King of the Birds?

 

I was thinking today, that a little over two hundred and thirty years ago, there were discussions, and debates over what the American National Bird would be.  The thought made me laugh in itself, because Benjamin Franklin wanted it to be a turkey.  I can’t imagine how anyone would take us seriously.  It’s like being afraid of a milk cow, I mean sure they’re important, but wouldn’t you pay more attention, to say, a lion?  A tiger? A renegade cow loving moose?  I digress.

The Bald Eagle.  A majestic choice really.  I think it helps that they’re rare enough that any time one is flying by, everyone stops and stares.  I’ve even seen people stop their cars to take photos.  For some reason, they inspire a kind of grace in you when you see them swooping through the air, and they really do seem like the king of birds. 

Except for today, when I was driving down the highway and saw three of them picking away at a road killed deer carcass.  They didn’t seem so regal then.  Squawking and picking through the crows and magpies to get their share.  Of road kill.  What kind of king do you know that eats road kill?  I sure don’t know any. 

I figure, maybe if I dressed up like a bird, I could be their king.  I mean, if the only requirement is not eating road kill, I think I could resist the urge, just to get the title.  Jessica: King of the Birds.  I guess I would have to be a Queen.  And have to care about birds.  Maybe I wouldn’t be such a good king after all.

It was overall a really weird bird day.  I was shoveling gravel for our new driveway.  (Such a fun task… sigh… the lumberjacking is over.  Time for the less fun manual labor) So, I’m shoveling, and I hear this rasping type of scream that kind of sounds like a choking hawk.  I never actually saw it, but it was defiantly a hawk.  I hope it wasn’t actually choking.  Hopefully, it just had a bird form of Alzheimer’s and forgot how to do it’s cool hawk scream. 

      

Snickerdoodles: The Forgotten Cookie

 

I decided I was in a cookie-baking mood today.  The mood strikes me often enough to have a whole kitchen drawer devoted to chocolate chips.  Isn’t that a bit sad?  I’ll admit, I’m a bit addicted.  I was thinking though, why always chocolate chip?  What happened to oatmeal, molasses, and dare I say it, snickerdoodles?

I like to think of the snickerdoodle as the French toast cookie.  They don’t taste anything like it, but when they’re baking, they smell like it.  I think it’s the cinnamon.  I’m really a sucker for anything with copious amounts of cinnamon.  I could go so far as to say it’s my favorite spice. [Gasp] I never thought I’d pick one. 

I really do think that the chocolate chip cookie has a monopoly-like grasp on the United States.  As monopolies are illegal here, I feel it’s my duty in life to promote all the other cookies out there.  They may never make it to cookie dough ice cream, but hey, I don’t sweat the small stuff. 

Enough about foolish things like governments and monopolies. Back to the snickerdoodles.  I’ve been thinking about them all day, and couldn’t help myself from making them.  I like to make the Betty Crocker recipe. 

1 c. butter or margarine

1 ½ c. sugar

2 eggs

2 ¾ c. flour

2 teaspoons cream of tartar

1 teaspoon baking soda

Mix it all together in a bowl.  (Doesn’t get much simpler than that huh?) In a separate bowl, mix ¼ c. sugar and as much cinnamon as you want.  Take the dough, roll it in the cinnamon and sugar mixture and bake for about 9 minutes at 400 degrees. 

I really can’t get enough of these cookies.  Which could perhaps be why in most American homes, they are forgotten.  As soon as you make them they disappear.  Could it really be that they are so popular, they aren’t made?  I’ll admit, it’s probably a pipe dream of mine.  In my house however, the snickerdoodle will never be forgotten, and always celebrated.

What’s your favorite cookie? (Store bought ones don’t count!)

The Winter Rodeo

In Montana, there seems to be two seasons; Winter, and Rodeo.  I’ve never been much into the Rodeo, although, I’m pretty sure that comes from hating clowns.  Which really makes me wonder why, as really, a generally widespread hatred, that people still dress up as clowns for Halloween.  Usually, it’s a parent, like their kids are going to protect them from being stupid.  They are genuinely surprised when they say “trick or …” and before they get ‘treat’ out, their treat is getting punched in the nose.

