The Pioneer Woman

Give it Up, Charlie

Ree — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 18:28:33 +0000

Basset Hounds are known for many things. Their long ears, for one. Their short legs, for another. Their droopy eyes. Floppy skin. Turtle breath. Snoring. And their manipulative, obstinate, I’m-going-to-act-pitiful-to-assert-my-will attitudes that just grate on your ever-living nerves until you just want to…

Sorry.

Charlie and I have been sorting through a few issues lately. Not sure if you’d noticed.

One thing Basset Hounds are not known for, however…

Are their fast-as-lightning reflexes. Imagine if you will: this photo was taken on a Tuesday. Charlie thinks he has Josh’s barn cat treed.

This photo was taken one week later, seven whole days after the cat casually leaves the tree and runs away. It took Charlie that long to realize he was supposed to move.

As Charlie’s loving owner, I really have no choice but to cheer him on and embrace him, no matter what he can or can’t do.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t get to crack up daily at his shortcomings.

It’s become quite the hobby of mine, actually.

Beauty…To Me

Ree — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 02:00:00 +0000

Is this

This

And this.

Beauty is this

This

This…

And this.

And okay, fine. This.

Beauty is sunrise

Sunset

Rainbows

Seasons

Freedom

Wisdom

Peace

And love.

I Need Your Help (Updated)

Ree — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 16:13:24 +0000

*Note from Pioneer Woman: Because of information learned this morning, this post has been amended.*

I have this book of old children’s portraits. Don’t ask me why I have it. I just have it.

I have other things you don’t know about, too. I’ll reveal them gradually over time.

The photos are from another time and place. What time and what place, I don’t know.

Oh, sure—many of the photos are totally harmless.

Some even hold a tiny bit of vintage charm. I’ve always loved bald babies.

God love her—this little one captured my heart.

And hey—Anne Geddes, 150 years ago! Who doesn’t love a chubby baby sitting in a pot?

I will admit that this photo gave me a moment of pause. You just don’t see this kind of thing in your local Sears Portrait Studio.

Although…one could argue that these photos were taken at a time when children sometimes found themselves in the position of defending their families from enemies.

So I’ll let the firearms slide.

I can also see past this man’s abundant beard and recognize that it was probably in fashion at the time, and besides…he’s just doing his best to care for his sweet daughter Petunia.

What I can not forgive is this.

Mullets have never been right, and they never will be.

Trust me. I had one once.

Now, I did find this somewhat charming.

I think.

And okay, this is relatively cute.

But then you have these. The Angry Ones.

The Angry Ones are everywhere.

Aww. Smile, precious! And the world smiles with you!

Oh my word. The Anger Sisters. Bless their violent little souls.

But at least…

At least The Anger Sisters were feeling some strong emotion. *Clap clap* Hello, children? *Clap clap?* Are you in there somewhere?

Maybe they just hadn’t had breakfast.

Ahhh. At least this little party animal came in to save the day for me. I was about to crawl under my covers and never come out. Thanks, Junior!

And I thought this little girl was very sweet.

Although…

Wait just a minute…

Hmmmm. I’ll have to give this one a little more thought.

But you know what? When it comes right down to it, I can see past most all of these photos. They’re all innocent children, after all, and I can understand the limitations of photography back in the old days. The subjects had to hold extremely still for a long, long time, and it couldn’t have been much fun for anyone, especially kids.

And with that…

I’ll just end this post with this disturbing old photo:

And leave it at that.

NOTE: I have removed the photo of Myrtle Corbin after incorrectly assuming that it was a hoax or a case of double exposure. As the sister of a disabled man, it would be the absolute farthest thing from my mind to negatively bring attention to a disability. Unfortunately, because of the nature of the book in which I found it, I had every reason to believe the photo was staged. My fault entirely for not doing my due diligence to get to the bottom of it before posting.

Goodbye Forever,

Pioneer Woman

The Early Days

Ree — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 16:25:15 +0000

(Pioneer Woman, Eighth Grade.)

The thing about being a “writer” for any length of time is that you can always look back at the things you’ve written and get a glimpse of yourself at another time in history. Ga-Ga recently handed me an essay I wrote about my brother Mike back in the eighth grade, and I roared. Sure, the stories about Mike brought back wacky memories of navigating adolescence with a developmentally disabled brother, but what mostly struck me was how much better my vocabulary was back then. I could tell I was being drilled daily, and possibly whacked with a yardstick or ruler.

