I’ve been desperately trying to use up my vegetables before the next CSA inundation. I can’t look that farmer in the eye knowing that some portion of my share melted into swampy putrescence in my fridge’s bottommost crisper drawer (also known as the Crypt). So, it’s been a bit of a totalitarian regime in my kitchen. Any sign of weakness and execution is swift. Hiyaaaaaaahhhh.
I’m not joking when I say I think we got 40 lbs. worth of vegetables last time. I know what 40 lbs. feels like (screaming, on each hip). Who eats that many vegetables in two weeks, anyway? It’s really cramping my meat-eating style. I mean, just tonight, I could barely finish my huge, delicious, thick-cut pork chop (also from Drumlin) because I could not stop eating the cabbage. Cabbage, people. What’s to love? A LOT, apparently, when it’s braised in apple cider and vinegar with a sprinkling of caraway seeds. I also made those daikon radish latkes, again. Mmmmmm.
Then, there was yesterday’s turnip gratin (I used half turnips, half rutabagas, omitted the savory but kept the thyme, and added fresh grated nutmeg). I would have passed up dessert for this. I didn't, but I would have if forced.
And don’t even get me started on the creamy Brussels sprouts. There are very few women I would like to kiss full on the mouth, but I think Molly Stevens might be one of them (maybe Molly Wizenberg, too).
Based on the amount of vegetables we’ve been eating lately, I think we now qualify as vegetarians. You know, except for all the meat. Did I mention the borscht? God, that was good, too.
Anyway, my pictures are crap – sorry about that. I didn’t think any of it was going to be that great so I really didn’t apply myself. It’s called poor planning. Then again, to quote Woody Allen, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.”
This conversation recently took place between Husband and I:
Him: So, how about we watch a movie tomorrow night and maybe make some nachos.
Me: (my usual vacant look as I process this wild and crazy idea)
Him: You take the tortilla chips and lay them out on a pan, sprinkle some cheese over…
Me: I know how to make nachos.
Him: You were looking at me funny…
Me: And you assumed it was because I didn’t know how to make nachos?
Me: I know how to make nachos.
Him: So, then you take them out of the oven, and once they cool off, you dip them into sour cream. Like this... (wildly exaggerated dipping motion.)
Geez, I didn’t go to Wife School for nothing.
We had a nice Thanksgiving in New Haven with Nonni, my dad, my great uncle Joe, and great aunt Reggie. After all of my turkey talk, there was no actual turkey consumed. There never is at Nonni’s. She’ll usually make some kind of pasta first course (manicotti, this year), some kind of meat (like porchetta), roasted potatoes, some kind of stuffed vegetable (like stuffed mushrooms, if that counts as a vegetable), and maybe a few other things. Then, the obligatory trio of pies: pumpkin, cheesecake, and perhaps rice. And, if you’re my dad, you’ll top that off with four of five Klondike Bars from the freezer after everyone leaves.
With her 89th birthday approaching next week, Nonni’s slowing down just a bit. Meaning that when I dare to contribute some squash and cranberry sauce to the spread, she still gets super-pissed, but I can totally outrun her.
Right after dessert, the Toddler stopped his yelling so we knew something was wrong. He spiked a fever soon afterwards. Worried about Nonni’s octogenarian immune system, I suggested she might not want to kiss the Toddler good-bye and risk catching whatever bug he might be carrying. Her response: “That’s true. If I get sick, I might not be able to get pregnant.”
That’s what I get.
These frosted citrus cookies are kid magnets. Must be the sprinkles. Both Nonni and my great-aunt Dava always had these around for us kids around the holidays.
½ cup shortening (or butter, softened)
½ cup sugar
2 large eggs
½ cup orange juice
½ tsp. orange extract
3 cups flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
½ tsp. lemon extract
½ tsp. vanilla
2 Tbsp. milk
Preheat oven to 400°F. Grease cookie sheets, or line with parchment paper.
In a large bowl, cream together shortening (or butter) and sugar until fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add orange juice and orange extract, and mix (if using butter, it may congeal unattractively during the mixing process, but it doesn’t matter). Sift together flour and baking powder. Stir into wet ingredients until combined.
Drop by smallish tablespoonfuls onto greased cookie sheet. Bake 10-12 minutes. Remove just before they start to take on color. Cool.
