This was three hours after I’d clicked “Submit” on the order.

The next morning, he asked me to help him search for information on Bruce Lee so that he could stew about him all day, then he asked me if his books had come in yet. I explained that likely a full day or two will pass before the order is even fulfilled, then it takes a few more days for the package to make it to our town, then it will take us a few years for us to find the package because sometimes they wind up on Aunt Janet’s porch or Aunt Missy’s porch.

Then he asked me if his books had come in yet.

 
 
This could be a mighty long wait.

My husband’s blessed mother does this at least once a year. It’s her special time with her grandchildren. They fish and play and build a fire, and they talk and lie back and look at the stars. They hear coyotes and owls and imagine bears that aren’t there, and Marlboro Man and I enjoy a night alone in our house, all the while looking at our watches and placing bets on how long it will take before one or more of the kids shows up wanting to sleep in the heated (or air conditioned, depending on the season) house.

My mother-in-law took similar camping trips when Marlboro Man and his two brothers were boys. I still bump into old friends of my husband’s who talk about their camping memories. One boy recalls a spider bite that swelled up the size of a crab apple and required a course of antibiotics. But aside from that, most everyone remembers their camping-on-the-creek experiences so fondly.

 
 
My mother-in-law invested in this tent last year since the kids are getting older and they all outgrew the original.

She’s very proud of her new tent.

I think she’s in this for the long haul.

Oh, how I love that woman.

Because it was so cold, I made all the food at the Lodge and delivered it to the campers to save my mother-in-law the labor. The menu is good, basic campout grub: beans and skillet cornbread, sausages with homemade barbecue sauce, and banana boats (grody for me, good for them) and variations on s’mores for dessert.

A fake snake also makes an appearance. I had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with this, of course.

 
 
 
And Cowboy Josh stopped by to tell ghost stories. Thank you, Josh. Three of my kids are still afraid to sleep in their own beds at night because of the heartwarming tale you told. Just look at my baby. The terror is setting in.

Of course, our watching Paranormal Activity 3 as a family could have had something do with it. Sometime in the future I’ll post in detail about my cinematic parenting approach, which prohibits my children from watching any movie that involves dating and kissing but allows any and all movies involving demon-possessed houses.

Anyway, I was so happy that we were filming the cooking show at the time of the campout so that the cameras could capture it. My favorite episodes are the ones where my kids and family are more the focus, and this camping episode fits that bill.

I hope you enjoy it!

Lots and lots of love,
P-Widdy

Yesterday was the funeral, and I didn’t get around to posting here. But what I’d intended to post was a newly updated version of a page I wrote for Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago wherein I listed, in no particular order, things I love.

Here’s my list.

Feel free to share things you love, too.

 
I love…

William Styron books.

Rain.

Babies.

West Side Story.

Marlboro Man’s goatee.

Dry humor.

Slapstick humor.

Friday evening.

Mountains.

Prairie.

Abstract art.

Jeans.

Gone With the Wind.

Napoleon Dynamite.

The Seventies.

My sister.

John Denver.

Silence.

Solitude.

My daughters.

My boys.

Orange.

White wine.

When Harry Met Sally.

Loretta Lynn.

My brothers.

Staying home.

Short ribs.

Goat cheese.

Mozart.

Pickles.

Prank calls.

Older people.

Children of a Lesser God.

Guys and Dolls.

Dryer sheets.

My husband.

Driving Miss Daisy.

The Godfather.

Lemon zest.

Cilantro.

Butterflies.

Hollandaise.

Tattoo sleeves.

Pink hair.

Blue hair.

Purple hair.

World War II movies.

Vocabulary.

Doughnuts.

Old hymns.

My grandmother.

Yoga pants.

Helen Reddy.

European History.

Gilligan’s Island.

Calves.

Horses.

Clinique Blue Eye Make-Up Remover.

Kindness.

My mother-in-law.

My nephews.

My nieces.

Black eyeliner.

Christmas Eve.

White towels.

My parents.

Cooking.

Les Miserables.

Nerds.

Teenagers.

Chaps.

My husband’s arms.

The English Patient.

China patterns.

Faith.

Wynonna Judd’s voice.

Adele’s voice.

Dresses over jeans.

Boots over leggings.

Mismatched silverware.

Charlie.

Early morning. I think.

Sense & Sensibility.

Creamed spinach.

Burgundy mushrooms.

The Graduate.

Cheese.

Fresh ginger.

Mother Teresa.

Ponytails.

Silver hair.

Roses.

Dahlias.

Cherry blossoms.

Dogwood blossoms.

Randy Travis.

Cotton.

Lord of the Rings.

Cold milk.

Friends.

Family.

Laughter.

Diet Dr Pepper.

(In no particular order being the operative phrase.)

Love,
P-Widdy-Dub-Diddy

I’m such a softie.

 
 
So my point is, suddenly there was a very large and aggressive bull standing at our back door. He was grunting as only a bull can.

Charlie and Walter were not amused. They were whimpering and growling under their breath, trying to act like they’d even so much as make a dent in this bull’s day by going outside and barking at it.

As if.

 
 
So my younger daughter, who feeds every creature she sees by hand if given the opportunity, ran out the front door to the bulk tank with a decorative laptop case and filled the laptop case with all the pieces of cake feed she could pick up off the ground beneath the opening. Then she darted back into the front door and traipsed through the house, whose floors had been mopped eighteen minutes earlier, so that she could give the bull some feed. Because it would be really great to train this bull to come to our back door every time he feels like eating.

Not.

So here’s what happened. I hollered at my daughter for running across the house with wet, muddy shoes. I didn’t yell, mind you. I hollered. It was something along the lines of “Look at the dang floor, dangit!”

I don’t think she heard me.

Then the bull ate all the cake feed. Then he started grunting. Then he tried to step up onto our stoop and I was afraid the bull was going to get hurt. I was also afraid our stoop was going to slip and get hurt. In addition, I feared for our back door. And to continue this line of thought, I was scared for my entire house, my children, and me. Oh, and the floor. That bull would make my daughter’s wet little footprints looks like a fine Evian mist.

And okay, her footprints aren’t little. She wears size eleven.

I threw on my boots and carefully opened the door, which startled the bull enough that he backed off the stoop. Then Walter ran outside and began howling at the bull. Then the bull turned toward Walter and attempted to charge him, and Walter took off running. I believe he’s in Kansas by now.

Then the bull turned back toward the door, and consequently, toward me. Then he grunted. I lifted my arms and waved them because that’s what I’ve been trained to do in these situations. The bull took off toward the gate, which is what I wanted to happen. Then I said “Yeah—and stay out!”

On his way out of the yard, the bull’s leg hooked on a thin rope I was using to hold up a little evergreen tree I planted in my garden a few months ago, and it caused the evergreen tree to be ripped out of the soil. I ran into the yard and held my hands to the sides of my face like Macaulay Culkin did in Home Alone except I didn’t look as cute. Then the bull exited the yard and gave me a final grunt, just to solidify the fact that he’d ended the whole thing on his terms.

Then I walked into the house and went into the kitchen to get a glass of ice water, neglecting to first take off my wet, muddy shoes. But I’m not going to tell my daughter this.

Besides, I still have to holler at her about my laptop case.

Off to tackle the rest of the day,
Pioneer Woman

How are you?

Are you taking any prescription medication?

(Name that movie.)

I have three things to discuss on this fine February day:

 
1. I just finished planning my upcoming cookbook trip.

I tried to cover as much ground as I could, and I spaced the trip out a little bit through March and April to allow me to be home and wear my holey yoga pants as much as possible. And get my garden planted. And feed my children. And watch Inception.

I would so love to meet you if you live near one of my stops, or I’ve met you before…I’d so love to see you again. In some locations (those that can accommodate an audio-visual presentation) I’ll be giving a very bizarre talk and I apologize in advance for anything that might happen. But after the talk is over, I’ll stay and sign books. And Marlboro Man and different combinations of our progeny will be meeting me at different stops along the way. Book trips, field trips…they’re all the same!

Here’s the schedule! (I’m hoping to add more stops—possibly Michigan, Wisconsin, Florida, D.C., etc—a little bit later; will post updates on this page):

PW Cookbook Trip 2012 Schedule

 
 
 
2. Tomorrow’s episode on Food Network covers a subject very near and dear to my heart and my love handles.

It begins with a C.

 
 
 
Chocolate is the name of the game, and I’ll be taking three of my favorite chocolate recipes and putting a new spin on them. And because quality control is very important to me, I taste everything along the way. Repeatedly.

It’s the kinda gal I am.

 
 
 
Because I made a lot of chocolate that day and because of the whole love handle thing, I had Marlboro Man and the kids deliver some of it to various loved ones in town. Fun Valentine’s Day idea, by the way.

Fun love handle reduction idea, by the way.

Did you know the best way to avoid eating treats is to give them away?

Ahem.

 
 
 
This show is slightly different from previous ones in that it shows a bit of a foodblogging angle. These photos I’m posting, for instance, were actually taken by me, using my camera, while the TV cameras were filming the actual episode. Trippy, man.

Since foodblogging is such a regular thing for me, I’ll be interested to hear how you like this format of the show. I have ideas for a future shows involving my taking dishes from the very first ingredient all the way to clicking “Submit” on a cooking post (the cooking, the tasting, the photos, the mess, the photo editing, the writing, the posting)…but first I want to make sure you’d be remotely interested in watching that figurative sausage being made.

Here’s more info on tomorrow’s show, including show times, etc. Lemme know what you think!

PW on Food Network

 
 
 
3. It is my firm belief that we are not going to have a winter in Oklahoma this year.

 
These are my boys. They attempted to go sledding one day last month when we got .0034255 inches of snow.

 
 
 
They didn’t think there was enough on the ground, so they did a snow dance.

 
 
 
It didn’t work, so they decided to give it a go.

 
 
 
This was nine hours later. It took them that long to slide to the bottom!

I miss winter.

I miss snow.

Marlboro Man, however, is very happy. Snow is hard on the animals. And he has to get out and feed in it. And it causes mud and slush and havoc.

But man, do I have a wicked urge to make snow angels.

 
 
 
In my wildest dreams, I can’t imagine why he attached himself to her. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that she completely smothers him with love and affection.

 
 
 
Walter is very, very excited in this photo. His heart is doing back handsprings.

It’s just that with Bassets, these things are a little difficult to see.

 
 
 
Oh, do these two love each other.

 
 
 
She talks to him in a voice she only uses with Walter.

“Oh, Whatoh Whatoh Whatoh…are you my precious perfect boy, Whatoh Whatoh Whatoh? Yes? Yes? Oh, yes you are. What should we do today, Whatoh? Should we go on a WALK, Whatoh Whatoh Whatoh?”

And Whatoh, in turn, sniffs her face.

 
 
 
Walter is very, very excited in this photo. His heart is doing hurkeys.

Okay, maybe not hurkeys. Maybe a jumping jack or two.

I have never, ever been able to do a hurkey in my life, by the way. Not one.

Grand Jetés? Yes.

Tour Jetés? Yes. One of my favorites.

Entrechat Quatre? Yes. I loved them.

Hurkeys? Couldn’t do one to save my life.

I’m not sure ballet and cheerleading abilities can coexist in the same body.

At least they couldn’t in my body.

 
 
 
“Say wha?”

Never mind, Walter. Don’t pay any attention to me. Only makes things worse.

 
 
 
“It otay, Whatoh! Mama wivin’ in da past, back when she could do da spwitz.”

 
 
 
Walter and his person. Two peas in a pod.

I love to watch them together.

My point is, while there are things Marlboro Man and I would love to do in the future, building a new house for ourselves just isn’t one of them.

Now, building a new barn? That would be exciting.

I can’t believe I just said that.

 
Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this is that when I went feeding with Marlboro Man the other day, he actually took me to a spot I’d never, in all the years I’ve lived on the ranch, been before.

 
 
 
This was exciting in itself, but then I made Marlboro Man stop the feed truck so I could get out and stare.

 
 
 
I was in awe. There, right before my eyes, was my new favorite spot on earth. Although I’d seen these same pastures from a different perspectives, this view was one I’d never, ever seen before on all the feed routes I’d gone on with Marlboro Man. It’s a view that’s pristine, and pure, and unadulterated. Hardly any sign of telephone poles…no buildings…no roads. No indication of what decade—or even what century—it is.

And it’s 3/4 of a mile from our house, albeit through some pretty rocky terrain.

 
 
 
“Oh my gosh, honey,” I exclaimed. “This is IT! This is where we can build our dream house!”

 
 
 
“What dream house would that be?” Marlboro Man asked. “The one we said we’d never in a million years want to build?”

I laughed. I suddenly remembered. The plumbing. The septic tank. The flooring. The switchplate covers I had to use precious brain cells to pick out. Where to put the electrical outlets. Where to put the heating/air conditioning units. I’d so much rather plant potatoes.

I shuddered violently. Then I came to my senses.

“Ugh, you’re right,” I said. “Never mind.”

Marlboro Man laughed.

“So instead, we can just move our house to this spot!” I continued. “People move houses all the time, and we really need to get away from all the hustle-bustle of where we live now.”

“And what hustle-bustle is that?” my spouse asked.

“Oh, you know—just the whole rat race of where we live,” I lamented.

“Uh, huh,” Marlboro Man remarked. “You do realize the TV crew just left, right? I think you might just be feeling a little tired.”

“No, I’m talking about our everyday lives—there’s just too much stuff going on over there,” I said, describing a location less than a mile from where we stood.

“There’s way too much traffic…” (Translation: Josh drives through in his feed truck.)

“Way too many drop-ins…” (Translation: The Orkin man stops by every two weeks.)

“Way too many people…” (Translation: We have four kids.)

“Basically, I’ve just got to get away from all the craziness,” I summarized. “We need to bring up the children in a quieter, more peaceful place.

“Okie doke,” Marlboro Man said. “I’ll go get the backhoe and you can help me run the lines for the septic tank.”

 
“Never mind,” I said. “I like where we live now.”

Then we went home and ate some eggs.

Here’s what I sing when I tell my daughters they can’t date until they’re forty:

“I am sixteen going on seventeen, I know that I’m naive. Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet and WILLINGLY I believe!”

They slink away in embarrassment.

Here’s what I sing when Marlboro Man takes me feeding:

“High ON A HILL was a lonely goat herd, lay-dee-oh-a-lay-dee-oh-a-lay DEE HOH!”

He quickly drops me off at home.

Here’s what I sing to Charlie when he stands at my feet:

“Small and white…clean and bright…you look happy to meeeeeeeeet meeeeeeee!”

It really doesn’t fit him at all.

And my own personal favorite, when I’m cooking and the family is watching TV and I feel they are unaware or unappreciative of my existence:

“…Show them I’m worthy, and while I show them….I’ll…show…me…sooooooo let them bring on all their problems! I’ll do better than my best! I have confidence they’ll put me to the test, but I’ll make them see I have confidence in me. Somehow I will impress them! I will be firm, but kind! And all those children…heaven bless them, they will look up to me, AND MIND ME!”

Oh, man. Is that ever an anthem of motherhood.

I repeat: the preceding diatribe had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with today’s post. Except the jam.

Thank you for loving me through these confusing times.

 
 
Tomorrow’s Food Network show focuses on a day in the life of our tiny homeschool co-op, which convenes once a week at my house or the Lodge or Missy’s or, in the case of one week last December, Pizza Hut. None of us felt like cleaning up to the point of hosting co-op that day, so we let Pizza Hut host it. But I made it up to them by eating my weight in salad.

Here’s my typical Pizza Hut salad bar salad:

Only the lightest, crunchiest chunks of iceberg lettuce
A huge pile of grated cheddar
A mammoth spoonful of chopped egg
A violent sprinkling of bacon bits
A meticulous perimeter of carrot sticks. They have to be touching.
A happy spoonful of pea salad
A meager spoonful of diced green pepper
Half a spoonful of sunflower seeds
A mild helping of ranch dressing
Two packages of Club crackers
Three if it’s a special occasion, which I did consider co-op day to be.

 
 
The day our Lodge co-op day was filmed, we had a pond water experiment planned, and I threw in a strawberry jam lesson because it’s a good way to teach food science and food preservation. Of course, because time is of the essence when it comes to TV show editing, the lesson on the show is not as comprehensive as it could be. If you’d like to read more about making/canning jam, here’s my post from a few years ago:

Strawberry Jam 101

I think I’ll try to do a specific canning show in the future, though, because mason jars give me reason to live.

But first, since today is the first full day of my being finished with filming for awhile, I’m just going to sit here and not shower.

And not do my hair.

And not do my makeup.

Oh! And speaking of makeup: after the first six episodes (which were the first episodes I ever filmed) I listened very carefully to your feedback on my gnarly makeup. You didn’t call it gnarly. You were very nice. But when I watched the first six episodes, I was the first to notice the following:

My forehead was shiny
The shimmer eye shadow I wore did not translate well
The glossy lipstick I wore did not translate well
Not wearing blush probably wasn’t such a good idea

I still didn’t want to get a makeup artist because that would mean I’d have to leave my house earlier in the morning, so I just concentrated on making everything more matte and unshimmery and embracing the reality that I am pale.

I’m learning. Slowly. Ten episodes from now, I may actually look normal.

 
 
The night before our co-op day, I’d made strawberry bars.

They’re so good.

They’re breakfast.

They’re dessert.

They’re a snack.

They’re everything. Except maybe an appetizer.

 
 
 
After we finished the jam-making in the show, Missy and Beth took the kids to the pond to collect water samples and I made lunch and sneaked in a DVR’d episode of The Real Housewives of Somewhere. Not really, but I was tempted.

 
 
Mercy. Do I ever love these boys. That’s mine on the left. I can’t handle his blondness and his boyness. It’s so wonderful. I cherish him.

And that’s Hunter, my friend Beth’s boy, on the right. I’m convinced he’s one of the ten sweetest human beings ever to walk the earth.

The episode shows a tiny sliver of the fun we have at our co-op. Mostly what we do on co-op day is have the kids collectively drill and recite material they’ve been learning for that week in the categories of history, Latin, grammar, science, macrame, square dancing, and advanced neurosurgery. Just kidding on those last three.

Although my best childhood friend did once have a macrame planter. It was ecru. And it hung behind their divan.

 
 
It was funny filming our co-op day, because apart from a few pauses while some lights were moved around, we just sorta proceeded as normal. The kids kind of forgot the crew was there.

I don’t think any noses were picked on camera, but I haven’t seen the final edit.

And anyway, I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

Have a wonderful Friday, everyone! It’s raining cats and dogs on the ranch, and I’m rejoicing.

(So are the cats and dogs. They’re inside on my sofa.)

Love,
P-Widdy Dub Diddy

Wait, never mind. That’s Jerry McGuire.

But it is all-encompassing.

That’s because when the filming is going on, I don’t cease to be a wife and mother, and all the juggling, managing, and balancing I do (and any mother does) on a daily basis continues…it just continues with twelve fewer hours in each day. No big deal!

Fortunately, my beloved is there to fill in the gaps, to keep the school plowing forward, to make sure the kids are nurtured and cared for and that the Ultimate Fighting matches that take place in our living room on a daily basis continue without interruption…and that some version of Real Housewives is playing on the TV when I finally walk in the door in the evening, completely covered in flour and grease and other forms of kitchen filth, reeking of garlic and onion and vanilla, makeup running down my face, clods of chocolate under my fingernails.

Marlboro Man is one lucky individual.

And okay, it’s not that bad. In fact this two-week period has gone really smoothly apart from Charlie finding that one bowl of freshly whipped cream, and I won’t be able to talk about that for at least a few more months. But because I have to pour every ounce of my reserves into Marlboro Man, the kids, and cleaning dairy products off of my dog’s ears, I wasn’t able to blog as much as I’d like to. Thank you for being patient with me. Now that shooting is wrapping up, I’m looking forward to crawling back into the cocoon of my school, cooking, and blogging routine, sucking my thumb and not wearing any makeup as I bring you such gripping and globally relevant stories as the time I shattered a doughnut case in a convenience store while attempting to retrieve an apple fritter.

 
My mom visited over the weekend. Here she is with my daughter. I’m sorry, mom, that I didn’t have my camera settings correct and that you are blurry. I’ll make it up to you in the hereafter, but I still think you look beautiful.

While my mom was here, we cooked and ate and on Sunday, my one day off, she went to church with Marlboro Man and the kids and me, then took the kids to The Wal Marts to buy books to read as well as motorized vehicles that required batteries, which my mom also provided. In other words, my mom is an angel sent from Heaven. I know this because she drops out of the sky right when I need her most and she brings with her messages of hope and joy.

But here’s the really fun part. My sister Betsy visited over the weekend, too. This meant that I got to hang with my mother and my sister, and this meant that my sister and I got to regress to our teenage selves because our mom was there to be the token adult. We performed our respective signature Nutcracker roles to the great amusement and ridicule of all the children, and unfortunately I strained a muscle in my everywhere.

 
But the big bonus for me was this: I got to see my nephew Elliot. He is a delicious morsel of a child, and he and my boys fight (and often kill) imaginary aliens in my house the entire time we’re together. Several times this weekend, Elliot came up to me and said “Aunt Ree Ree, look! See that alien right in front of you? I’LL KILL HIM FOR YOU!” Then he took the plastic sword my younger son had given him and he slayed the alien before he could harm me.

But the scariest part about it? I actually saw the alien. It was periwinkle blue, with yellow fingernails and bright green glowing eyes. It snarled. It’s a good thing Elliot was here; there’s no telling what might have happened to me if he hadn’t been.

I think a brief nap later today might do me some good.