I think I might have actually used the word abstruse.

What does abstruse even mean? And what does it have to do with my brother Mike?

Anyway, the thing about about being a blogger is, you have at your fingertips a time capsule into which you can peer to get a glimpse of yourself one, two, three, and in my cases, four years into the past. Over this past weekend, as I read some of the things I wrote back in 2006 when I was in my thirties, a few pounds lighter, and full of all kinds of hot air and hope, I couldn’t help but wonder:

a) Why anyone in his right mind ever came back to my site for a second visit

b) What I did with my time before I developed the bizarre ritual of photographing everything I cooked

c) Why anyone in his right mind ever came back to my site for a second visit

There was this poem I wrote, which I’d written and emailed to my sister Betsy in an attempt to poke fun at both motherhood and Sylvia Plath:

I’m a dull weed
Choking the spirit of my garden cohabitants
With my prickly shoots.
I hate.
I hate much.
I love although I hate.
My children wither in my noxious shade
Because I won’t let them use glitter.
They dream.
They dream much.
Of sparkly planets with glitter moms and painting with their many digits.
Dream on, losers.

Ree
Copyright 2006

Beautiful, isn’t it? Inspiring? Uplifting? I swell with pride just reading it.

And I just love how I felt the need to copyright this very important work.

The early days of my blog were also a time of catharsis, where I posted all the festering stories from my past—among them this disturbing tale of an exchange I had with Different Strokes actor Gary Coleman back in the eighties:

My Lap Dance with Gary Goleman

If you haven’t read it, basically I run into Gary Coleman at Benihana in Beverly HIlls and I…

Never mind. I can’t talk about it.

A few days after starting my blog, I tried my hand at poetry a second time with this masterpiece:

Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?
Their war cries pound my brain.
Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?
I slowly go insane.
Will you? Can I? Why not?
So goes the daily grind.
But wait–I am their mommy.
I love them.
Never mind.

Ree
Copyright 2006

Stirring, isn’t it?

Around this time of catharsis, I also shared a story that had gnawed at me for the ten years I’d been married:

Anything for a Date

If you haven’t read it, basically I was newly married with a tiny baby and was stranded out in the country and in order to get Marlboro Man to take me out for New Year’s Eve I had to…

Never mind. I can’t talk about it.

There were also my tiny Cowboy Colloquialisms, which I’d post here anytime I’d hear a new one around the ranch

“It’s rainin’ like a cow peein’ on a flat rock.”
Translation: It’s raining hard.

“He’s worthless as tits on a boar hog.”
Translation: He’s lazy and unproductive.

“She’s got tongue enough for 10 rows of teeth.”
Translation: She talks a lot.

“Big hat, no cattle.”
Translation: All talk, no action.

“Go piss up a rope.”
Translation: Please inform him I’m not interested in discussing it any further.

I’m as fascinated by these little quips now as I’ve always been.

“Honey? What exactly did Big John mean when he told me I was worthless as tits on a boar hog?”

And it just goes downhill from there.

Back in first days of my blog, I generously shared this photo of my brother-in-law’s cowboy hat with a present I’d left on the brim:

I felt the world—at least, my four readers—would benefit from knowing this photo existed.

A couple days later, demonstrating that not only did I know nothing about country life in general, I knew nothing about the mating intricacies of domestic animals, I posted this tale:

Love Will Keep Us Together

I got a couple of emails.

One read “Ree, do you know ANYTHING about country life?”

It was from my mother-in-law.

The other one read “Ree, do you know ANYTHING about dogs mating?”

It was from my dad.

He’s always been very supportive.

After that, I pulled out all the stops and posted a story about my elderly great-grandmother laughing and blowing a booger on my hand, and I figured that would be the end of my blog forever.

Unfortunately for both society and culture in general…

I didn’t stop.

The quality content just kept pouring out of me.

The P.R. in Kenya

Ree — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 02:25:36 +0000

Pastor Ryan is really just Ryan, but he’s also a minister at a church in Cincinnati. So when he and I became friends and he started contributing step-by-step recipes on The Pioneer Woman Cooks, I started calling him Pastor Ryan just for fun, and unfortunately for him, it just sorta stuck. “Stop calling me Pastor Ryan!” he would yell. So I would say, “Okay, Pastor Ryan.”

We’ve been great friends ever since!