For icing, mix confectioner’s sugar with lemon extract and vanilla in a medium bowl. Add about 2 Tbsp. of milk and whisk until smooth (you want it thick enough to cling to the cookies without being gloppy; if it’s too thick, add milk a few drops at a time or you risk thinning it out too much). Dip cookies top-down into icing and set on a rack over a rimmed baking sheet lined with parchment paper to contain the mess. Shake colored sprinkles over the top before the icing dries. Let stand until set.
Makes about 30. Recipe can be doubled.
Dava [Barbaresi] Catone
New Haven, Connecticut - Hamden, Connecticut
1921 – 1998
Next Recipe: Chocolate Balls
(Previous Recipe: Bambury Tarts)
We had our first Winter CSA pickup at Drumlin Farm the other day. It was dark and rainy, and people were ducking in and out of one of the farm outbuildings like there was something illegal going on. As if the best crack in the world was the butternut-squash-shaped crack being dispensed by the good folks at Mass Audubon. (God, I hope they never find out about this blog.)
Frankly, the amount of food we had access to was obscene. Celery root and beets and spinach and garlic and Brussels sprouts and turnips and collard greens and potatoes and 6 lbs. of carrots and shallots and parsnips and that’s not even getting into the squash. My god. Come to think of it, something illegal WAS going on. Indecent exposure to squash.
Delicata Squash with Spiced Pecans and Dried Cranberries
You don’t have to peel delicata squash. No kidding. Which means it’s now my favorite squash.
2 delicata squash (cut in half lengthwise, seeds scooped out, then sliced crosswise into ½-inch-thick half-rings, then cut those in half the other way so you get these cute little arcs ‘cause that’s the way I like them. Shut up.)
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 cup pecan halves
1 Tbsp. maple syrup
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp. chili powder
½ tsp. ground cumin
Shake of cayenne pepper
¼ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. pepper
½ cup dried cranberries
Preheat oven to 375°F.
On a rimmed baking sheet, toss squash with olive oil, and salt and pepper to your liking. Roast about 40 minutes, flipping once halfway through, until tender and fragrant.
Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, mix together nuts, maple syrup, Worcestershire sauce (pronounced “WUSS-ter-sheer,” people), spices, salt, and pepper until well coated. Bake on a parchment-lined pan about 10 minutes until toasty yet not burned (can be tricky to keep track of when your timer is working on the squash; PAY ATTENTION). Let cool.
When squash is done, toss with whatever spiced nuts you haven’t eaten along with the dried cranberries.
Source: Nuts adapted from Cooking Light.
In my always-delicious spam mailbox, I got an interesting note from “Wilma” about “extensive cock MAssgdadfg.” The timing couldn’t have been better. Truth be told, I’ve been a bit flummoxed as to where to find large caches of local poultry, preferably within five miles of my house with no left turns. Pete and Jen’s Backyard Birds is sold out. Though I’ve managed to fill the void with beef, pork, and lamb from both Codman and Drumlin farms, I'm now dangerously low on stock. I need local chicken. I’m not picky: hens or cocks will do. So, I followed the link.
Boy, was I in for a big surprise!
Why, it seems like just yesterday when I wrote my very first blog post. To think, after a whole year, my content still hasn’t improved. They say practice makes perfect, but I think that’s a load of crap.
Over this past year, I’ve learned many things, most of them the hard way. One was to read my camera manual (actually, I still haven’t learned that one). Another was to write my blog entries in a Word document first before copying them into Typepad, just in case the Typepad people are spying, criticizing all aspects of my creative process. You know, like department store staff behind the mirrors of dressing rooms. The bastards. This policy of paranoia also comes in handy on the rather frequent chance that your browser application might unexpectedly quit mid-sentence.
Every once in a while, though, I write something that’s just too stupid to even begin to ask you to read (like the one where I go to Confession after 15 years and ask the priest if my estrangement from the Church, as my dad has suggested, is the reason why Dunkin’ Donuts’ doughnuts suck so badly). I keep all of these types of idiotic posts in that same holding document forever and ever. Maybe for a rainy day when I’m willing to settle, maybe for a particularly depressing menstrual cycle when I find myself running outside to scream at the trees for no reason. (It’s just wind. Stop moving, YOU STUPID TREEEEEEEESSS.) For example. (I do try to weed out the menstrual posts as best I can, but I’m not always successful.)
