Rural Revolution

The hay is in!

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sat, 17 Oct 2026 02:06:59 +0000

Oof, we finally got all our hay delivered, stacked, and tarped.

We had ordered eight tons of oat hay from a local fellow. The cows go crazy over this stuff, so it's well worth it. However the bales – which are a regular small-bale size – are exceedingly heavy because they contain so many oats. They're on the order of 100 lbs each. At our age, Don and I don't relish lifting 160 such bales to get them stacked and under cover.

Thank God for the tractor. When the first two tons were delivered in August, it took us a long time (about eight hours) to get them stacked in the barn, partly because we were trying out various techniques and equipment to make the chore easier, and partly because it was such a tight fit to squeeze the tractor into the barn and place the hay on pallets.

Because of how long it took, we were dreading a triple repeat of this labor (the fellow was delivering the hay in two-ton increments). But we had no option.

Part of the problem with getting the hay stacked – aside from the weight of the bales, of course – was the difficulty in maneuvering the tractor in the tight confines of the barn. We have space in the middle of the barn for a lot of bales, but no space to move the machine to lift those bales into position ... and at 100 lbs. each, Don and I just didn't have the bandwidth to stack them by hand.

The grower delivered the second two-ton load on Oct. 8.

After he left, Don and I had some clearing away to do in the barn.

When that was finished, we prepared to move the bales indoors.

After all the fancy-shmancy planning we did for moving the first delivery of bales in August, the most useful tool proved to be two steel tines Don had custom-made by a metal-working neighbor, which were affixed to a bracket attached to the tractor bucket.

These stabbed the bales firmly.

Rather than trying to stack the bales on pallets in the barn, we decided to forego the pallets entirely and just stack the hay on the floor. This simplified and streamlined matters considerably, and we got that second delivery stacked in the barn in about four hours (vs. the eight hours with the previous delivery).

But when the third delivery arrived...

...we decided to not stack any more hay in the barn. Though there was (technically) plenty of room, the conditions were just too tight for the tractor. Instead, we planned to stack them in the driveway. We tarped the hay for the night to keep the dew off.

The next morning, we laid out pallets in the back driveway, between the house and the barn.

By this point we had realized it was unnecessary to stab the bales with the steel spikes at all, and could simply tumble a bale on top the spikes to transport it to the location. Coupled with the additional elbow room of working outside (rather than the tight squeeze of the barn), we got the third delivery stacked in about three hours.

Not more than an hour after we finished this task, Don came in and said the flock of turkeys that normally hangs out in the barnyard, scratching up the barn-waste pile, was on top the hay bales, avidly searching for oat seeds.

We didn't want the turkeys pooping all over the hay bales, so we shooed them off and lightly tarped the bales for the night.

The next day, the grower brought the final delivery of oat hay.

Once again we tarped the bales for the night.

The next morning we could see the morning sun steaming the dew off the tarp.

This is it. The last two tons to stack.

By this point, though, Don and I were working like a well-oiled machine: Him on the tractor following my hand signals, and me pushing bales onto the steel spikes and then directing Don where to place them.

This time we got those last two tons stacked inside a dazzling hour and a half.

A beautiful sight to see: Three pallets wide, five pallets deep, six bales per pallet, 90 bales stacked on a fairly small footprint.

We only had four bales left over, so we hoisted them one by one onto the hand truck and tucked them into the barn.

After resting from our exertions – and after shooing the flock of turkeys off the bales once again – we tarped the bales for the winter, tying the tarp to the pallets with twine and rope.

I can't tell you how relieved we are to have this chore behind us. With plenty of food for the cows for the winter, now we can turn our attention to other fall projects.

Incidentally, the grower told us he may not have oats for sale next year because he is planning on selling his farm. We were very sorry to hear that since he's a darned nice fellow and sells a wonderful product. We'll have to roll with the punches.

Maybe this applies to lottery winners?

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 16 Oct 2026 05:01:58 +0000

I stumbled upon a bizarre little meme as follows: "When you get rich, remember this."

Rule 1: Tell no one, not even your parents.

Rule 2: Pay off your debts before anything else.

Rule 3: Let the money sit untouched for six months.

Rule 4: Don't upgrade your house right away.

Rule 5: Don't quit your job immediately.

Rule 6: Skip the flashy purchases.

Rule 7: Never go into business with friends or family.

Rule 8: This post didn't reach you by accident.

______________________

Maybe this applies to lottery winners? In any event, I'll keep this in mind in the unlikely event we ever get rich.

Ricotta cheese pizza sauce

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Thu, 15 Oct 2026 02:35:46 +0000

A few day ago, I alluded to how I use a homemade ricotta cheese pizza sauce on my pizzas. Many of you were interested in the recipe.

I'm not overly fond of tomatoes, so when it comes to pizza sauce I opt for alternatives such as pesto sauce, Alfredo sauce, etc. When I came across a recipe for a garlicky ricotta cheese sauce, I decided to try it. Don was stopping at the grocery store in town, so I asked him to get me a container of ricotta. The recipe turned out terrific, and I decided I wanted to make a large batch, which I could then freeze into one-pizza serving sizes.

But when I went to the store to get a larger quantity of ricotta and saw the actual price Don had paid, I had an absolute snit-fit – $9 for two pounds, and I wanted at least four pounds of ricotta to make a large batch of pizza sauce. There was no way I was paying that price!

I'd never made ricotta before, but I'm getting a gallon of milk a day, so purchasing the store-bought stuff was, admittedly, a lazy move. Time to learn how to make my own.

Whole-milk ricotta requires only two ingredients (or possibly four, depending on what recipe you follow): Milk and an acidifier. Salt is optional, though it enhances the flavor and helps coagulate the milk proteins. Adding a bit of heavy cream to the milk creates a richer, silkier ricotta.

I started by pouring a gallon of whole milk into a pot. It's best not to use skim milk for making ricotta, as the results will be a cheese that is too dry.

I heated the milk (slowly) to between 185F to 195F. This step takes 20 to 30 minutes or even longer, and is not a step to be rushed. I stirred the milk periodically.

Once the milk reached temperature, I added the acidifier. There are several different kinds of acidifiers that can be used, including citric acid (mixed with water), apple cider vinegar, lemon juice, or distilled white vinegar. Distilled white vinegar is the default acidifier and works extremely well. I used about two-thirds of a cup per gallon of milk.

After the acidifier is added, the curds should start separating from the whey almost immediately. You can see how the milk started curdling.

Then it was time to cover the pot and let the curds rest for anywhere from 20 minutes to two hours. The longer this resting period, the more curds will form. The curds should not be stirred during this resting period.