When Ryan and his beautiful-inside-and-out wife Allison came to visit the ranch last summer, Marlboro Man and I got to eat his delicious food and spend a few days with two people who are so full of love and life, it almost hurts to be around them. Okay, so that’s not the right way to put it. What I’m saying is, I love the P.R., I love Allison, and right now they’re in Kenya, Africa on a trip with Compassion International. It’s a long way from Cincinnati.

I’ve been busy getting dirty the past few days and hadn’t spent a lot of time following the trip until tonight, when Ryan suddenly came into my mind. It was sort of a random, roundabout thing: I was watching Real Housewives of Orange County, the episode where Tamra, in a last-ditch attempt to demonstrate her love and devotion for her husband Simon, decides to get his name tattooed on her ring finger. So I’m watching the tattoo artist poke color into Tamra’s left ring finger, and I start thinking about how I don’t have a tattoo even though I’ve always wanted a tattoo, even though what would be the point of getting a tattoo at this point in my life, but I still think maybe…maybe someday I’ll get a tattoo. Marlboro Man’s brand on my left flank, maybe.

Then I think about the subject of tattoos in general and how I actually know someone personally who has a whole lot of tattoos, and he happens to be a minister in Cincinnati named (not Pastor) Ryan. So I start thinking, “I wonder how the ol’ P.R. is doing?” and I pull up his website. As it’s pulling up I remember “Oh, yeah! He’s in Africa right now!” and feel a tinge of regret that I haven’t been following his experiences. So I say “yeah, yeah” and think I’d spend a couple of minutes looking at his photos and say something like, “Neato!” then go give Charlie the bath he so desperately needs right now.

(Homeboy stinks.)

Instead, I was completely sucked in. Ryan’s photos from Kenya are so beautiful, and within five minutes I could hardly see the computer screen through my salty, copious tears. He’s doing an unbelievable job capturing the beauty and emotion of his trip.

If you’re a fan of The P.R., or even just an appreciator of travel and beautiful photography, spend a little time over there tonight.

I think you might enjoy it.

Love,
P-Dub

I Am in Love With This World

Ree — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 19:30:10 +0000

I have nestled lovingly in it.

I have climbed its mountains

Roamed its forests

Sailed its waters

Crossed its deserts

Felt the sting of its frosts

The oppression of its heats

The drench of its rains

The fury of its winds

And always have beauty and joy waited upon my goings and comings.

~ John Burroughs

My Nephew, A Pair of Earrings, and Other Urgent Matters

Ree — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 15:52:31 +0000

I have several urgent matters to discuss with you today.

1. Last week I received a small envelope in the mail containing these earrings. The note enclosed was written by my sister-in-law Missy’s aunt. In the note, Missy’s aunt thanked me for signing and sending back some cookbooks for her and her daughter, and said she wanted to send me a little token of their appreciation.

She further explained that she had specifically asked my nephew, Missy and Tim’s boy, what they should get his Aunt Ree as a token of their appreciation.

According to Missy’s aunt, my nephew loudly exclaimed

“EARRINGS. Get her BIG, HUGE, GOLD EARRINGS. That’s what she likes most of all.”

For the last few days, I’ve been trying to identify just what it is about this story that I find so funny. I don’t know if it’s my nephew’s authoritative recommendation about what I, his 41-year-old aunt, would like…or the fact that of all the things to recommend, he zeros in on the most dangly, sparkly thing he can come up with.

Either way, I’ll let you know when I find out.

Meantime, I scored these cute Betsey Johnson numbers. Thanks for the recommendation, Big Guy!

2. When I was on my cookbook trip, I learned very quickly that having casual Q & A’s were much more comfortable for me than my standing at a podium and attempting to orate. I much preferred just shooting the breeze with the folks in attendance, and invited anyone who had a question to ask away.

Carissa, who was present at my Houston event, captured this moment in which I was asked one of the more delicate questions of the day:

“Marlboro Man: Boxers…or Briefs?”

This was me attempting to be transparent and answer a question about my husband’s undergarments in front of a crowd.

This is me, unable to continue after attempting to be transparent and answer a question about my husband’s undergarments in front of a crowd.

Just thought you’d enjoy that Hallmark Card moment.

3. I’m working on a nice little facelift for this website, and in the process have been thinking about revamping my image. To that end, I’ve been consulting the internet for inspiration.

I found one that has really touched me in so many ways.

Created by artist Guardian Draca, I think this is the perfect starting point for my new look:

What do you think?

I want you to be perfectly honest.

(No? Would it help if her hair was red?)