Anyway, what I’m left with after this whole year is 86 pages worth of posts that never made it onto the blog for one reason or another. Eighty-six PAGES of rejects. That’s right, you’ve been reading the good stuff. Scary.
I’m not going to get all mushy on you on my blog birthday, don’t worry, but it’s true what they say about blogging improving your life in unexpected ways. This rather far-flung community of bloggers and readers has made me think, made me act, made me laugh, made me cry. Which means you guys suck way worse than Cats.
As we approach Thanksgiving, I’d like to thank my reader(s) for reading me everyday, with the glaring exception of Saturdays and Sundays (I don’t know what the hell you’re all doing on the weekends that’s so damned important, by the way). I’d also like to thank the people who comment regularly or just whenever the mood strikes because it adds so much to the conversation. Even if I get sad when you eventually leave me to live your own lives (Where are you Heath and Jim? Don’t grow up, yet.).
Anyway, blah, blah, blah, I really like presents (expensive ones). I also like lurkers who get brave and delurk. Except that I figure some of you might be lurking for good reason. Like the hair you’re growing out is still at that awkward stage. Or you have a gimpy left leg. Or the mental illness. I figure you have your reasons and I can respect that. In fact, do me a favor and keep that shit to yourself. I don’t need any competition for crazy on my own blog.
But if you do want to drop me a line, the magic number is 13. That’s the record number of comments I’ve received (on this post and this post), and that’s the number to beat. It will make the difference between a good blog birthday and a shitty one. No posting twice (you hear that, Self?). To make things interesting, I shan’t be posting again until we get there. Will I be back for a second year? We’ll find out.
Happy birthday, FotF.
Now that the various holidays are arriving in seemingly rapid succession, the Preschooler is getting very excited about decorating appropriately for each one. That makes one of us. I’m lucky if I put on different outfits for the occasions. Anyway, after we finally took down the Halloween “decorations” he made, he started brainstorming some Thanksgiving ideas:
Him: What’s that thing with the food inside?
Me: A refrigerator?
Him: No, like an ice cream cone. That fell down.
Me: Oh, you mean a cornucopia.
Him: Yeah. We’ll make that and other Thanksgiving decorations, too. Like turkeys.
Him: And monkeys.
Him: Yeah, monkeys.
This is the second year in a row he’s brought up the monkeys. Oh, well. I suppose the supply will catch up with the demand. I don’t know about you people, but I know what’s going to be on my Thanksgiving table this year.
I finished up the last of my CSA work hours at Drumlin over the weekend and, as much as I want to complain about it, it was actually pretty fun. When you get a group of people together to do pseudo-volunteer farm work, it doesn’t generally attract a lot of assholes. Nope, I was the only asshole there and I just kept my mouth shut the whole time.
We harvested carrots on Friday, and cabbage, leeks, and all manner of radishes on Saturday. Since I’m always happiest when I’m brandishing a knife, my job was to cut the greens off of the carrots and radishes and arrange them in storage crates. Also, to weed out any skinny, crappy ones that came my way. Not that there’s anything wrong with the skinny, crappy ones. It’s just that if you store them in the root cellar along with the big ones, they might rot and contaminate everything around them. I think. I always seem to be late for the farm work and so I only get half the story.
Anyway, nothing goes to waste on the farm. All of the reject stuff gets plowed right back under the soil. But, in terms of how hungry I was after all of that aerobic wrist-flicking, composting wasn’t going to cut it. After we finished, I skulked around for a little while and then made a break for it with armloads of little carrots and daikon radishes. Later, it turned out that the Farmer had said it was okay to take them, so I guess I sprinted that whole mile for nothing.
Ah, but it wasn’t for nothing. I grated up those little daikons with some potatoes and made the most delicious latkes this side of Hanukkah. I’ve never made latkes before, but judging by how these came out, I would make an awesome Jew.
Daikon Radish and Potato Latkes
1½ cups daikon radish, grated (there’s no shame in using the food processor)
1½ cups potatoes, peeled, grated (you heard me the first time)
2 Tbsp. shallots, finely chopped
2 Tbsp. scallions or leeks, finely chopped
2 large eggs, beaten
2 Tbsp. flour
Salt and pepper
Line a sieve with cheesecloth (or a dishtowel, if you’re me) and place over a large bowl. Transfer grated radish and potato to the cloth, twist up the sides to form a ball, and squeeze, wringing out as much liquid as possible. Let sit while you finish chopping, then wring out again.