Next, I drained the ricotta. The longer it drains, the drier it will become. For a creamier consistency, it should be drained for one to two hours. For a firmer ricotta, drain it for around 24 hours. Somewhat arbitrarily, I drained mine for about four hours.

Here is what the final result looked like.

Trying to use up milk (and maximize the amount of pizza sauce), I made a second batch of ricotta the next day. I ended up with 3.5 lbs (56 ounces) of ricotta.

I stored this in the refrigerator overnight, then made pizza sauce the next day.

The recipe for ricotta white sauce is easy: Eight parts ricotta, four parts cream (or half and half), one part olive oil, and spices to taste. For one pizza, for example, the recipe called for one-half cup ricotta, one-quarter cup of cream, and one tablespoon olive oil (plus spices).

I had 56 ounces of ricotta, therefore I needed to add 28 ounces of cream or half and half (1.75 lbs.) and seven ounces of olive oil. It's worth noting that I measured the cream and olive oil by weight, not volume. Then I added salt, pepper, minced garlic, and basil until the taste was satisfactory. (Your choice of flavorings may vary.)

Adding cream to the ricotta:

Blending the ricotta with the cream was challenging because the ricotta was so thick. I used a potato masher to start...

...then graduated to beaters to blend all the rest of the ingredients and make a sauce.

The final sauce was somewhat lumpy from the ricotta, and that's as it should be.

Then I bagged it up in one-cup measurements for freezing.

In retrospect, I should have bagged up more per bag, anywhere from 1.5 to 2 cups. At any rate, it freezes well.

Labeling.

Now, whenever I make pizza, I can just reach for a bag, defrost it in the refrigerator overnight, and make pizza the next day.

So that's the trick for ricotta cheese pizza sauce. This is my kind of convenience food.

The new reality

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Wed, 14 Oct 2026 00:33:21 +0000

Older Daughter, as you know, is now attending college to become a nurse. She's doing extremely well in her classes. As in, extremely well.

Listening to her stories, it's interesting how things have changed since Don and I were in school in the early 80s (and for me, the early 90s for grad school). For one thing, the internet, smart phones (and other devices), and artificial intelligence have made teaching much more challenging than ever before. Apparently instructors have to bend themselves into pretzels to prevent cheating.

So when I saw this illustration below, I sent it to Older Daughter labeled, "Your chuckle du jour":

I meant this to be nothing more than a lighthearted poke at something students have always tried to do, namely cheat.

But Older Daughter replied, "This is why the testing center a) doesn't let you bring ANY loose item in, and b) makes you take off and display all angles of your glasses or hearing aids, and c) makes you lift up your pants to expose your socks and ankles. They are taking NO chances."

I said, "You're ... kidding ... More security than an airport."

She answered, "You can't even bring your own pencil, they provide one."

I responded, "Wow. And the sad thing is, presumably they had to implement these protocols for a reason."

I guess this is the new reality in college.

What to do with five gallons of milk

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Mon, 12 Oct 2026 13:55:23 +0000

Once in a while, despite my best efforts, milk piles up in the fridge.

Last week, here's what I did with this much cow juice.

First, I skimmed off the cream. I just use a soup ladle for this task.

Here's some of the resulting cream.

Then I measured two cups of the skimmed milk into a pot and scalded it as the first step toward making ice cream. I've gotten to the point where I don't bother using the ice-cream churn, and just use the freeze-and-mix method.

I make vanilla ice cream for Don, and peach ice cream for myself.

Each batch requires three cups of milk and five cups of cream (six cups of milk and ten cups of cream for two batches), so skimming the cream from all those gallons is going to good use.

The (unfrozen) vanilla is on the left, and peach is on the right. (This is another reason I love making peach purée; I use it for flavoring.) I put these batches in the freezer overnight, being sure to mix everything once an hour for the first four hours of freezing.

That used up all the cream. I was left with gallons of skimmed milk. Incidentally, home-skimmed milk isn't like the watery-blue stuff you buy in the store. It's a whole lot richer, almost (almost!) like store-bought whole milk.

I used this milk to make thirty-minute mozzarella. The recipe in my cheesemaking book calls for using one gallon of whole milk.

I experimented with making two-gallon batches using skimmed milk, and it turns out fine. Perfect for pizza, in fact. Plus, making two two-gallon batches is far more efficient than making four one-gallon batches.

By the time I skimmed the cream and took out the skimmed milk necessary to make the ice cream, what was left was almost exactly four gallons of skimmed milk. This is what I used to make the two batches of mozzarella.

This is the finished mozzarella.

Final weight of the cheese came to about 5.25 lbs.

I cut it up...

...and grated everything. With this much cheese to grate at the same time, you can see why I love this rotary cheese grater so much!

Ready to bag.

I portioned it out into one-pound bags and froze all but two bags.

I held back those two bags because I decided to make some pizza. I pulled the sauces out of the freezer to defrost. Don prefers tomato-based pizza sauce, but I use a homemade ricotta white sauce (remind me to post that recipe later).

Here are the uncooked pizzas topped with cheese...

...and then with pepperoni and onions. (Ahem. I love onions, so I tend to go a little crazy with them as toppings.)

The finished pizzas.

And that's what I do when I have five gallons of milk to use up.

A praying mantis I'd never heard of before

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sun, 11 Oct 2026 14:09:16 +0000

Once in a while I catch wind of a critter I've never heard of before. Today I learned about the Conehead praying mantis (Empusa pennata).

This insect is so bizarre-looking that I legitimately thought this was an AI image at first. Nope, it's real, and lives around the Mediterranean in Southern Europe and Northern Africa.

Even Wikipedia describes them as having an "alien" appearance. No argument there.

Nature is amazing.

Problems of the wealthy

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 19:16:05 +0000

A random story popped up on my computer the other day, a story from Kiplinger's "Wealth Wise" advice column: "Can a 64-Year-Old Retire on $1.6 Million and 'Shaky' Social Security?" (Please note this person is my age.)

"Dear Wealth Wise," wrote the advice-seeker. "I'm 64 (almost 65), work full-time, and I'm tired of being told to use AI at my job. Can I retire on $1.6 million if my yearly spending needs are roughly $90,000 and Social Security will pay $3,500 a month (if benefits remain fully payable)?"

I confess I choked on my tea when I read this. This dude has $1.6 million in his retirement and his Social Security benefits are $3,500 a month? Yowza. Don receives Social Security, and let's just say his payments are considerably less than $3,500 per month.

This man's spending needs amount to $90,000 per year, or $7,500 per month. To us, that is wealth untold.