4. It’s 9:43 am and already Mike has called me seven times.

I’ll go find out what he wants and report back.

Personally, I hope it’s something really, really juicy.

I just hope it doesn’t involve Hooters.

5. Before I left for New York for my GMA appearance last week, I received this email from my womb-to-tomb, birth-to-earth, we’ve-known-each-other-since-we-were-embryos best friend Becky, or “Beccus” as I’ve always called her.

Dear Ree Ree,

New York City is very far away
But Beccus is left back behind to pray.

Seriously addressing the problem of sweat
Wanting her friend to dominate the set.

Watching your face as it’s “here we are live”
Beccus is praying for not one hive!

My mind goes back to lunches at the pool
In the days where Snickers and fries were so cool.

Now you make the Snickers and season the fries
with lots of friends watching with loud cheering cries.

I rush to my Facebook with a new status post
To tell about you, but mainly to boast.

When you’re in magazines, I buy about ten
And tell the checker you’re my very best friend.

Thinking of you as your plane leaves the ground
Proud you’re aboard and Big City bound.

New York City was different as a teen
Now closed are the doors of Tavern on the Green.

But new doors are open and PW is in town
To cook and sweat and shake and get down.

She’ll miss her family and I know sheds a tear
When she’s in her hotel room and no one is near.

You smiled as you read that because you know it’s true
And Beccus is praying these next two days for you!

I know the thoughts and what’s going on in your head,
All I know about you comes from nothing I’ve read.

You’re the very same person, same friend, same freak,
As the muddy young girl who would play in the creek.

I know that I’m strange and your best Baptist friend
The one that will be praying for you ’til the end!

Now, go out on Thursday and introduce butter to all,
Good Morning America will be so glad they called!

Beccus

I read the email and cried.

Then I bought a Snickers on the way to the airport.

There’s nothing like the love of a good friend, is there?

The Prodigal Dog

Ree — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 02:04:01 +0000

George is back.

George has been our dog for years, but one day awhile back he went to Tennessee to stay with my mom for a couple of weeks.

That was eighteen months ago.

Long story.

Anyway, George has spent the past eighteen months getting his belly scratched, eating ice cream before bed every night, and otherwise indulging in terribly riotous living.

And now he’s back on the ranch. And he’s really, really fat, having gained about thirty-plus pounds during his time with my mom.

Fatso George.

He jiggles now, and Charlie wonders what this Beluga whale is doing in his bed.

I Want to Thank You…

Ree — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 15:32:02 +0000

For cheering me on when my cookbook was released last fall.

You didn’t have to. But you did.

For coming to my book signings, for waiting in line, and for being wonderful.

The memories are countless and priceless:

For sticking with me during, after, and in spite of, moments like this:

And for always making me feel like I can be myself…which isn’t always pretty.

For this.

My goodness.

Thank you so much.

For encouraging me to write this…and to continue the saga in a book.

To say I never would have written it without you is the understatement of the century. It simply wouldn’t have happened.

For reading things like this…

The Fruit Stripe Ordeal

And not running, screaming, from your computer and/or alerting medical professionals.

For reading things like this…

Grandma Iny’s Booger

And giving me another chance.

You really probably shouldn’t have.

For understanding the humor of a photo of a dirty, naked three-year-old sound asleep on the sidewalk.

And not judging me.

You might not know this, but not everyone out there would necessarily understand this.

For encouraging me to send this to John Deere for use in their marketing strategies:

And for agreeing with me when I decided not to.

For encouraging me in my photography, as I went from this…

To this…

And still continue to learn.

And for not emailing me phone numbers of psychotherapists back when I found it necessary to write about my rust colored Sassoon panties in 2006.

It was but a temporary plunge.

Into what, I’m still not sure. I just know it was a plunge.

And okay, maybe I got a couple of psychotherapists’ phone numbers. But only a couple.

Nine, tops.

But I’m not going to dig backward anymore. To be perfectly honest, I’m afraid of what I might find.

Instead, I’ll just proceed with my original purpose for this post.

I want to thank you.

As I read your comments on my recap post of my Good Morning America experience last week—and I do read every single comment I receive—I felt nothing but unbridled appreciation for your friendship. Among all the activities of New York—the making cinnamon rolls on national TV, the hanging out with George Stephanopoulos as he ate my pot roast—it was your feedback that turned out to be the highlight of my week. You’ve all been so supportive, so unbelievably kind…I felt that over the weekend, after I posted my story…I felt it Thursday, just before cameras started rolling on the GMA set…I felt it Wednesday, as I was filming Fox & Friends…and I felt it Friday afternoon in a snowy New York airport, as I waited to see if I’d be able to get home.