Anyway, I don’t know too much about the Rodeo, but I’m getting reacquainted with Winter.  Winter, to me, means a lot of things, but this time of year, it means dog sledding.  I’ll admit; I’m an Iditarod junkie.  Now mind you, I didn’t say expert, I said junkie.  Which I like to mean, ‘is very interested, if not so knowledgeable’.

I’ll start by saying that I’m allergic to dogs.  I would have no idea what to do if I were put on a dogsled and told to mush.  What I do know, is that Jeff King is equated as a god of the sport, Lance Mackey is the defending champion, many women run the race every year, and even a handful of them have won.  One, three times over.  I know that the great race was begun in 1973, and has gained popularity in the intervening years.  I know that three musher’s from my neighboring town of Seeley Lake, have qualified and are registered to compete.  And I know, that I couldn’t be more proud of them.

Dog sledding, you see, is a hugely demanding sport.  Anyone, can work out, and train, and play basketball, or baseball or football.  I consider those to be relatively coddled sports.  Sports, where you get a break to go to the locker room, get patched up, and get an inspiring pep talk to go out there in your cozy gymnasium or stadium, and play for nearly an hour.

If you are a musher, you are the one giving the pep talks.  You are the one that takes care of your team during blizzards, ice storms, and across snowmelts that can kill you before you can scream for help.  The only one that can save you, is you.  Well, and your dogs.  There isn’t a locker room, a trainer to patch you up, or an hour of play.  The record holding Iditarod time is 8 days, 22 hours, 46 minutes and 2 seconds, held by Mr. Martin Buser, in his 1992 win.  For nearly nine days, he fought the Alaskan wild, it’s weather, and came out with bragging rights for a year. 

That, my friends, is a sport.  It is the race.  It is more challenging than the Iron man, the tour de France, and most certainly, more exciting than the Rodeo.  In 33 days, it begins.

On The Menu Tonight

My favorite time of Winter is when seed catalogs begin pouring in.  Usually in late January, and early February, is the best time to curl up on the couch and dogear multiple pages of what the Spring will bring you.

I’ll admit, I’m the biggest garden junkie that doesn’t have a garden that exists.  Every year, I plan it out, fill out order forms, and never send them.  I always end up having to go back to work, meaning anything I plant would wither and die before I got home.  So, instead of luscious gardens, I have notebooks about them.  And what wonderful successes they will become on that one lucky Spring, when I get to stay at home.

Just thinking about it makes me a bit antsy, I’ll admit.  My seed catalogs haven’t yet found me at my new address, but I have faith that they are indeed coming.  It really makes me want to walk downstairs to my frigid kitchen, and warm it with dessert in the oven, and dinner in the crock-pot.

I tend to get really excited when the cooking urge hits me.  It’s something I really enjoy doing, and do in fact do every day.  It’s just different somehow, when I really feel the need to be mixing things together and making something that has the potential to be wonderful. 

Like my mother, I don’t usually measure anything or use recipes, I just make things up according to what I have in my cupboards at the time.  (I recently grew a window herb garden which vastly improves the meals in our home.  Everything’s better with a little taste of freshness to it.)  What I’m really getting at though, is when I explain what exactly I’m doing, it won’t be very conventional.  A handful of this, or a pinch of that, or what I think is a cup of something else in a pan.  Sorry I’m not more helpful, but, really, what’s life without a little variety. 

I like to start with dessert.  Really, who doesn’t?  I’m going to make a peach and huckleberry cobbler.  Which will be really easy, and gives me an excuse to turn the oven on.

Filling:

One Quart Jar of Peaches (That I hope you remembered to can last fall tsk tsk..)