I think one of the things that baffles me about this kind of financial question is it highlights the different approach to spending and the dichotomy between the wealthy and the lower middle class. Because our income has always been unstable – and because we've experienced the horrors of debt – we've learned to live below our means, however humble those means are. We've spent years finding ways to whittle down our expenses and our spending. This has enabled us to pivot on a dime and adapt when times get tough (see here and here). As a result, we feel very financially stable.

The Kiplinger advice columnist was able to assure the man that yes, he could retire on that kind of income: "Our reader's estimated $42,000 annual Social Security benefit should cover roughly half of annual spending needs. The remaining $48,000 will need to come out of savings. Using the popular 4% rule, $1.6 million could support $64,000 in annual withdrawals. Since our reader only needs $48,000, they have a pretty good buffer."

Now don't get me wrong; this person is to be commended for his diligent savings during his working years. I know no one who has that much put away, so kudos to him and I hope he enjoys his retirement.

But for those of us who were not as financially blessed during our productive years (obviously we get by on a whole lot less than $90K), we've had to adapt and make do. This video is more along the lines of our financial philosophy: "How to Live on a Low Income, $30,000 or less." Don points out that $90K is not a huge income anymore, and in fact falls distinctly into the middle class. I guess that puts us in the "lower middle class" category.

This kinda reminds me of a couple of quotes. Someone once said, "A rich man is not the one that has the most – it's the one that needs the least."

And Diogenes of Sinope (c. 413/403 – c. 324/321 B.C.) famously tells a similar anecdote, to wit: A philosopher named Aristippus, who had quite willingly sucked up to Dionysus and won himself a spot at his court, saw Diogenes cooking lentils for a meal. "If you would only learn to compliment Dionysus, you wouldn't have to live on lentils." Diogenes replied, "But if you would only learn to live on lentils, you wouldn't have to flatter Dionysus.

As it happens, I'm very fond of lentils.

What are your thoughts? Could you afford to retire on $90,000/year?

My (belated) birthday present

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 16:48:34 +0000

On or about my birthday (Sept. 6), I made what I called an "executive decision": I was going to order a kitchen gadget I've been wanting for quite a while.

To back up, I've been making a fair bit of "thirty-minute mozzarella" lately. This is a fast and easy way to use up surplus milk, freezes beautifully, and supplies us with endless ingredients for future pizzas. However I was stymied by one essential step: Grating the cheese.

Using the faithful box grater I've had for years, this mozzarella simply didn't want to shred. It would tear. It would clump. It would fall apart. But conspicuously, it wouldn't shred. It was beyond frustrating, especially since I was making so much mozzarella.

So I told Don I was buying myself a birthday present: A rotary cheese grater.

This grater has a suction feature to affix it firmly to a surface by turning a knob. I learned it doesn't affix well to our wooden kitchen table (since it's not perfectly smooth), but it does well on the kitchen counter.

And I tell ya, the difference in grating mozzarella is night and day. Here's some cheese which I cut into chunks small enough to fit in the grater's hopper.

The grater has a pusher used to push the food into the cutting blades (for safety).

It grates the cheese cleanly and easily, unlike the hot mess I would make with the box grater.

The grater comes with several different blades (coarse, fine, slicing), though I've only used the coarse blade so far. It grates potatoes, cheese, veggies ... anything, really.

I told Don this is my new favorite kitchen tool. The only remaining question is – why did I wait until I turned 64 to get one?

UPDATE: Sorry, I should have linked to the actual product when I posted this. Interestingly, the box it came in doesn't have a brand name on it, which means doubtless they're all made in some overseas factory and then slapped with a label from various "manufacturers." At any rate, this is the kind I bought, though there are numerous similar (or identical) graters available.

Phew! The yard sale is over

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 21:32:46 +0000

Whew, what an intense week. We finally had our yard sale.

Comically, after the last yard sale we had three years ago – which we vowed would be our last – a reader said, "You know you should never say never again." S/he was right, 'cuz here we are again.

We managed to target – literally – the only weekend in which rain was not predicted, either during the crucial set-up phase, during the weekend itself, or during the breaking-down phase.

As with our previous yard sale, we had items stored in several locations, waiting for the opportunity to sell them. We also planned to make multiple "sweeps" (as we called them) through the barn, the lofts, various sheds, and of course the house to remove everything that was superfluous.

When she moved out, Older Daughter also earmarked a great number of things she no longer needed, including a mountain of clothes. (I don't know where she gets her excellent taste in fashion, because it sure as heck isn't from me.)

We spent a long time combing through our possessions, being a lot more brutally realistic about what we did and didn't need. Those two baskets made from branches I used almost every week to transport food to our neighborhood potlucks? I haven't used them since we moved. Some extra blankets beyond what was necessary for house guests? Gone. A water pump Don bought second-hand years ago and has been taking up space since? Up for sale. You get the idea.

Next, we had to make sure our driveway area (which is very large) was clear of anything unrelated to the yard sale. Specifically, we had to get rid of the mountain of firewood, which is why we put so much time into splitting and stacking it.

With the firewood put up, that cleared a lot of space.

Next, Don used the tractor to pull this massive trailer from against the fence line and position it broadside across the driveway. This served two purposes. One, the trailer itself is for sale; and two, it would allow us to display items on its surface where people could see things from all sides.

We had an old and absolutely filthy propane stove we removed from our last house and which we've been storing in various barns for probably 20 years. We kept it because it's the old-fashioned kind that has a pilot light and therefore doesn't need an electrical ignition (they don't make them anymore) and we thought it would be nice to put it in a guest house. We decided to sell it.

It took me hours to scrub, vacuum, and polish it as best I could. Don't worry, the bottom photo is only halfway through the process.

Don started transporting tractor implements we no longer needed from the barn area behind the house to the front driveway.

Ironically, this six-foot yard rake is one of the first things we sold.

We had a number of old wood stoves we'd accumulated over the years. Don used the tractor to move them out of the barn.

In the days preceding the opening of the yard sale (which ran Friday, Saturday, Sunday), we kicked things into high gear.

After splitting and stacking the firewood, we reserved twelve smaller logs of roughly the same length to be used as table legs.

We screwed down sheets of plywood to make display surfaces.

We dusted off unneeded shop tools.

We rigged up a clothes rack by using a 22-foot steel well pipe rod. At first we (naively and optimistically) simply attached the rod to the uprights using Gorilla tape. Let's just say it didn't work. We ended up bracing the rod with 2x4s, which worked beautifully.

The clothes rod was held up by two shorter pieces of rod, inserted through a wooden base Don had made years ago and then pounded into the ground with a T-post pounder, then later reinforced with the 2x4s. These babies weren't going anywhere.