Most of all, I feel it here, at home in the country, day in and day out as I homeschool my punks and help Marlboro Man run the ranch (”help” being a relative term) and write for this website in all the available pockets of time in between. From my very first post in May 2006, to my very first recipe several months later…to my myriad rural adventures, tears, triumphs, and foibles, I’ve felt your support every step of the way.

It’s tangible.

It guides me.

This site wouldn’t exist without it.

And I want to thank you for that.

And as a small token of my appreciation…

This is for you.

Unless you’re a heterosexual male reader…and then you might want to click over to my recipe section.

I’ve always wanted this site to have a little something for everyone!

Love ya more’n my luggage,

P-Dub

Oh, What a Beautiful “Morning”

Ree — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 21:12:13 +0000

Here is my account of the events that happened in my life on Thursday, February 25, 2010.

***No names have been changed to protect the innocent.***

This is my dressing room about 30 minutes after I arrived, bleary-eyed, at the Good Morning America studio early Thursday morning. You’ll notice I’ve already plugged in my curling iron, which I used to further fry my hair, and my computer, which I used to Tweet how much I was nervously sweating.

What I don’t have a photo of is what happened when I arrived 30 minutes earlier. The producer who met me at the door of the studio walked me back and showed me to my dressing room, which had a sign on which the name “Ree Drummond” (That’s me. I think.) was clearly printed. Then I walked into the room to find…Bill O’Reilly sitting on the chair. I was confused…befuddled…worlds were merging and crashing in on me and I suddenly wondered who and where I was. “Is this Fox?” I asked. The more lucid GMA producer assured me that no, this wasn’t Fox. Mr. O’Reilly has a segment on GMA in a bit, and he must have gotten the dressing rooms mixed up.

Mr O’Reilly immediately stood up and apologized. Then I apologized. Then he apologized. Then I said, “I’ll just switch rooms with you,” and he said, “No, I’ll go in the right room,” and then I said, “Are you really Bill O’Reilly?” and he left.

Then I just stood there, wondering what had happened and if it had all been a dream.

Then, when he went onto the set for his segment, I signed one of my cookbooks “Sorry I kicked you out of my dressing room, man!” and stuck it in his dressing room under his phone and eyeglasses. I kinda wanted to call Marlboro Man from his phone and say, “I’m calling from Bill O’Reilly’s phone,” but I decided that would be overstepping.

This whole encounter completely knocked my brain off its track, if it was even on a track to begin with, which it wasn’t. It was the perfect start to my day!

Inside Edition (snicker snicker): Bill O’Reilly is very quiet, very polite, very reserved, and very tall. And very slim. And well dressed, too.

And probably wondering what an obnoxious orange cookbook was doing in his dressing room when he returned from his segment.

I’d taken the liberty of bringing every top in my suitcase, and originally planned to wear the light taupe number with the black frilly/freaky design. I wound up wearing the teal blousy thing on the far left, though, which wound up making me look a little on the pregnant side, but I’m not necessarily trying to sell myself as Jillian Michaels, so all is well.

I’m more about the gravy than the awesome abductor muscles.

Then my editor Cassie showed up. She believed in me back when she probably shouldn’t have, and she has never once tried to edit out my weird freakishness.

I like that in an editor.

Not that I know any other editors, but still.

Around 7:30, I went downstairs to get a lay of the land (tables), which had been artfully arranged and prepared by…

Karen, an angel who helped corral and manage and prepare all the food.

She made my job so easy, I actually tried to buy her so I could take her back to the ranch with me. Oh, the things I could accomplish with Karen in my life!

Unfortunately, she declined my kind offer.

I only had ten bucks on me.

After awhile, it was time to go up to the set for some live shots, which they film as teasers before commercial breaks. Here, I’m talking to Maria the producer, whom I want to be when I grow up.

Except I think she’s quite a bit younger than me.

But still.

News Anchor JuJu Chang came over before my first live shot, just to say hi. She was beautiful. And I, in turn, responded by acting like The Fonz.

What am I doing in this photo? If anyone in Heaven or on Earth has the answer, please email it to me at your earliest convenience.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Then Robin Roberts, who can only be described as statuesque and resplendent, popped over to introduce herself.

Then she pointed to the various chuckwagons here and there and asked, “Are these hokey?”