Empty and dry large bowl. Add daikon, potatoes, shallots, and scallions/leeks. Stir in beaten eggs, flour, salt (don’t be stingy), and pepper until uniformly moist.
Heat ¼-inch of oil in a large non-stick frying pan over medium-high heat. Place a heaping spoonful of the daikon/potato mixture in the hot oil and flatten with the back of the spoon into 3-inch rounds. Cook no more than 3 or 4 at a time. Fry 3-4 minutes, until golden-brown, then flip and cook 3-4 minutes more. When in doubt, the magic number for this recipe seems to be 3. Adjust heat if they’re browning too fast. Add more oil as needed. Transfer to paper towels and sprinkle with salt. Serve right away. I’m not kidding, start eating them NOW.
Source: A friend from culinary school came up with this recipe. I don’t remember her name because that’s just the kind of fantastic friend I am. I think it was Lucy. No, Linda. Anyway, circa 2000 she was tall, mid-forties, dark hair, nearly cut off her finger with the meat slicer while I, helpfully, nearly passed out (God, those were good times). Anyone know who I’m talking about?
We’re going to play a new game today. It’s called Who Wants to Be a Moron? Specifically, more of a moron than me.
The rules go like this: I present a scenario in which I’m a moron. HUGE moron. And you, dear readers, come up with situations in which you were an even bigger moron. The bigger, the better. I don’t really care how this happens. Lying totally works.
The object of the game is to make me feel better, to make you feel worse, and for me to be able to call you all morons behind your backs. Character doesn’t build itself, people.
Today, we’re focusing on one particular act of supreme stupidity. The time, not two hours ago, when I stood up our good friends for dinner. Stood them up at our own house. To which they brought a lovingly prepared appetizer. As well as their two hungry children.
I have a legitimately good reason for not being there to greet them. Namely, that I’m dumb. My calendar also shape-shifts at will. In fact, it’s not so much a calendar as a Sudoku puzzle that I, not being much of a numbers person, insist on filling in with letters as if it were a crossword puzzle, so that even the shrewdest of Navajo Code Talkers can’t make any sense out of it. Add to that the fact that I never know what day it is (note to self: check your own blog). Then there’s all the hard drugs. But all good reasons aside, there was still no one home when they arrived.
So, back to the game. Anyone screwed their friends worse than this? Do tell. And did they forgive you? And how much did it cost?
As for prizes, well, the award of choice on the blogosphere seems to be a bacon wallet. As AWESOME as this prize is, I don’t have any to give away. When I woke up this morning, procuring game show prizes wasn’t tops on my list of things to do as I was too busy readying myself to be an asshole.
Based on the evidence you provide in my comment section, if you’re declared The Biggest Moron Of All Time and you feel you deserve, at the very least, a bacon wallet for your trouble, I suggest you take some bacon and wrap it around your existing wallet. You’ll thank me in approximately 36 hours, if not sooner.
Who Wants to Be a Moron? will, I’m sure, become a recurring feature, so you might not want to unload all of your stupidity at once. If you do, I’ll feel great today, but just plain suicidal down the road when my comment section is painfully empty and I’m wrapping bacon around my own wallet. So, pace yourselves.
On your mark, get set, GO.
Now that my rising stardom has plummeted violently back to earth, I'll be better able to concentrate on doing what I do best: boring you with family recipes. So, here’s another picture of my great aunt Dava [Barbaresi] Catone on the far right with her husband Joe. My grandmother and grandfather, Dora [Barbaresi] and Albert Donroe, are third and fourth from the left. This picture was taken at some point, someplace, with some other people. How’s that for documenting history?
Bambury tarts are another cookie from Dava’s famous cookie trays, and one that presents particularly well for the holidays. I believe these are a riff on Banbury tarts, the English tea pastry filled with lemony mincemeat, but for which other fillings have evolved over the years and oceans. Here, it’s raspberry jam nestled in a nest of shredded coconut. Bambury may, in fact, be a misspelling, but I’m keeping it because American recipes often reflect an evolution of ingredients, techniques, and interpretations. In this game of Telephone we call life, it’s only fun when the end result is different than what you initially started with.
It was funny to watch the Toddler try to suck the jelly out of the middle of these, until he realized that the cookie part isn’t half bad, either.