As a result, we were able to hang all of Older Daughter's clothes to display them.

Some things we just grouped on "$1 tables" and "$5 tables."

We tried to group things in sections: The clothing section, the furniture section, the tractor-implement section, the farm section, etc. Not everything fell into neat categories, but we tried. This is the camping section.

The furniture section. Most of this is furniture we were selling for friends.

The tractor-implement section.

The woodstove section.

We printed clear signage explaining what an item was and how much it cost (and of course, we were willing to dicker).

Finally, we put up signage, starting about a mile and a half away and guiding visitors our way.

We also put up a hasty sign directing people to a neighbor about a quarter-mile past us who was also having a yard sale, capitalizing on our efforts. We always told visitors to be sure to see what the neighbors had too.

After all the frantic prep work, the days of the actual yard sale were far less busy. We simply had to wait for customers.

Over the three days of the sale, we met many lovely people – and a couple who was not so lovely. This couple, annoyed that we politely declined their lowball offer on our brush hog, actually tossed some garbage out of their truck before they drove away. When I went over to see what they tossed, it was – I kid you not – clumps of soiled toilet paper. Ewww.

As the sun went down on the last day, Don drove around and removed all the signage, then parked the car broadside across the driveway so no one could get in.

Today we're boxing things up for donation to various thrift stores. We have a fairly small pile of things to just throw away. We also took photos of all our big-ticket items that didn't sell so we can put them up on Facebook Marketplace.

Our goal is to put nothing back in storage, with a couple of exceptions. This torn-up wool blanket once belonged to my grandparents. It would be one thing if someone could use it for a project, but I can't bear the thought of it being tossed in a dumpster, so I'm going to hang on to it.

It's a good thing we had the yard sale this past weekend. We have rain moving in again next weekend, so we'll have to make sure everything is put away and under cover before the weather changes.

Both of us are wildly relieved this project is over. Planning and implementing this took a lot of our time and bandwidth. Now we can relax a bit and move onto other tasks.

Can I say "Never again" this time around?

Another "final" yard sale

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Thu, 01 Oct 2026 16:20:59 +0000

If this blog is a little quiet over the next few days, it's because Don and I are having a Huge Yard Sale and we've been elbow-deep in getting ready for it.

This yard sale has been delayed numerous times. We had been watching the weather for weeks.

It was almost uncanny how the weather stayed clear during the weekdays, but had ONE SPIKE of rain at some inconvenient time, solely (it seemed) to interfere with setting out merchandise for sale.

Finally it all came together with a nice long dry stretch, so we've been doing yard sale prep like crazy.

So standby until early next week when I'll have a full write-up on whether or not we were successful in offloading a large amount of unneeded possessions.

BIG. HONKIN'. SPIDERS.

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Tue, 29 Sep 2026 22:57:03 +0000

Many years ago – okay, many decades ago – I spent a summer each in Indiana and in Oklahoma on separate college jobs. In both locations, I was astounded to find Big Honkin' Spiders were fairly commonplace. (I won't post any stock photos of spiders for the comfort of readers with arachnophobia.)

In retrospect, they were probably wolf spiders – harmless but kinda startling, if you know what I mean. Wolf spiders aren't web spinners, but instead run after or ambush their prey. They're well-known for carrying their babies on their back. We find them often in our house. Including their leg span, they rarely exceed an inch-and-a-quarter, maybe once in a while an inch-and-a-half across. I use a bug-catcher to scoop them up and put them outside.

While none of us in the Lewis family are overly fond of spiders, neither are we overly fond of killing them and do our best to not harm them. There are exceptions, however. One time Older Daughter messaged me as follows: "I just want you to know I fought an intense ten-minute battle with a wolf spider and only screamed a little bit. Aren't you proud of me?" My answer: "You're a veteran of the Arachnid Wars."

Anyway, Younger Daughter is now living in a pretty little duplex apartment with a basement in the Pacific Northwest. She messaged the other day and wrote, "The spiders here are huge (even bigger than Idaho)."

I replied, "How big?"

She answered, "I still don't know the species. It looked like a wolf spider, but it was about 3-4 inches in length. Maybe some kind of huntsman? Anyway she's still living in my basement somewhere, probably eating mice or something."

Huntsman spiders are found in the U.S., but generally only in more southern areas, so it was unlikely she saw one of those. I said, "Nah, they're wolf spiders. Those suckers can get HUGE. You should see the ones in the Midwest."

A bit later she messaged again: "Actually I just googled biggest house spiders in the Pacific Northwest, and found the aptly named Giant House Spider. Pretty sure this is it. This is their distribution. Look at that little green blob right over my house!"

Wow. I'd never even heard of the Giant House Spider, and immediately looked it up. It seems the species is native to Europe and was accidentally introduced to the U.S. over a hundred years ago, where it gained a foothold on opposite sides of the country: The Pacific Northwest, and the Northeast. Whee.

And yeah, those babies are huge. Three to four inches across is not unusual. Unlike wolf spiders, they're web-spinners (albeit a rather messy funnel web). Males are inclined to wander at this time of year, searching for mates.

New fear unlocked. I don't know if my bug-catcher could even handle something that big. Yowza.

Sequel to "Rachel's Folly"

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Tue, 29 Sep 2026 01:13:55 +0000

When Don and I indie-published my sweet contemporary romance last summer ("Rachel's Folly"), people immediately began clamoring for a sequel.

The funny thing is, I had a sequel thoroughly outlined. What I lacked was the time to write it. But at this particular moment, I'm between writing assignments. I just sent that proposal mentioned earlier off to my agent; I have no immediate magazine articles due; and I'm waiting for the next multi-book contract from Harlequin and want a go-ahead from my editor before I launch into the next story.

So I dusted off the notes I had for the sequel to "Rachel's Folly" and am diving back into the story. It will take a fair bit of time to write, but it will be fun to delve into the landscape of what remains my favorite novel.

Onward!

Stats

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Mon, 28 Sep 2026 00:55:20 +0000

I'm working on a book proposal.

I haven't had to write a proposal in upwards of six years, not since my agent (Bob Hostetler with the Steve Laube Agency) landed me at Harlequin's Love Inspired line. But I have a completed manuscript that's been gathering metaphorical dust in my desk drawer, and since it doesn't fit within the Love Inspired guidelines, my agent plans to shop it around to other publishers and see what happens. New publisher, new proposal. Bob is also in the process of negotiation my next multi-book contract with Harlequin.