I assured her that yes, they were, but that since I’m hokey, too…they’re the perfect fit!

Robin and George had some fun conversation…

I’ll cover George later. But let’s just say…

Never mind. I’ll cover George later.

JuJu and Sam Champion, the Weather Anchor, joined me for one of the teaser/live shots, then Sam grabbed one of the carrots out of my pot roast and ate it on the air.

“Sam grabbed one of the carrots out of my pot roast and ate it on the air…”

I’m just reporting the vital facts here, people. Just the facts. You can always depend on me for the most important news of the day.

At this point, the nervousness had really set in.

And speaking of reporting the important facts, I will admit that because of the thinness of the teal material of my blousy shirt, as a preventative measure I had carefully wadded up two paper towels and shoved one under both of my armpits. I didn’t want rings of fire on my lovely teal blouse, let alone on national TV. That would definitely have sullied what had been, so far, a remarkably fun experience.

The problem was, I kept getting called over to the table for live teaser shots before commercial breaks. Afraid I’d hold my arm up and knock one of them loose on the air, I had to remove the wadded paper towels each time they called me—and quickly enough to get over to the table, since I usually only had about fifteen seconds to get there each time.

The other problem was, I didn’t want to reach into my lovely teal blouse and remove two wadded up paper towels in front of the crew, the anchors, and the audience, who normally would be outside on the sidewalk but who’d been invited inside because of the snow. So I found what I started referring to as My Special Place, way behind one of the upright walls of the kitchen set. And I had to dart back there, remove the wads, and dart back out within fifteen seconds. My Special Place was my sanctuary.

The third time I darted back to My Special Place, however, a crew member—a tall man with a beard—was there. Having no other options, I said “I’m sorry, but…” and I yanked the wads from my shirt right in front of him.

Then he looked up at the ceiling and said, “I didn’t see anything!” and that made me sweat even more.

I’ll be seeking medical, spiritual, and psychological help for this malady.

And I’ll probably avoid sheer teal material on any future TV appearances.

Soon, minutes before my segment was to begin, the other table of food—which included individual plates for the anchors—was wheeled in.

Mmmm…pot roast. Me likey pot roast.

I’m getting ready to be on live national TV.

Dear Lord, please help me remember how to cook, because right now I can’t even remember what salt looks like.

Here, I’m cutting the string off of the roast and trying to remember my name.

Ray?

Ria?

Rachael?

Rashinda?

Raphael?

I know it’s an R name…just give me a minute…

It’s amazing the otherwise simple things that vacate your brain when you’re in a TV studio in New York City.

But then Robin appeared…

And made everything better.

I don’t know what it is about that woman…but she exudes calmness.

She exudes serenity…

She exudes that I need to get on the treadmill. Girlfriend is a slim and tall drink of water…and I mean that in the most respectful way.

Then George Stephanopoulos magically appeared. It surprised me for a second. I knew he was there on the set…but when I turned and saw him, I just thought, “Oh…Hi, George!”

Then I said, out loud, “Oh…Hi, George!”

No, I really did. Like he was my next door neighbor or something…if I even had any next door neighbors.

It was surreal to have such a vault of memories and images of George from the 1990’s, when he was a senior adviser to President Clinton…and to be standing there next to him talking about my pot roast.

And I’m just going to say it.

Because I’m a blogger. And bloggers say it.

He’s cute. He’s really, really cute.

But the attractiveness isn’t necessarily tangible—external beauty, as we all know, is a subjective thing. It’s more in his manner—he’s kind, approachable, genuine, and smiles a lot. And I can’t help but think that the contrast of his nineties persona—the serious, political George—helps catapult these personable qualities even more.

But what I really wanted to talk to him about was his wife, Schmoopie.

My favorite Seinfeld episode ever.

And now.

This would be a good place for me to tell you this:

Everyone at Good Morning America—from the key grip (what’s a key grip?) all the way to the anchors themselves—are incredibly warm and welcoming. While the set is clearly a well-oiled machine, it’s far from a frigid, all-business workplace. On the contrary, it’s like there’s a small sunshine hovering right inside the studio, beaming streams of teamwork and joy over all the bodies below. My two-hour experience at Good Morning America was more fun than I ever could have expected, and I left there smiling.

It really was a beautiful “Morning.”

Then I rushed to the airport, praying I didn’t get snowed in! And I didn’t.

And now I’m home with the cows.

The end.

Here’s the clip if you missed it: