by Kathy Brasby | Jan 20, 2020 | Country life, Family, Humor, Stories
There’s no accounting for personal tastebuds. What my son relishes on his dinner place, my daughter disdains.
That’s even true with our chickens. Nothing makes our little flock of chickens giddier than salad-making day because they get the ends of the celery, the heart of the lettuce, the skins of the celery.
I’ve seen a hen snatch a piece of green pepper in mid-air and scurry to the far corner of the coop to devour in private. They seem to be two-legged garbage disposals.
My family’s response to any food they don’t like is to gift it to the chickens. There’s no accounting for pleasing the palate sometimes.
When I was on one of my health food kicks, I often served couscous. I really liked couscous because it cooked up fast and it was supposed to be good for you. I didn’t evaluate taste much.
I served couscous several times before I noticed that the dish of couscous came off the table with one spoonful taken out: mine.
“You don’t like couscous?” I finally asked my husband.
“I call those grit-grits,” he said. “Give them to the chickens.” He’s not southern, as you can tell.
Chickens like couscous. They finished off the whole bowl faster than eight-year-olds eat ice cream. Couscous ranked right up there with leftover rice and carrot peelings. Top tier in chicken cuisine.
One day a basket of produce came our way, which included artichokes.
I was determined to learn how to serve artichokes to my family, so I did the logical thing and Googled artichokes.
You can grill artichokes. Boiling them doesn’t add any flavor, I learned. Butter must be added. Uh-huh.
Steaming artichokes was also acceptable, and so was roasting.
The options sounded so routine, like offering garden peas or green beans.
I made a special dipping sauce and put my find on our table.
Did you know that artichokes are the edible immature flower of a cultivated thistle? Being the daughter of a farmer, I should have asked why anyone would grow a thistle. Dad devoted his life to fighting the thistle wars. I’ll bet roasting and boiling the pests might have appealed to him.
But remember, I was the one who overlooked the couscous reject
But remember, I was the one who overlooked the couscous rejection for months.
My thinking was more along the lines of “Why not? It might be fun.” In other words, delirium.
A little coaching on how to eat an artichoke was in order, but I made it quick because the kids were glazing over from starvation, eyeing the hamburgers and not my artichokes.
They did try the artichoke leaves after I glared. Once.
“Feed those to the chickens,” my son said.
I’m less heartbroken over a failed dish when someone gets some good out of it. If that’s the chickens, so be it. We do get to eat their healthy eggs, so I think it works out ok.
The next night, I noticed that the chickens had eaten the bits of cauliflower and leftover iceberg lettuce. But the artichoke leaves remained on the ground.
So the chickens could stomach broccoli stems, dry biscuits, carrot tops, and cucumber peels.
Artichokes, those edible thistle flowers, were scorned by the chickens. They did have some discernment.
My husband called couscous “grit-grits” but it’s pretty obvious that to the chicken palate, artichokes are worse.
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by Kathy Brasby | Jan 13, 2020 | Family, Humor, Stories, Travel
The reason the boys were ready for me when I pulled up in the big van was what they held in their hands.
“We found these!” Saber unfolded his palm to show me a rubber ball on an elastic band.
I’ve seen plenty of rubber balls. I launched a jaded smile, and then he threw the ball down. It bounced high over the building roof with the elastic band unfurling into the blue sky before rebounding and then caroming again. This little contraption had more energy than a litter of hungry puppies when mama pokes her head into their view.
The boys had finished a week at church camp, and I was bringing home a gaggle of eleven-year-olds. Assuming a gaggle is seven. A well-entertained gaggle of giggly boys.
Each of the boys launched a ball above timberline, filling the air with giggles.
I could see the potential here.
“OK, guys. No bouncing the balls in the van.”
They all nodded, and their arms went into hyperdrive to exhaust the rebounds before they loaded. No tree top was safe in the flurry of rubber spheres.
Finally, we loaded up and pulled away from camp, making our way down the mountain. All was well until I pulled up at a stoplight in a little town partway home.
Traffic was heavy, and I had been watching cars surround us, pressing close in the rush hour. Then I noticed snickering from behind me. High-pitched joyful laughter. Monkey laughter. Or a gaggle of boys giggling.
Saber had worked his arm out of the side window, holding onto the elastic band. And he was bouncing the ball on the street.
The bouncing orb careened between stopped vehicles, skimming over the edge of side mirrors and radio antennas. It soared with abandon above SUVs and smart cars, ricocheting from curb to curb, defying gravity with its joyous leaps.