The last time I wrote a proposal, Bob sent me a sample proposal and requested that I submit my information in the exact same format. The components included:

• Hook
• Summary
• Theme
• Audience
• Author
• Marketing
• Manuscript status
• Similar titles
• Other available books by author
• Synopsis
• First three chapters

As with many novice authors, a few of these categories were thin, notably the "Marketing" section, not to mention the "Other available books by author" section. In fact, I bent myself into pretzels with the Marketing section; for an explanation of why, read this blog post from March 2019 in which I was weeping with the despair of it all.

This time around, I'm following the format of my first proposal, and therein I made an interesting discovery.

Obviously I've got a stronger platform this time around, thanks to Harlequin's generosity in publishing so many of my books. But in 2019, I noted that this blog received about 1.5 million page visits per year. At first I was inclined simply to slot that same number into the current proposal – after all, 1.5 million page views is nothing to sneeze at – but then I decided to check my most recent stats. And that's what astounded me.

Here are today's stats:

The numbers are a little hard to see, so I'll list them:

• All time: 29,755,904 (this is over the 17-year span of this blog)
• Today: 118
• Yesterday: 25,545
• This month: 430,618
• Last month: 396,278

These are terrific numbers. But what really blew me out of the water was the total number of page views from the last year:

An incredible 4.37 million page views in the past 12 months! Almost three times as many as 2019!

And here's the funny thing: I never check my stats. Honestly, the last time I checked was ... well, probably back in 2019 when I was writing my last proposal. But somehow during that time, page views tripled. Go figure.

Don and I were discussing this, and he wants me to ask an honest question: Why do you, the reader, come to this blog?

And I'll ask a question of my own: What kind of information or material do you want me to cover?

Three is two, two is one, one is none

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 16:15:43 +0000

I saw an interesting opinion piece yesterday entitled "Mandating Grid Dependency" by someone named Jim Cardoza. It concerns California's increasing push to make everything electric: Cars, heating, cooking, whatever.

This being California, the push toward all-electric everything is not merely being encouraged, but increasingly mandated. Any legacy energy – gasoline production and sales, natural gas appliances sales and repair, propane water heaters or heat sources – are being blatantly phased out and/or heavily regulated to the point of extinction.

This is, of course, at a time when electrical costs for California citizens has increased 47 percent since 2019. As Cardoza put it, "There seems to be something incoherent about making electricity exceptionally expensive while simultaneously requiring citizens to use more of it."

But California politicians seem to be blind to the biggest elephant in the room: In a state 100 percent dependent on electricity, what happens during a power outage? Cardoza puts it this way: "Yet the financial cost may not be the greatest danger created by electrifying virtually everything. There is another cost that is largely ignored: concentrating life’s necessities in a single system creates a single point of failure."

This push to electrify everything violates the single most important rule for preparedness: Three is two, two is one, one is none. Redundancy is crucial. To forcibly mandate the elimination of redundancy is dangerous to the point of insane.

"The issue, therefore, isn’t whether electric cars, heat pumps, solar panels, induction stoves, or electronic payments are good technologies," writes Cardoza. "The question is whether politicians should deliberately eliminate or discourage alternatives, making citizens dependent upon one centrally regulated infrastructure for nearly everything."

What are your thoughts? Should electrical everything be mandated for the sake of a net-zero goal, or is this a fool's errand?

Snapshot of a homestead refrigerator

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Thu, 24 Sep 2026 14:45:16 +0000

A neighbor came over the other day, and we were chatting while I was doing something in the kitchen. In the course of our conversation, I opened the refrigerator to put something inside. The neighbor made a comment about how many homemade things were in our fridge.

I didn't give her comment much thought until this morning. I opened the fridge again and realized ... she was right.

Aside from the usual assortment of condiments, at this particular moment the fridge held the following items:

• Bowls of leftover rice, leftover beef, and leftover gravy that were, well, left over from a meal a few nights prior when we had some friends over for dinner. (We've been eating our way through the leftovers.) The meal was "zesty orange beef" and the recipe can be found here. I threw everything in the slow cooker for extra-tender meat.

• A jar of minced garlic.

• A container of whole garlic. Don uses it for blood-pressure control.

• A quart of strawberry preserves, three-quarters full, waiting for me to make another batch of survival cookies.

• A bowl of peaches for fresh eating, last of the loot from our trees. I puréed the rest.

• Four pounds of fresh mozzarella I made the afternoon before. I'll be grating and freezing it in one-pound bags for pizza.

• A huge hunk o' beef that was defrosting. Don is in the process of making biltong, a sort of South African beef jerky.

• Two gallon jugs of peach purée. I processed the peaches a day or two before and then canned up the purée.

• A half-gallon of sun tea, my beverage of choice.

• Two dozen eggs from a neighbor's hens.

• A bag of flour tortillas.

• Leftover biscuit gravy from breakfast a couple days before.

• Some sliced meatloaf I made a few days ago. Don likes to make meatloaf sandwiches.

• Some tomatoes and a whole bunch of broccoli.

No milk. I store the milk and cream in a small beverage refrigerator in another room.

In short, we have a lot of basic ingredients and no processed food except condiments. And that's a snapshot of our homestead fridge.

The last of the peaches

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Wed, 23 Sep 2026 15:28:27 +0000

After the bountiful harvest of peaches from one of our trees in early August, I had been waiting for the other trees to be ready to harvest. Two of the remaining four trees didn't produce much, but one of the trees was loaded.

I know I should have picked the fruit earlier than I did – evidenced by the number of windfall fruit on the ground – but we had a busy spell and I didn't get around to it. Finally I got my rear in gear and got the fruit picked.

I weighed the harvest.

Twenty-five pounds, minus the tare weight of the tub, so about 22 pounds altogether.

My plan was, as before, to spread a towel and some insect netting on the woodstove and ripen the peaches indoors. (The netting prevents fruit flies from swarming the fruit.)

But the moment I spilled the peaches onto the towel, I realized they were way, way beyond the need for ripening. In fact, if I was going to save this portion of the harvest, I'd best get crackin'. I pivoted and spent the rest of the afternoon processing them.

So I settled into peach processing mode: Scalding a batch, slipping the skins, gutting the fruit.

I held back the best peaches for fresh eating, and the rest I puréed. Why purée instead of sliced peaches? Quite honestly I use purée a lot, using it to flavor such things as ice cream and yogurt. Besides, it's easy to do.

After running the fruit through the blender, I poured the purée into gallon jugs. I stored these in the fridge for a couple of days until I had time to can the purée.

Then I canned it up. Filling jars...

Ready for lids...

Into the canners...

Rolling boil for 35 minutes...

...and cooling off.

Thirteen more pints of summery goodness to take us through winter.

Breeding time

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Mon, 21 Sep 2026 21:06:50 +0000

It's that time of year: Breeding time via AI (Artificial Insemination) for our Jersey cow Maggie.

But wait, there's more. After much discussion, we decided to breed Maggie's yearling heifer calf Stormy as well.

Stormy is half-Jersey, half-Angus. She looks very much like an Angus, but she has a lot of Maggie's sweet Jersey disposition. And she's big, bigger than her mama.

Here's a comparison between a Jersey's boney butt and a half-Angus' meaty butt. You can tell which one is bred for milk and which one for meat!

You can also see that Stormy is now taller than her mama.

In fact, it is because of Stormy's sweet disposition that we decided to keep her as a breeder rather than putting her in the freezer and raising another animal for meat. This means Maggie is now the mother of our dairy line, and Stormy will become the mother of our meat line.

Before we could be certain we could breed Stormy, however, we needed to make sure she was able to be handled. She's never been lead-trained and had never worn a halter. If we could get a halter on her, the chances were good she could get bred. If she was too wild, well ... we had space in the freezer.

Getting a halter on Stormy took a couple weeks of strategizing. We prefer to use chain halters (sometimes called restraint halters) on our animals. We've always handled Stormy a lot – scratching her, brushing her, giving her a bit of grain here and there – so we ramped up these efforts during this time. That part was easy since it's nothing we hadn't done before.

Meanwhile Don prepared a stout rope to temporarily confine her. This was set up with a clip that could be adjusted so we could slip the rope over Stormy's head and a slip-knot would tighten the rope, but the clip would prevent the rope from getting too tight and choking her. The idea was to get the rope around her neck, then thread the other end of the rope through an eye-bolt that was already in place on the barn beam. This would, in theory, confine her tightly enough that I could get the halter on her.

The evening came when we went out to the barn, got Maggie and little Lucy outside, and confined Stormy inside. Right away, of course, Stormy knew something was up.

Getting the rope around her neck was easy enough, but every time Don tried to thread the other end of the rope through the eye-bolt, she would yank it out. Finally, more by accident than anything else, we got her cornered against a side of the barn (cows become more or less immobilized when pressed against a wall), and I was able to slip the halter over her head and buckle it on.

Right away we released her, removed the rope, and gave her a lot of fuss and attention, scratches and brushing. Fussing didn't mitigate the indignity of being haltered. She did not like that ropey thing on her face, that's for sure, and sulked about it for a day or two until she got used to it. But get used to it she did, and quickly recovered her normal sweet disposition.

In fact, a funny thing happened. After being haltered, Stormy became our new best friend whenever Don or I were in the barn or corral. She nudged us (sometimes hard) for affection, she submitted to brushing and scratches like never before, and she started leading with a lead-rope with very little effort. She became so affectionate that we started calling her Princess.

At this point, I emailed the AI lady (her name is Andrea) to inquire whether Stormy could simply be tied up while being bred, or whether it was necessary for the heifer to be confined to the milking stall.

Andrea said it was essential that Stormy be confined. During breeding, Andrea would have her arm inserted literally shoulder-deep in Stormy's backside, and the last thing she (Andrea) needed was a broken arm if Stormy got testy. Fair enough.

After this, we started training Princess Stormy to go into the milking stall.

We already knew the head gate wouldn't work for Stormy – her neck is much thicker than Maggie's more slender Jersey neck – but we had an eye-bolt already installed on the opposite beam that we could use to thread a lead rope clipped to her halter and confine her that way.

But that was in the future. First Stormy had to get used to being in the milking stall without feeling panicky.

This was actually easier to accomplish than we anticipated. Stormy spent the first nine months of her life spending the night in the adjacent calf pen, so that whole milking-stall infrastructure already held warm, fuzzy memories for her. In fact, even now we have to keep the calf pen gate closed when Stormy is around, because she'll make a beeline for the calf pen even though she has massively outgrown the space.

Our morning and evening routines became as follows. Don would go into the small space behind the milking stall where the bucket stand was located (this is where Maggie puts her head to eat grain in the mornings when I milk her) with a bucket of grain. I clipped Stormy's halter chain to the lead rope and gently pulled her toward the milking stall, where Don waved the grain enticingly at the other end. Once she was in the stall eating the grain, we made no effort to confine her in any way, though I did scratch and brush her rear end so she would get used to activity back there. When Stormy was finished with her grain, we let her back herself out on her own terms.

This training period was extremely effective. Once or twice Don threaded the lead rope through the eye-bolt just to get Stormy used to being tied up in place, and while she fought it a little bit in a half-hearted sort of way, overall she didn't seem to mind.

Meanwhile the clock was ticking down to when Andrea was planning to come out for the first stage of breeding the animals, which involved estrus synchronization protocols so both Maggie and Stormy could be bred at the same time. This meant giving the animals a shot of prostaglandin as well as inserting a controlled internal drug release (CIDR) device to regulate the estrous cycle.

This took a bit of calculating on Andrea's part. She was traveling from about an hour's drive away, and had to time her first visit with when her second visit would be necessary. In other words, unless we wanted her to breed the animals at midnight, she had to backtrack and time the beginning of the estrus synchronization protocol at a specific hour. (As it turned out, we had to juggle this schedule a bit because a cow's estrus and a heifer's estrus run at slightly different times.)

Andrea arrived on the evening of August 31 to start the process.You can see how suspicious Stormy looks at all the activity.

Beginning with Stormy, we pulled her into the milking stall, gave her some grain, and threaded the end of the lead-rope through the eye-bolt to confine her. Stormy was nervous at Andrea's presence, but what really set her off was when Andrea gave Stormy the prostaglandin shot in the neck. She didn't like that one bit!

She thrashed around a bit, but Don held onto the lead rope grimly, and Stormy really couldn't move much anyway within the confines of the milking stall. Andrea was able to insert the vaginal CIDR device without any problem.

After this, Don unclipped the lead rope from Stormy's halter to release her, and the heifer backed out of the milking stall with alacrity.

Then it was Maggie's turn. Piece o' cake. She barely even twitched at the prostaglandin shot in the neck...

...much less when the CIDR device was inserted. Good ol' Maggie.

Andrea gave us two doses of gonadotropin-releasing hormone (GnRH), to be administered to both animals on Day Seven after the prostaglandin shots. We had to make sure these shots were given at exactly the same time of evening as the first shots.