1 cup butter
½ cup sugar
2 eggs, separated
2 tsp. vanilla
2 cups flour
1 cup shredded coconut, packed
¼ cup red raspberry jam
Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease cookie sheets or line with parchment paper.
Cream butter and sugar. Add egg yolks and vanilla, and blend well. Mix in flour until just combined. Form into small balls. Dip in slightly beaten egg whites, and roll in coconut. Bake 5 minutes and remove from oven. With a knuckle, nudge a small dent into the center of each cookie (yes, it’s hot; don’t be a wuss). Spoon a dollop of jam into each well and bake another 15 minutes. Cool.
Makes about 3 dozen.
Dava [Barbaresi] Catone
New Haven, Connecticut - Hamden, Connecticut
1921 - 1998
Next Recipe: Anginettes
(Previous Recipe: Pecan Tassies)
Word is, the Eat Local segment that the CBS Early Show people shot in September will not be airing after all. Yup, just like that.
I’m more disappointed than I thought I would be considering I was praying the camera people would disappear into thin air on the way to my house. But, that’s just the way it goes sometimes. Even in print media, sometimes stories run and sometimes they don’t. There are many factors involved, including whether or not your interview subject bothers to do her hair.
Still, being predictably human, I couldn’t help but run through the usual buffet of emotions associated with my (albeit petty) loss:
My e-mail correspondence with the producer went something like this:
Her: Blah, blah, blah...blah, blah, blah...so it probably won’t run. I’m sorry.
Me: Okay, so next week then?
Her: Well, maybe not ever.
Me: That should give me enough time to figure out how to work my VCR. What day should I set it for again?
Me: We could add some car chases...
Me: Tractor chases?
Me: How about...stampedes. Yeah, maybe all of the animals could escape from the farm and terrorize the city.
Her: Do you really think that’s going to help your cause?
Me: My what?
Me: (sigh) We’re fucked. Nobody’s going to eat local ever again. All because of me. Me and my stupid hair. Pass the rest of those Nestle Crunches.
All right, so what were we talking about? Oh yeah, Cookbook Friday. So, should we do another cookie or are we getting sick of cookies? What? More cookies? You got it.
Oh yeah, that was me.
Of all of the squash-related recipes I’ve experimented with lately, the one I’ve become hopelessly addicted to is the unlikeliest one of all: a pumpkin porridge of sorts.
Pumpkin soup for breakfast? Yeah, I’ll pass. And normally I would have, but then the Neighbors brought some over and since they’ve never led me astray, it would have been rude of me to not even try it. Three breakfasts-in-a-row later, I had to decide how rude it would be to ask them to make me another pot. I requested the recipe instead.
I think I’m speaking for everyone who’s reading when I say most of us don’t have much love for porridge. Modern-day Goldilockses are more likely to break and enter for Fruit Loops than settle for the Bear Family’s open-door porridge extravaganza. It’s a bit old-fashioned and often bland. Yet, these are the same reasons why I find it so comforting. I grew up on hot cereal in the colder months (cinnamon-laced oatmeal, hot-buttered grits, Cream of Wheat). I don’t know, it just makes me feel good.
This breakfast soup is actually little Cream of Wheat dumplings simmered in pumpkin-infused milk. Inevitably, some of the dumplings break and the free-agent Cream of Wheat thickens up the rest to a porridge consistency. Yum. Unless you’re weird about textures, then you’ll totally hate this.
I won’t lie, I added a little heavy cream. Maybe a cup of cream to a pint and a half of 1% milk (did my chair just break?). Once it’s cooked, you may want to add a bit of sugar upon serving, but my CSA pumpkins were perfectly sweet as they were. Or maybe it was the cream talking. Either way, it wasn’t too rich or too bland, it was just right.
Now, how about that nap?
Warm Pumpkin Porridge
1-2 small pie pumpkins, to yield about 2 cups of pumpkin flesh
1 quart milk
2 eggs, beaten
1-2 oz. quick Cream of Wheat (between one and two packets)
¼ tsp. salt
Sugar to taste
Fresh grated nutmeg to taste
Preheat oven to 350°F. Cut pumpkin in half, scoop out the seeds, place on foil-lined pan cut-side down, and bake until tender, about 45 minutes. Let cool, and with a spoon gently scrape the pumpkin flesh (in smallish pieces) into a medium pot. Add milk and set over low heat without boiling for a half hour to infuse the flavors.