That ball was having as much fun as Saber. If it had a mouth, it would have been emitting monkey giggles.
Saber heard the growl coming from the driver of the van. Me. Growling.
It took him a minute to retrieve the ball after I threatened to dunk him in the lake if he didn’t get the contraption back inside. Reeling in the saggy strap took a little while as though it didn’t want to return to the dull confines of the van. Maybe a little like Saber.
Then he rolled up the gadget and stuffed it in his backpack, giving me a smile fit more for angels than gaggles of boys. His bounding ball had kissed the clouds that day. He had explored wild freedom with a blue sphere.
And he reminded me: “I didn’t bounce it in the van.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 30, 2019 | Christmas, Family, Humor, Stories
The Gift of A Ski Trip
Many years ago, when most of the kids were still at home, we put together a Christmas plan one year: you won’t get much for Christmas gifts, but we’ll go skiing for two days after Christmas, condo and all.
The kids bought into this with great gusto because they loved skiing. All went well until Christmas when it was time to leave for the trip: their father felt a little guilty at the lack of gifts under the tree.
So he suggested a special outing on the way to the condo in the Colorado mountains. We pulled away from our house on the afternoon of Christmas, heading for some major snow.
How About A Christmas Steak?
“Let’s stop at that nice steak house on the interstate,” he said. He loves that eating spot to this day, even though it’s now closed. We’ve eaten at the new restaurant out of nostalgia for the old place, I think.
But back to my story. We pulled in at the steak house after savoring prime rib and mashed potatoes in our imagination for an hour. They were closed. It was, after all, Christmas day.
Hmmm. We hadn’t thought of that, so we continued to the next town and pulled in, hoping the Chinese restaurant there might work well.
Closed.
Christmas Closures
We were starting to get a clue, finally. But we had five kids in the car, and the Christmas cookies were wearing off. They were restless.
“Let’s try a fast-food place.” My husband had set his heart on a special mealtime family gathering, but his stomach was growling, too.
Closed.
Grocery stores were closed. Walmart was closed.
We started to take stock of any energy bars that might have been left in coat pockets. Any half-eaten cookies? I wondered about the crumbs under the toddler’s car seat. Starving kids makes one delirious sometimes.
Oh, Thank Heaven…
Just then, my husband spotted a 7-Eleven convenience store. It was open.
We turned the kids loose. “Find something to eat.”
Because there’s virtually nothing healthy in a snack place like that, the kids were not bound to a balanced meal. They grabbed chips and popcorn and gallons of fountain drinks.
Their parents have felt guilty for years for not having enough foresight to avoid such a disappointment. We wanted to give them a nice steak dinner. Their special dinner included candy bars, rubbery hard-boiled eggs and who knows how many Twinkies.
But I have been assured by our older son not to worry.
“I got a fistful of dill pickles,” he said. “Best Christmas dinner ever!”
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 16, 2019 | Cats, Country life, Family, Humor, Stories
Navigating what a child says is sometimes like wandering through a corn maze after dark. It’s a little spooky and easy to mistake a corner for a dead end. Or vice versa.
Here are a few examples. This is strictly a no-name and sometimes changed-gender report for protection (mine, so I don’t get hammered by an adult child. They don’t always think these memories are as noteworthy as I do.)
I was showing a two-year-old boy around our barn. We had some black-and-white kittens tumbling around bales of hay.
“What do you call those?” I said, pointing at the kittens. I wanted to teach the difference between cat and kitten.
He stared. “Penguins?”
Another time, I was fixing dinner for the family when one of our kids wandered into the kitchen.
“What’s that?” he asked, studying the pan on the stove.
“Hamburger patties.”
He tilted his head. “Can I call it sook?”
Yep, he ate sook for supper.
On a similar note, the same kid helped me bake muffins one day. I used a whisk to mix the ingredients, and soon the batter stiffened. He lifted the whisk with the flour and sugar and oil clumped onto it.
“Look, I have a lunk!”
He ate quite a few lunks after they baked.
Another day I took a little one shopping at the local drugstore. She carried five pennies into the store and laid them on a shelf for some unknown reason. After we left the store, she discovered her loss. Of course, we had to backtrack in search of her loot. We searched up and down aisles, especially shelves at five-year-old height, but could only find four pennies.
I finally laid the law down. “We need to go.”
Her shoulders slumped as she shuffled toward the door. “I’m going to miss that penny.”