To this end, we made sure to continue giving Stormy another calming week of milking-stall practice, which she did without a problem. However when it came time to give Stormy the GnRH shot in the neck, she thrashed around and bend the needle before the GnRH could be administered. Fortunately we had spare needles (and even more fortunately, knew exactly where they were), so we swapped needles and were able to administer the shot successfully. I also pulled out the CIDR device, which was easy.

Maggie, as before, barely noticed the shot or the removal of the CIDR device.

Now the stage was set for the actual breeding itself. Andrea actually had to come out at two separate times because of the slight difference in estrus cycles between cows and heifers. This added to the cost of the breeding since the most expensive component was the per-mileage travel costs, but oh well.

For breeding Stormy, Andrea had to come over after dark (about 7:30-ish). Since the barn light doesn't shine very well into the livestock side of the gate, much less in the milking stall where Andrea needed to see, Don rigged up a portable halogen shop light and aimed it at the opposite wall, so it would reflect back and provide Andrea with light without blinding her.

Andrea had a number of different straws of semen from which we could choose, stored in a vat of liquid nitrogen. This is the vat.

Inside the vat are holders at the end of rods which hold the straws of frozen semen.

Andrea stocks a variety of beef and dairy breed options.

She required warm water (101F) to thaw the semen before loading it into the insemination gun.

Since this is Stormy's first calf and we wanted to avoid any birthing difficulties, we opted to breed her to a smaller breed. We also wanted her to have a beefy calf we could eventually put in the freezer. Of the available semen Andrea had in stock, we opted for a smaller lowline Angus to breed to Stormy. We also opted not to select the gender of the calf.

Prepping the straw and all the necessary accouterments for the actual breeding took about ten minutes. Don was holding onto Stormy in the stall, who had long since finished her grain and was getting restive. But finally Andrea came in with the straw, ready to breed Stormy.

Sorry if the next bit gets somewhat graphic.

The first thing Andrea did was to don a shoulder-length disposal plastic glove and insert her arm waaaay up Stormy's rectum, feeling around the various organs through the rectal wall. Apparently this technique is used to immobilize the cervix through the rectum. When this was accomplished, Andrea took the insemination gun (pre-loaded with the semen) and inserted it into Stormy's vaginal opening. She had to guide the gun through the vaginal canal into the cervix, which she did by rectal palpation and manipulation through the reproductive tract.

It's hard to se what's going on in the photo below, but the large light-colored thingy at top is Andrea's gloved left arm deep inside Stormy's rectum. Her gloved right hand is guiding the insemination gun up the vaginal tract toward the cervix.

I expected Stormy to be having a hissy fit at this indignity, but in fact she was very calm. Andrea explained that's why this narrow window of a cow's estrus cycle – when they are most receptive to fertilization – is called "standing heat." Cows literally stand still during the breeding process, whether natural or artificial.

This process was actually accomplished fairly quickly. Andrea clearly knew what she was going and got the task done confidently and efficiently. As soon as she was finished, she withdrew her arm as well as the insemination gun, Don unclipped Stormy's halter to release her, and the heifer backed out of the milking stall. Voilà.

That was all Andrea could do that evening. Despite Andrea's competence, Don and I were wiped by the time we staggered back to the house. "Yup, a little shot of whiskey, I think," said Don, one of the very rare times in the last twenty years he's drank anything. He mixed a finger of whiskey with some soda and settled in for the night.

Early the next morning (around 8:30 am), Andrea repeated the process with Maggie. As predicted, this was easier, in part due to Maggie's calmer nature and in part because we knew not to confine Maggie to the milking stall until Andrea had finished prepping the semen and loading the insemination gun.

For Maggie, we chose to breed her to a polled A2/A2 New Zealand bull named Ardachie Zigzag. We also opted to select the gender and chose a heifer. This costs a bit more, but almost guarantees the results.

While shoulder-deep in Maggie's rectal tract, Andrea had a bit of trouble getting the tip of the insemination gun into Maggie's cervix (something having to do with the boniness of Jerseys in general), but at last she succeeded. She did say that should Maggie's breeding not "take," she would come out and re-breed her without any additional cost.

Lucy: "What are you doing to my mom?

Stormy: "What are you doing to my mom?"

And that was that. Stormy was bred on the evening of Sept. 9, and Maggie on the morning of Sept. 10. Both should calve around June 15 of next year.

Despite the hassle of training Stormy and the cost of the breeding, we're very satisfied with the precision and specificity of artificial insemination, particularly since we no longer have the space, infrastructure, interest, or need to keep a bull.

Maggie's calves will be sold as milkers as they get older, and Stormy's calves will go in the freezer when the time comes. In this manner, we will be set for dairy and beef for the foreseeable future.

Putting up firewood

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sat, 19 Sep 2026 19:46:47 +0000

With autumn flying by, we wanted to get the firewood put up sooner rather than later. Among much else, we wanted to clear the driveway in preparation for an upcoming yard sale we plan to hold in the next couple of weeks (it's weather dependent).

We bought three cords of log rounds from a friend with a side business of selling firewood. We didn't need the wood split since we have our own log splitter. The first delivery was made in late May, so the rounds sat in the driveway all summer, and the second delivery was in early September.

The funny thing is, we still have a fair bit of wood left over from last winter. Sometimes we forget we're living in a much smaller place than our last house, plus it's more efficiently insulated, so we don't go through nearly as much wood each winter. (And also, last winter was fairly mild.)

Still, extra firewood is no bad thing. With the full delivery now sitting in rounds in the driveway, it was time to get splitting.

After each bout of splitting, we stacked it up in the woodshed.

We spent about a week splitting and stacking, working for just a couple of hours each day.

Gradually the wood shed filled up.

We crammed as much wood in as we could, up to the very top, filling random holes with wood pieces of appropriate size to slot in.

This lady startled me. I'm not sure how she managed not to get smushed, since I found her right on a log round I was splitting.

The time came when we had the wood shed crammed full to the very brim: Top to bottom, side to side, back to front.

However we still had a lot of wood left to go. Where to put it?

After some discussion, we laid down pallets and started stacking wood on the side of the house.

And don't worry, we didn't stack it directly against the house.

This will be easy to tarp.

We also stacked some wood on the back porch to use first.

In short, we have firewood coming out our ears, possibly as much as three years' worth. A blessing indeed as we prepare for winter.

I'm back!

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 18 Sep 2026 18:31:17 +0000

Phew, what a journey! For the past two weeks, this blog has been having technical difficulties and many readers couldn't get on due to a "security risk."

After much assistance from a computer expert named Gregory, at first the issue was thought to be through my hosting platform, necessitating a number of lengthy phone consultations. (Hat tip to a woman named Lindsay, who was wonderfully helpful.)

