The Pioneer Woman

A Recap.

Ree Drummond — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 17:07:44 +0000

I can hardly put my feelings about the past two weeks into words.

The release of my crazy little cookbook.

Launching it in Tulsa, Oklahoma City, and our wonderful little small town.

Traveling with my mother-in-law and sister-in-law Missy to Denver, then Salt Lake City, then Phoenix.

Meeting so many of you. Learning your names. Seeing your faces. Hearing your voices. Taking photos together, exchanging conversation, locking eyes.

I’ve loved every minute of it.

I’m only a third of the way through my Book Trip of 2009 (I’ll be in Little Rock, Arkansas tonight) but am home for most of this week to regroup, recharge, renew, regenerate, homeschool, and pick my toenails. And wash my clothes. And not curl my hair. And bathe as infrequently as I can without driving out members of my family.

But before I go another day, I want to share face/scenes/peeks of this past week. I have hundreds of photos and will try to get some slideshows up in the next day or two.

DENVER

Hi, Sweetie!

There were Sweeties everywhere. My hormones are going crazy.

Missy took photos of everyone. And they threw it right back at her!

Lovely. She brought me ice cream.

I met so many nice people. They got lots of photos of my violent sweat rings.

Note to self: silk tops in warm basement bookstore rooms are never a good idea.

Notice how I’m keeping my right arm plastered down against my body?

It’s a sweat ring self protectionist thing.

Sweet, sweet people…

And it’s fun to watch friendships form among strangers.

SALT LAKE CITY

Then there was Salt Lake City.

Where this unfortunate incident occurred.

And where I met this beautiful girl, who timidly handed me a CD of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Where I melted right there on the spot.

Hey, look! A boy! Most of the time, if we see a boy at one of these things, they’re there for one of three reasons.

Here are the reasons, in order:

1) They were dragged there by their wife, girlfriend, or sister
2) They were sent there by their wife, girlfriend, or sister
3) They are there of their own accord.

Not sure whether this guy was #1 or #2…but he was sweet!

And this guy…he was #3! I felt like bronzing him. What a rare find.

Beautiful babies everywhere.

Oh, help. This is not the least bit nice.

I want one!

And beautiful Utah bloggers!

Utah bloggers? If you’re reading, please shout out your blogs in the Comments section. I can’t find the card you gave me! It’s a laundry thing.

There’s something in the water in Salt Lake City.

Everyone’s happy, fresh, and hip.

Single men? You need to flock to Salt Lake City.

And fast.

Disclaimer: Not all women you see in these photos are single, and not all of their husbands would probably approve of single men flocking in their direction in any way, shape, or form.

So basically, forget I said anything.

More babies!

And more bloggers! Here’s Alison (far right) and Carina (middle), to name a couple.

The King’s English, I must say, is a magical little bookstore. It’s a winding labyrinth of charming little rooms packed with books galore.

Love you, Salt Lake City!

And once I figure out what substance caused me to sneeze 9,787 times during my visit, I’ll be back!

PHOENIX

And then there was Phoenix, beautiful Phoenix!

They forgave me my puffy eyes brought on by the 9,787 sneezes in Salt Lake City.

Phoenix was so welcoming. And see that guy in the back with the facial hair and the kid on his shoulder?

I grew up with him.

He was one of Betsy’s best friends.

Everyone in Phoenix is happy, too. Something about…the lack of Seasonal Affective Disorder or something?

Something about sunshine year round?

Something about spas on every corner?

I’m just jealous.

It’s okay, little girl. My puffy eyes were pretty frightening. I understand.

I’ve got to start banning babies at my little cookbook signings. They’re seriously bad for my health.

Do not be afraid, Little One. It’s just allergies.

Sisters!

And a starlet stopped by. Cute!

I’m having so much fun. And I look forward to irritating bookstores all over this great land of ours by talking to every single person I meet.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I do talk too much. I will concede that. But I’ve lived out in the country on an isolated ranch for thirteen years, and I’m just so happy to be around other humans. It’ll take me awhile to run out of words.