Two handfuls of Huckleberries

¼ c. ish of sugar

1 teaspoon lemon juice
Topping:

3 Tablespoons Brown Sugar

2 Tablespoons softened butter (or margarine.  I’m old school, I like butter)

1 Tablespoon Cinnimon

1 teaspoon Cardamom (you don’t really need this, I just like it)

1 c. rolled oats
I prefer to heap the filling into an 8×8 greased baking pan (or any pan that is clean and at hand.  I just add or decrease filling size to match the pan). Mix up the topping in a separate bowl until the butter isn’t in chunks, more like the size of small peas, and put it on top of the filling.  I like to bake it at 350 degrees and I take it out when the fruit is bubbling a bit, and the topping is slightly brown and crispy.  Usually about 30 minutes, give or take quite a bit.  I live in a high elevation zone… it tends to wreak havoc on some people. 
For dinner I am going to slow cook a pork loin in the crock-pot, seeing as how the oven will be busy.   I tend to buy pork loins in bulk at Costco, so before I freeze it, I cut it into crock-pot size chunks.  Which obviously, will vary according to your slow cooker.  The real trick though, is what you cook it with.  I slice mine down the middle, and line it with a thin layer of apple butter.  I chop up an average size onion, and put half of it in the slit, and save half for the juices.  Use a few drops of lemon juice down the center, and then slice an apple (skinned or not, depends on your preference) and line the center as well.  I like to then, mince two cloves of garlic, and sauté it in a bit of butter, adding, about a tablespoon of basil and a few pinches of time and rosemary to the mixture.  Pour it over what is already in your split pork, and tie the whole thing up with kitchen string.  I like to use vegetable broth, or a bit of chicken broth (about a cup, or enough to fill an inch of your slow cooker) for the base.  You can just as easily use water, I just like chicken broth. [Editor's note: Apple cider maybe??]  Add the rest of the onion to it, and if you have it, a few sprigs of mint.  Fresh grind pepper over the entire mixture, put the lid on and cook.  How long, depends on how much meat you put in.  I usually cook until the apples and onions are tender, and make a test cut in the meat to make sure there isn’t any pink left.  (I haven’t died of E.coli yet).

      So, in a nutshell, there you have it, dinner with Kevin and Jess.  I’ll let you know how it turns out.
P.S.- don’t forget to make mashed potatoes, and your favorite vegetable.  Then you’ve got all the food groups in one fell swoop.

Suicidal Sheep

The bighorn sheep population of Western Montana is growing every year. The state is even considering holding a longer hunting season on them. Too bad they’ve opened season on themselves. Bighorns to me, seem like the king of sheep. Comparing them to domesticated sheep is like comparing a fine cut of ham to a can of Spam. They just look regal. I’m pretty sure it’s the curling horns and the way they always stand to straight looking above everything. As it turns out, instead of an all-knowing, I am the James Earl Jones of the Animal Kingdom look, it’s really just a vacant I am less intelligent than a caveman look. Who knew.

The problem seems to be their love of salt. In the winter, after salt trucks coat the highways, there can be any number of sheep lolling about casually licking it from the pavement. Thus, a multitude of them are plastered by eighteen wheelers traveling through the area. Which, as you can imagine, can create quite the mess. The sheep don’t seem to mind. They’ll saunter about amid their recently living comrades, licking the pavement.

It’s really bad enough that I feel like walking about the state with a bag of salt licks, and distribute them. On the side of the road. I’d be the Johnny Appleseed of salt licks. Oh, to be on a level with Johnny Appleseed. My life could be complete.

Artichokes: The Scariest Vegetable

      I had a nightmare about artichokes last night.  I’m not really quite sure on the particulars, but I do know, that it involved artichokes and it was very scary.  Scary like when you have  home invasion dreams and you have to figure out how to get you and everything else living out of your house.  And the pound puppy you’ve had since you were two.

      I think I’d like it if artichokes invaded my house though.  I really like to eat their hearts.  Is that morbid?  That’s what they’re called anyway, artichoke hearts.  They’re really tasty in dips and on salads, or just as themselves. 