The hosting platform, as it turns out, wasn't able to assist. The matter needed to be addressed through the dreaded Goliath of Google, which of course is famously helpful and accessible (/sarc/).

The bottom line was the issue was the need for an SSL certification. Fortunately there is a convenient option in Blogger to change things from http to https. Unfortunately it didn't work.

Gregory went back and forth and back and forth and dove deeeeep down some technical rabbit holes involving encryption sites that even he admitted were not user-friendly. However, finally, he was able to pull things together and make things work.

Now the blog, once again, should be visible to everyone. Thank you to Gregory for his assistance, and to all of you for your patience!

Weird dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sat, 12 Sep 2026 13:07:36 +0000

"Do we have any other quilts besides the one on our bed?" Don asked randomly one morning.

"No," I replied. "Why?"

The quilt on our bed was a lucky thrift-store find from about 15 years ago, and it's the only one we have.

"Because I had a dream," Don explained. "We had a valuable quilt we were going to sell, and I posted it online with a giant list of technical descriptions with terms I'd never heard before, yet with logical-sounding definitions such as 'well-tipped' and 'fully pressed.'" He said in his dream, a quilting expert would know all these definitions, and the terms had to be exactly right for the quilt to be correctly valued. None of the dream terms were gobbledygook ("This quilt is blooper-rooper"), but he'd never heard of any of them.

We both had a good chuckled at such an outlandish dream.

Then a couple of days later, he had another bizarre dream. He dreamt that one of our chest freezers full of beef had malfunctioned. The meat was still soft-frozen and therefore salvageable. The problem with moving the meat to another location, however, was the freezer was surrounded by huge rattlesnakes. In his dream, he was going to try laying on some steps near the freezer and remove the meat with long grabbers ... and that's where the dream ended.

Don has no fear of snakes (though of course a healthy respect for rattlers), and the only source he could imagine for such a dream was sighting a rattlesnake on the road a few weeks ago, only the second rattler he's seen in all our years in Idaho.

Yup. Weird dreams.

Twenty-five years ago. Never forget.

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 03:58:13 +0000

It's been 25 years since the Sept. 11, 2026 terrorist attacks. Stubbornly, I will continue to post some of the heart-wrenching photos from that horrible day because I don't want people to forget, excuse, dismiss, rewrite, or minimize what happened.

Never forget.

Scenic drive

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Tue, 08 Sep 2026 21:32:37 +0000

This morning we went to pick up Romeo, the bull/steer we recently had butchered, at the meat-cutter's facility. Here's the meat, packed in totes and crates in the back of the car.

The butcher lives waaaaay up a hill above a river. We had never been to this particular neck of the woods before, and immediately fell in love with it. I didn't think to take photos as we drove up, but I took a few on the way down. This is some random and distant outbuilding with some hay bales in a field that made us wish we could move there.

Here's a view of the river.

Can you see the road way down there?

The road wound through rocky and very steep hills.

The hills appeared crumbly, and Don said they're probably basalt.

For this reason, it didn't altogether surprise us to see a gravel pit at the top of the hill where things flattened out.

We agreed it was an incredibly scenic excursion to pick up the meat.

Meanwhile, this is our property, photo taken from a neighbor's place. The barn is on the left (the metal roof is shining in the sun), and the house is on the right tucked behind a row of trees.

Here's a closer view of the house, what little of it is visible.

And that was our scenic drive.

Technical difficulties

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Mon, 07 Sep 2026 16:45:52 +0000

Several readers have brought something to my attention, namely that this blog is giving "Secure connections failed" and error messages stating it's an issue on my end.

The trouble is, neither Don nor I can "see" what's happening. We tried implementing the HTTPS availability under "Settings" and get this screen:

In short, we have no clue what's wrong or what happened. We have not changed a single thing on our end, so we don't know what to change or fix. At this point we're about ready to contact a local computer specialist and see what he can do to restore full access to the blog.

Meanwhile, if you can see this blog post, please take a screenshot of whatever issues you're encountering at your end. Don set up a temporary email address, so please send me any technical difficulties you're experiencing. This email address is: troubleshootRR@proton.me

Thank you!

Three-day beef ambrosia

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 04 Sep 2026 13:24:36 +0000

We'll be getting our bull/steer Romeo back from the butcher in a few days' time, so we've been reorganizing the freezer to make room for him. During this process, we came across several cuts of meat from a previous butchering that have just been ... sitting there. For years.

This cut is a chuck roast. I've put chuck roasts in a slow cooker in the past with excellent results, but it still remains, for whatever reason, my least-favorite part of the animal. It's generally the last thing I reach for when it comes to making something for dinner.

But this time, needing to make room, I fished out three chuck roasts as well as two packages of soup bones, another item I seldom use. My plan was to can up the meat in a bone broth.

I threw these all into a large stock pot, added powdered garlic, dried onion, pepper, and a splash of vinegar (to help draw the nutrients out of the bones), topped everything with water, and let it simmer overnight.

The next day, I scooped out all the meat and bones. I carefully went through each piece of meat and de-fatted it as best I could. I think this is one of the reasons I'm not so fond of chuck roast – it's just too fatty. (I put the fatty bits aside to feed to Mr. Darcy in small increments.)

Then I put the meat in the refrigerator overnight. More importantly, I put the pot of beef broth in the fridge too, so the fat could cool, rise to the surface, and harden.

The next day, I scooped the fat off the surface of the broth.

The bone broth is incredible – rich, meaty, full of nutrients. I filled canning jars with meat and topped them with the broth.

Then, not wanting to waste anything, I filled the rest of the jars with leftover broth.

After canning, the result is six pints of beef ambrosia – tender and delicious – and eight pints of beef bone broth for the pantry.

Not a bad haul for some cuts of meat otherwise taking up space in the freezer.

Happy birthday, Mom!

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Thu, 03 Sep 2026 23:11:00 +0000

Today is my mom's 95th birthday.

Clearly I couldn't wish her felicitations over the phone, so I called my dad to pass them on to her. My brothers and sisters-in-law (bless every one of them) are making things festive. My older brother and sister-in-law brought homemade cheesecake (which Mom loves), and my youngest brother and sister-in-law will come in over the weekend with a birthday cake.

Dad says Mom is doing quite well in the nursing home. After her rough New Year's brush with illness, it took her a long time to recuperate and now she's much improved. As Dad says, if it wasn't for the effects of the stroke, she would be exceptionally healthy.

Altogether, Dad and I agreed, we have much to be thankful for with our family. Despite the challenges, everyone is in good spirits. We're beyond grateful for that.

Happy birthday, Mom!