In a small bowl, beat eggs with a fork. Add the salt and enough Cream of Wheat to make a soupy mixture (two packets was too much; maybe one and a quarter). Mixture should run off the fork, but it will thicken upon standing. If it gets too thick, just add some warm milk from the pot to loosen it up.
Turn up the heat and maintain flame at a gentle simmer. Scoop ¼ tsp. of dumpling mixture at a time into the pot to cook. Mix every so often, being careful not to let soup burn. Once all the dumplings are in, cover the pot, turn down the heat, and simmer 10 minutes. Serve with sugar, more milk, and a light dusting of grated nutmeg, if desired. Makes enough for breakfast all week.
Source: Adapted from Neighbor Husband’s mom.
I found this 1940's picture of my great aunt Dava [Barbaresi] Catone, so I thought I’d post it even though it’s out of chronological order. Dava is holding my Aunt Margaret, who was the daughter of her sister Dora [Barbaresi] and Freddie Donroe, before her baptism (I’m guessing it was before the blessed event since the baby seems peaceful and blissfully dry about the head).
Dava was Margaret’s godmother, but what makes this picture astoundingly prophetic is that Margaret’s godfather, standing next to Dava, was her father’s brother, Albert Donroe. Soon after, he became Margaret’s stepfather when his brother was killed in World War II. Confused, yet? The backstory is here, in case you missed it. If that doesn’t help, maybe a cookie will.
Back to Dava. Pecan tassies were among the fabulous cookies that she produced by the bushel for various family gatherings. Others included: chocolate spice cookies, coconut meltaways, and chocolate chip cream cheese cookies. More to come.
These particular cookies are like bite-sized pecan pies, though I’d recommend spreading out the enjoyment over more than one bite or they’ll be gone WAY to fast. That’s just me. Baked as they are in miniature muffin tins, using paper liners will spare you some cursing later on when you try to pry them out. Especially if you’re making them for something like a baptism (pssst…priests don’t like the cursing).
These are one of my favorite Dava cookies.
2 sticks oleo (or butter)
2 3-oz. packages of cream cheese (or shave 2 oz. off of an 8-oz. package)
2 cups flour
1 lb. brown sugar
3 Tbsp. melted oleo (or butter)
½ tsp. vanilla
1¾ cup chopped pecans
Preheat oven to 350°F.
For crust, cream together oleo and cream cheese in a large bowl. Add flour gradually and mix with a fork. Chill 2 hours (much longer and it will get annoyingly stiff). Place a piece of dough the size of a walnut in muffin tins. Does anyone know how big a walnut is anymore? Think cherry tomato. Press dough ball so that it forms a cup against the bottom and sides of the muffin liner. The deeper the depression, the more filling can fit inside. I’m just saying.
For the filling, beat eggs in another large bowl. Add brown sugar, oleo, vanilla, and salt. Sprinkle a few chopped nuts on the bottom of each dough cup, spoon filling almost to the top, and sprinkle with more nuts. Bake at 350°F for 15 minutes, 325°F for 10 minutes. Cool. Remove from pan.
Makes four dozen.
Dava [Barbaresi] Catone
New Haven, Connecticut - Hamden, Connecticut
1921 - 1998
Next Recipe: Bambury Tarts
(Previous Recipe: Chocolate Chip Cream Cheese Cookies)
This time, the task was to unbale hay and spread it over the garlic bulbs to keep them warm and toasty throughout the winter (Was that even why? Pay attention, woman). It doesn’t sound hard or look hard, and I swear I wasn’t tired while I was doing it, but now I’m EXHAUSTED. Like throw-the-kids-in-bed-at-five- o’clock-with-a-can-of-beans-for-dinner exhausted. Don’t worry, I tied a can-opener to the Toddler’s crib. Sink or swim, I said, then collapsed into a pile of unclean laundry.
Bless those farmers. How do they do it?
I’ll admit, it felt good to do an honest day’s work (does two hours count as an honest day?). I never feel this tired after blogging, even after writing poetry like this. Maybe, if I worked half as hard at blogging as I do at attempting to neutralize my black thumb while on farm property, I would have a much better blog. It’s food for thought. But can farmers type up a quality blog post like this while fast asleep in a pile of laundry? I think not.
Take that, Farmers.