Really, just getting inside one is fun it itself.  I make a bit of a game out of it, like I’m hacking through the jungle with a machete, and somehow at the end, artichoke hearts are my prize.  Somehow, I think it might be cooler if there were actually some sort of gold prize in the middle, instead of just vegetable.  Like the golden tickets from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, only, with a better result than having to meet Willy Wonka.  Lets face it, he’s a freaky guy.  I’d rather meet Harrison Ford.  Or, Fidel Castro, or really, do anything other than be forced to meet Willy Wonka.

Anyways.  Artichokes.  I’m not quite sure what caused me to have a nightmare about one, but, it has made me a bit obsessed with getting some.  Which is easier than it sounds.  With gas prices these days, I’m afraid my craving is going to have to be quelled until Sunday…  Sigh.  It all seems so far away.  

Oh Winter, There you Are

Winter! It’s finally arrived. I’ve been looking for it since about mid-November, and it’s finally decided to show up. Suffice to say, I’m a bit excited about it. As it is about negative thirty-five degrees with the wind chill today, Kevin and I have decided to take the day off of attempting to hack our home site out of the woods. It’s a great day to huddle around the woodstove and watch movies and drink hot cocoa. Maybe we’ll get really unruly and put a shot of whiskey in it. We’re rebels now.

The sad part about this whole scenario, is that just a few miles away, lives the ‘air-stagnation zone’. I like to think of it like The Nothing from The Never Ending Story. Like myself, I hope you are thinking, air-stagnation zone? Missoula, Montana? These things just don’t mix. Well, my friends, apparently they do. The rules are also fairly fierce, just like the winter. When it finally gets here.

Any sort of wood burning stove is illegal in Missoula. Now, I think to myself, humans have been burning wood since they discovered fire. I’m not really sure that burning wood is the reason for any sort of air stagnation. I mean, sure, it can be unruly if everyone is burning wood twenty-four hours a day, but with the cost of conventional electric, not to mention propane heating, people can’t even afford to heat their homes. Much less get some whiskey to booze up their hot chocolate.

Burning coal produces most of the country’s electricity. Really, I’m sure that doesn’t have anything to do with air pollution. When you refine crude oil and natural gas, mix them together… what’s the result? Ding, ding, . Sounds expensive huh. Guess, what, it is.

So, I guess the end result is, we can’t burn wood that surrounds us and is heavily replanted every year, but we can burn huge amounts of coal, and refine crude oil (that we happen to be in a war over by the way) and import it all here, where we naturally have none. Sounds logical to me.

Unfortunately, that is for the people that live a few miles down the road. I’m glad that we live on our side of the mountain, where we can enjoy burning wood, and reap the nice warm benefits. That happen to be boozy hot chocolate.

My Goals….Everything’s Better with a Little Bacon

There are lots of things I wish I learned how to do in life. Number one, I suppose has to be learn to whistle. All I really want to do is be able to whistle the Andy Griffith Show theme song. I’m not really quite sure why, but I feel that it would enrich my life in ways I can’t even fathom.

• I also want to learn how to smoke a cigar. And enjoy it. For a person like me, pretty much the culmination of looking badass is relaxing with a cigar and a glass of scotch. I think you have to have the right stature for it though. I mean, me, standing at nearly six feet, liking flannel and packaged men’s white t-shirts would look pretty badass. But that look might look a little silly for a lady that’s a bit more sophisticated, demure and shops at places like Macy’s and likes to wear high heels. At first. I like to think that the cigar and glass of scotch is a look that anyone can perfect since I’m a badass even though I don’t own a motorcycle look.

• I really want to take a real cooking class, so I can say with educated knowledge that my way is better. Or at least think it.

• I am already a connoisseur of coffee flavored coffee. But, I’d like to have the time to sit and enjoy it properly in the morning. I’d like to promote our local coffee roasters and try every flavor they make. Then, mix my favorite two together, make a masterpiece, call them, and tell them to name it after me. It shall be forever known as Cutlass Liz’s Blend: Cures Even the Most Prominent Morning Bitchiness.