OTHER REPORTS

And here are some accounts of the signings, as told by other bloggers:

Sweet Tooth Fairy
Georgie Tees
Get Up and Play
Newspaper Girl
Utah Loves Cupcakes
Jet Set Carina
Moosh in Indy
Miranda Walker
Petit Elefant
Jules Keeps the Rules
Two Peas and Their Pod
Food Finery

IN CLOSING

And I want to say one other thing, because it has as much to do with you as it does with me.

I learned over the weekend that The Pioneer Woman Cooks hit the #1 spot of the New York Times Bestseller List.

That this happened is crazy. Completely and utterly crazy.

But it’s not so crazy, too.

Not so crazy, because I’ve had you to support me through the years I’ve been blogging, writing, sharing recipes, my dogs, my freakiness, and my foibles. And you’ve encouraged me along the way, make no mistake about it. Without you, I’d still be writing Gary Coleman stories. And I would a have run out of them in June 2006.

Without you, I’d be…well, I’d still be living on the ranch. I’d still be homeschooling my children. And unfortunately, I’d probably still be dressing my Basset Hound in American Girl clothes.

But I’d miss having you in my life.

Not that I’d know I was missing you.

But still. You know what I mean.

None of the last few years would have been possible if you guys hadn’t been here with me. Thank you so much.

I love ya more’n my luggage. Always will.

Pioneer Woman

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

Ree Drummond — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 03:34:16 +0000

This is how Charlie greeted me when I returned home late Saturday night.

And okay. This is how he greeted me.

But this is much more fun. Much more freaky. Much more disturbing.

And you know what? I like disturbing.

After four kids and thirteen years of marriage, I really, really like disturbing.

Disturbing is where I live.

Disturbing is home to me.

Disturbing reassures me. Comforts me. Makes me happy.

In that respect, Charlie is, like, the most perfect animal on earth.

Dang, is he one weird dog.

The Homefront

Ree Drummond — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 16:16:23 +0000

Marlboro Man, Charlie, and the kids have been living without me since last Sunday morning. We knew this first leg of the Griswold Book Trip would be a little tough, not just because I was going to be away from the four punks for six whole days, but also because I brought my sister-in-law Missy and our mother-in-law on the trip with me…which basically meant there’d be zero estrogen on the ranch all week long.

I felt a little uneasy about this.

Estrogen can detect fevers, after all, and soothe tired hearts. Estrogen makes homemade macaroni and cheese and tickles backs at bedtime. Estrogen softens the rough edges of 5 am days and uses words like “baby”, “sugar”, and “sweetpea” to address the children.

Estrogen sounds like a tweetie bird.

Testosterone sounds like a grizzly bear.

Estrogen = soft
Testosterone = tough

Country kids need both.

I cried salty tears last Sunday when I hugged my girls and said goodbye…and I’m not a crier. I try to be strong around my girls and show them alternate ways to respond emotionally to difficult situations in life. Laughter, for one. Giggling, for another. Chuckling works, too. But this time, as I said goodbye to them for six whole days, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I was leaving my sweet birdies in the nest. Who would bring them worms and pick insects out from under their wings? They cried, too. It was a tough one.

The boys? They didn’t cry so much.

In fact, they didn’t say goodbye so much. They were in the creek, digging for lobsters.

We’re a Spongebob household. And I don’t care who knows it.

Next week in homeschooling, I’ll teach the boys the difference between saltwater and freshwater crustaceans, and explain just why their lobster creek search of last week was futile.

But for now I’ll just let them revel in their oceanographic ignorance and enjoy their childhood. They have a lifetime to learn the harsh realities of marine life.

Before I left home, I made sure to pack my cell phone charger for the trip because I knew my phone would ring constantly with calls from home.

Mama? When are you coming home?

I miss you, Mama.

Mama, you’re the best mother ever.

Charlie misses you, Mama.

I need you, Mama.

I want you to come home, Mama.

Mama? Can you hear me?

It was coming. I knew it. And I was charged and ready. Ready for the onslaught of phone calls. Ready to sooth over the phone. Ready to soften…and comfort…and call them sweetpea sugarpie sweetbaby.