• Finally, I’d like to eat more bacon, without worrying about clogging my arteries. In fact, I would like to start a dinner series with the theme ‘wrapped in bacon’. Because lets face it, I’ve never met anyone that doesn’t like bacon. Someone even once tried to convince me that bacon beer would be a good thing. Or bacon in Mongolian barbecue. Hmm…

I guess I don’t really know about anyone else, but it’s time for me to get off my proverbial bum, turn off the television, and start learning to whistle.

In case you need more bacon info:

• The Bacon Show – One Bacon Recipe per Day, Every Day, Forever
• I Heart Bacon – the name says it all
• Bacon Gift Wrap -for the bacon lover in your life
• Even More Bacon Links – From the I Heart Bacon site; LOTS of links

Oh Cell Phones…and Driving Skills

I’m on the verge of beginning a large-scale battle with my cell phone provider to cancel my service without having to pay for the remainder of my contract. A heavy business, I know. Also, by ‘on the verge of beginning’, I mean that I’m thinking about it. On one hand, I’d really rather not pay $100/month for something that I don’t use. I can sure think of some good ways to spend that money, that do not include my cell phone that gets no service where I live. I like to exaggerate the enormity of the problem, so when things are actually dealt with, they don’t seem that bad. I mean, I could get on the phone with customer service, and they could say, “I’m sorry Miss LaPoint, I’ll cancel that for you right away, free of charge”. But I highly doubt that. It’s not my fault you have crappy service in Montana. I don’t really think I need a cell phone anyway. I see people driving their cars and talking on the phone all the time. And let me tell you, no matter how well you think you drive while talking on the phone… you don’t. It’s like everyone is from California when they’re on the phone. (I’ve also come to the conclusion that California drivers are the worst in the nation). (And honestly, people that say Boston is the worst, they’re wrong, they just don’t know the Boston rules. Which consist of don’t hit other cars. Doesn’t get much easier than that). [Editor's note: There are actually other rules of driving in Massachusetts, but they are beyond the scope of this article.]

Really though, I rarely feel compelled to flip someone off when driving, even if I am cursing at them at the top of my lungs in the privacy of my own vehicle. People on their phones though, they get the bird baby. Or if they’re from California.

*If you’re from California, and you’re offended, too bad, suck it up buttercup.

Moose Love

I have a brother who used to work for the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation. The most exciting part about it, was for a couple of years he was on moose patrol. This usually pertained to tranquilizing moose that would not leave residential areas and relocating them to a more ‘wild’ setting. Most of the moose that seemed to like areas that were generally considered ‘human’ had in fact, fallen in love with cows. For some moose reason, they are utterly (excuse the use of word when about to speak about a cow) fascinated by cows, and when they find the right cow, they fall in love and thus, begin wooing them.

I’m not really up on cows falling in love, but I seem to be an expert on moose falling in love. Some of the relocated moose, actually made it back to their true love, and had to be relocated yet again. Such dedication. Really, if a man fell in love with me, got tranquilized, and relocated miles and miles away and found himself back to me… well, I’d probably get a restraining order, but, with moose and cows anyway, it seems romantic.

The ongoing story in my local newspaper is actually about a moose as well. Well, actually more publicized is an avalanche that happened a few days ago that killed some trailblazers. Slightly less, and I stress the word slightly here, is a reported rampaging moose. (on the same mountain as the avalanche as it were). Anyway, not on a main trail, but a popular trail for skiers and snowmobilers that know the area, there is a renegade moose that keeps attacking people. It evades animal control like the plague, but damned if it doesn’t like snowmobiles. Well, it doesn’t like them, but more likes to attack them. There haven’t been any casualties thus far. Which is fortunate.

The flip side to that story is one attacked skier actually took the moose’s side. When the moose charged him, it got close enough before he bashed a tree branch over it’s head to see that its’ eyes were cloudy. So, in other words, the moose is blind. Makes me wonder how it can tell animal control guys on skis from recreational skiers. Smart moose.

I’m pretty sure the solution to the whole problem is to sacrifice a cow to walk down the trail, and blamo, problem solved. Instant love. Hopefully. I hope they will be very happy together. And I’ll look for the article that announces a new species of whatever it is that a moose and a cow would produce. I’ll name it Bob.