I’ve spoken to my children twice the entire time I’ve been gone. Between getting up at 5 am five out of the six mornings, homeschooling with Marlboro Man, hauling off broken twigs and sticks, and helping Marlboro Man cook and clean up after meals, my four country kids haven’t had time to miss me. They’ve gone to The Wal Marts and bought movies. They’ve popped popcorn and watched them together. They’ve sorted cattle and moved cattle and worked cattle and processed cattle. They’ve given Charlie baths and dressed him up in American Girl outfits, and they’ve driven to the city and eaten at Chili’s.

And yesterday when I called, lonely and childless from my Phoenix hotel room, the punks were too busy to talk to me. They were busy drawing pictures of one another as vegetables, then auctioning off their creations to the highest bidder. Then Marlboro Man bought all of the pictures at a 75% markup and launched into a discussion about the free market system.

Marlboro Man’s good like that.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to return to Oklahoma before they forget what I look like.

Those people need me. They do.

They just don’t know it yet.

Oh No I Di-in’t

Ree Drummond — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 21:50:19 +0000

Oh yes…

I did.

And I might have completely blocked it from my memory had my sister-in-law Missy not snapped these photos.

So thank you, Missy.

No, really. Thank you. It’s best that I see the truth.

I apologize to all of Salt Lake City,

Ethel

Thelma, Louise, and Their Mother-in-Law

Ree Drummond — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 13:26:36 +0000

I’m on my Griswold-Style Book Trip right now, and because Marlboro Man and the kids had cow, soccer, calf, and manure obligations this week, I dragged along both his mom and Missy, Pesky Tim’s wife. We blazed first to Denver so I could sign cookbooks and meet some very nice people while trying to figure out exactly how to breath at high altitudes while wearing Spanx (I never quite figured it out), then to Salt Lake City, where I’ll be signing cookbooks tonight. It’s the first time I’ve set foot in the state of Utah and I’m looking forward to meeting some very nice people while leaving my Spanx in the hotel room.

Spanx are mean. And wonderful.

To put this trip into context, I should tell you that in the eleven and thirteen years, respectively, that Missy and I have been married to the brothahs, the three of us have never once gone on a trip together. I’m not sure the three of us have ever been out to dinner by ourselves before; none of us could name a time. Something about the husbands…and the mud…and the gestating…and the lactating.

It’s kept us pretty busy through the years.

We didn’t get out of the Tulsa airport before the fun kicked in.

Missy is a bucket of smiles. Who needs diazepam when you can fly with Missy?

Though we all really need to do something about her addiction to sweet tea. Blech. Cough. Gag. Who would drink such a grody concoction?

We didn’t even get out of the Denver airport before my two traveling companions wanted to start shopping. Seriously—this shop was about thirty paces from our gate.

Move along, Thelma. Move along, Mother-in-Law. Denver Proper has plenty of stores.

“Ree, you should wear this to your book signing!”

Uh…no. That’s not the look I’m going for.

NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO! Don’t go in, Missy! I have a very important appointment behind the closed door of a hotel room.

Those two gals are shoppin’ fools.

They’re just so happy to have a little vacation from the ranch. Out of the house. Away from the stove. Out of the shackles. Freed from the chains. Stripped of all roles in life except traveling companion to Louise, a blogger who just wrote her first cookbook and lived to tell about it.

First we checked into our hotel room.

You can read my expose here:

My Hotel Room in Denver

But just you wait, Henry Higgins, until you see the hotel where we’re staying here in Salt Lake City. You’ll die a thousand deaths. Then you’ll faint. Then you’ll feel dizzy.

That reminds me of a radio play I used to enjoy reading when I was a little girl. It was called “Who Stole the Salad Dressing?” and there was a character in the play that was all excited about the prospect of marketing his top secret salad dressing recipe. He says to his friend, “We’ll make millions! Thousands! Maybe even hundreds!”

As a little girl that always used to crack me up, man.

After checking in, our first order of business was to eat food we could never eat on a typical night back home.

So we chose this place. It was just a hop, a skip, and a jump from our hotel.

Oh, baby. I’d never felt happier in my entire life.

I was so happy, when the waiter brought us this little dish of olives…I started crying.

Ask Missy. She’ll tell you.

And when this bread came with the sundried tomato-infused butter? I turned into a blubbering idiot!

My poor mother-in-law considered hightailing it back to the Marriott and ordering pizza.

She’s exceedingly elegant and dignified.

I’m not. I cry over olives.

Here’s Missy drinking water.

I know she’d want me to share that moment with you.

Appetizer. Good lands.

Fried zucchini slices so thin they dissolved on my tongue.

They were like Listerine breath strips, only zucchini flavored.

Mother-in-Law had fish.

Louise (that’s me) had salad.

And Thelma? Thelma had the audacity to order beef!

She obviously didn’t read through the rules carefully.

I’m having a wonderful time on this trip. Aside from getting to spend quality time with Missy and my mother-in-law, I’ve had the chance to meet so many interesting, hilarious, generous, and just plain nice people. I’ll keep you posted on our adventures on the road, as well as the updates from home, which Marlboro Man provides me during the 93 phone conversations we have throughout each day.

I forgot to mention: I’m feeling just a tad homesick.

The 93 phone calls help.

A Grandmother and a Gentleman

Ree Drummond — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:10:50 +0000

Mike and Ga-Ga drove out to the ranch Saturday to spend the day with my mom, the kids, and me. Ga-Ga wanted to see my mom on her birthday, and Mike wanted to fold my laundry.

Ga-Ga drove. Mike navigated.

Mike doesn’t drive. Mike rides. Mike rides in cars, taxis, airport shuttles, and fire engines. And ambulances. And police cars.

Mike can drive. We used to have a golf cart, and he drove that sucker like the wind—not just up and down the golf course (much to the consternation of Eddie, the head greenskeeper), but also up and down the neighborhood. My dad even had ambulance stripes painted on it so Mike would feel official.

I give thanks every single day he never hit a puppy.

My dad even let Mike drive his car (my dad sat in the passenger seat) to the country club a few times, just to give Mike a sense of autonomy—sort of a golf course community version of “dad lets me drive slow on the driveway” from Rain Man. And Mike really did okay. Mike can drive. He can stay to the right of the yellow line. He can accelerate and brake and apply the turn signal at the proper times.

There’s only one problem. Mike can’t control his obsession with ambulances and other emergency vehicles. And if he hears a siren or sees flashing lights, his head turns in the direction of the action and never looks back at the road.

I mean never. It’s like the road isn’t even there. He forsakes the road entirely.

This will forever prevent Mike from being able to get a driver’s license.

And you know what? Mike’s okay with that. He lives in a tiny spot in the world where the network of friends and family—all of whom, thankfully, have cars—runs deep and wide.

And though he’s a man of few words, he has his own little way of showing his chauffeurs his appreciation.

Hooker: The Next Generation

Ree Drummond — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 20:04:17 +0000

She’s one of Hooker’s puppies.

Remember Hooker?

Remember the puppies?

It wasn’t that long ago.

I love her.

And she loves me. I know it.

I can just tell these things. I communicate with all animals on a very deep level.

Call me Dr. Reelittle.

And okay, maybe I had a pork chop in my hand.

But I still say the love is there.

We’ll Get Back to This Baby in a Minute

Ree Drummond — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 15:21:01 +0000

But first…

Some scenes from last night.

It was Oklahoma City, my second home turf next to Tulsa.

It was a wonderful, magical night.

When I signed these gals’ cookbooks, I wrote which article of clothing they were wearing that I loved.

For example: that gal’s leopard print cardigan. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen and I want one. But I’m not cool enough to know where to obtain a leopard print cardigan, and if I ever wore one, I’d probably look like a desperate 40-year-old woman wearing a leopard print cardigan.

And I just don’t need that in my life.

These little boys were the most scrumptious little male punks I’ve ever seen.

Well, next to my little male punks, of course.

Oh, and this little male punk, who happens to be sitting on my hotel room bed with me this very moment. I think he has a dirty diaper, and as his aunt, I’m faced with this decision:

Do I offer to change my precious nephew’s diaper?

Or do I tell my sister to please go change her child’s diaper before I pass out?

It’s extremely malodorous. I think he ate a bad Arrowroot cookie.

Funny Book Trip Moment #324: These little girls asked my boys to autograph their cookbooks.

Oh, dear. All I could think was, I really wish we’d had some penmanship cram sessions.

Hours later, the little girls finally got bored and left. “Go ahead and keep the books,” they said. “We’ve got to get some sleep.”

GO, HOMESCHOOLING!

Or not.

Guess who was there? SMITTY BABY!

He’s cuter in person than I ever could have imagined. Good lands.

But I need to talk about this…this…human being. Take a moment; give him a good, long look.

And now I’m going to tell you his name.

It’s Neil. Neil. Baby Neil is his name.

I asked the mother if Neil was a family name.

“No,” she said. “We just liked it.”

And with that, I decided to get pregnant again. Because if I don’t get to have a baby boy named Neil sometime in my life, I’ll die an incomplete person.

Experiencing Hormonal Surges,
Pioneer Woman

Curlylocks

Ree Drummond — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 16:23:31 +0000

Curlylocks, Curlylocks
Wilt thou be mine?

Thou shalt not wash dishes
Nor yet feed the swine.

But sit on a cushion
And sew a fine seam

And feed upon strawberries
Sugar and cream.

You know something? From the time I first heard this nursery rhyme as a little girl, I’ve always wanted to be Curlylocks. I’ve always wanted to sit on a cushion. Sew a fine seam. Feed upon…anything with sugar and cream.

Not wash dishes.

The problem is, no one will let me be Curlylocks.

I imagine it’s because I can’t sew a stitch.

But still…I dream.

Twenty Four

Ree Drummond — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 16:29:34 +0000

The last 24 hours have been a whirlwind, a blur, and I have no feeling in my right arm. Right now, I’m typing with my left hand. Just watch what happens when I type with my right hand:

ogylsdoiufsjelrkjwerkjnsPAULISDEADjkhgsdopofisud

See?

I’m a blogger. I’m also a Tweeter. And yesterday at 6:42 pm, give or take nine seconds, I tweeted the following cry for help:

“I’m scared.”

And I really, really was. I was much more scared than I was before filming Bonnie Hunt last week. I have a fear of public speaking—an acute one—and yesterday evening as I was experiencing a wide range of nervous symptoms and feeling like a loser, I convinced myself that this fear is normal, some kind of residual human instinct that used to allow us to sense when predators (tigers? hyenas? velociraptors?) were watching us. It’s just that in some humans, it stuck around for a few more eras.

I am one of those humans.

Yesterday was the launch of my cookbook, the day it went from being “Available for Preorder” to “In Stock” in as fast as fifteen seconds. Much like Preparation H shrinks swelling of hem…

Never mind.

Anyway, it was a relief.

But then I had to stand at a podium and all my relief exploded into a million pieces.

But then…but then…but then someone I love came up and joined me at the podium.

Hey! I know that guy!

And all my anxiety melted away instantly. I’ll tell you what he said in another post. What I will say now is that I am going to be kidnapping my brother Mike and taking him on the road with me. He’s like a 5 foot 1 dose of Xanax.

My anxiety melted further when I got to meet the just amazing—and I don’t use that term carelessly—women, men, and children who came with their buddies, sisters, moms, and daughters to take part in what turned out to be a fun Q & A and meet other people from our area. A carload of fun gals even tailgated to the event, and parked a tumbler full of red wine next to me as I was signing books, and I just want to tell them, if they’re reading, the following.

“I love you.”

I’m putting together a scrapbook from last night (and will do so at all the stops on the Griswold Family Book Trip) and will share with you soon.

My head hit the pillow of the hotel room bed at 11:59 pm. Then the alarm went off at 4:45 this morning. Then I cried. Then I got up, loaded up in my Suburban, and drove back to the ranch, swinging by and picking up my punks at their grandmother’s house on the way, so that the five of us could meet Our Master in a cold and windy field two hours away from the site of my book launch so that we could continue the work of getting all of our calves weaned in the next month or so.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my life on the ranch. I never want it to change. I love the open fields and the serenity and the sunsets and the family life. It’s where I find my balance, my center, and my strength.

It’s just that I wouldn’t have minded a room service breakfast of Eggs Florentine and sliced melon, a hot stone massage, a lemon sugar foot scrub, a sushi lunch, and a facial or two before I headed back to the boonies this morning.

I’m a simple girl.

And I have very simple wants in life.