There was the child who came to her mother with her head hanging low. Kids never take disappointment lightly. She wore her sadness like a wet raincoat. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
Uh-oh. Wouldn’t you imagine broken lamps or flour scattered across the kitchen? Maybe the dog lost in a sea of bubbles in the bathtub?
“I’m sorry, Mom, but I can’t fly.”
How did she figure that out? It’s better not to ask.
Then there was this discussion over scrambled eggs at the breakfast table. Fork in one hand, my son asked, “Do you know what a Gurgler is?”
I like to encourage investigation, but I had to admit my ignorance.
“They’re a machine that sucks down people and things,” said the young one.
“Yuck,” I said.
“I hate to tell you this, but if you meet one, you’ll die.”
“Oh, no!”
“But it’s OK because they live on the other side of the world.”
“Good.”
“Mom,” he said. “They’re on the movies.” He rolled his eyes while I wondered what movies he’d been watching.
Then came the day when the same kid rushed into the kitchen, his arms flailing and his face red and hot. “Mom! Betsy says I’ll get wigworms if I drink my potty!”
Um, I can’t even unpack that statement. What would you say? I said, “Then don’t.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 9, 2019 | Christmas, Family, Humor, Stories
A Cookie Cutter Set
Long before Pinterest could puncture my creative bubble, there was the nativity Christmas cookie cutter set.
I sometimes call Pinterest the dream site: I can only do those projects in my dreams.
Not my nativity set, obviously, but these might be better.
Christmas baking has always been a special time of sharing holiday love in our family. I keep telling myself that, anyway. Over and over.
When I had seen the cookie cutter set on display, it seemed to fit that goal. The box seduced me with photos of beautiful cookies in the shape of Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus in a manger. A little piping of frosting, a few sparkles in the right place, and we would have a unique nativity set.
And the best part was that we could do this project as a family with everyone helping.
A Special Family Project
I bought the set.
Yes, I knew we wouldn’t get the cookies quite as perfect as the photos. We had a two-year-old at the time. I knew he would produce a cute but goofy little cookie.
It was OK. I could overlook the children’s immature attempts. They were children, after all, and still developing their fine motor skills.
I forgot to factor in their mother.
I Knew We Were in Trouble
The family had gathered around our dining room table, frosting and decorations at the ready, waiting as I pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven.
Baby Jesus in the manger resembled a toasted marshmallow.
The sheep – and I’d made lots of them – all were blimps. Some had short fat legs but, since you couldn’t tell where the head was, the legs could have been prickles, too.
Great. Christmas porcupines. Or cantaloupe.
The camels’ longer legs had grown together while baking.
“Is this a tree?” asked the six-year-old, pointing to a former camel cookie.
The shepherds had morphed into tall planks of fencing. Or maybe a Volkswagen bug. It was hard to say.
Kneeling Joseph was now a giant S.
This Didn’t Slow Them Down
The kids were game. They slathered on frosting that was so thin that the blues and oranges for the wise men’s gowns flowed together, making a muddy brown.
Well, I think those were the wise men because of the lumps at the top, which I identified as crowns. Maybe they were cows, in which case the muddy brown frosting made more sense.
There was a stable printed on the back of the box that could be assembled as the backdrop. I tossed that idea after our older son frosted an angel as though it were a donkey. I couldn’t see displaying these peculiar little figures.
When we were done, with sticky frosting on our fingers and sparkles drifting to the floor, I studied the blobs of icing and cookie.
“Well, this didn’t work out quite as I had hoped,” I told the family.
My husband surveyed the table, surrounded by sets of eager young eyes, and picked up a cookie. “Then we’d better destroy the evidence.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 18, 2019 | Cats, Country life, Family, Humor
Many years ago, I was a country woman who was milking goats, feeding out bucket calves, and raising kids.
My husband had constructed a nifty room in our barn with a door that closed tightly, allowing me to heat the room and keep out all the barn cats. Barn cats get addicted to freshly squeezed milk and make themselves a leaping, milk-seeking nuisance. I kept them out, or they were all over the room, even trying to dip their paws in the milk bucket.
Photo by Remmington Wanner on Unsplash
This particular morning, I entered the milking room with my four-year-old daughter and brought in the first milking doe. My daughter perched herself on a large feed box.
I had just started squeezing out milk when my daughter said, “Mom, there’s a cat back there.”
Ugh. There were not supposed to be any cats in that room. If a cat got trapped in the room, it couldn’t get out. How long had it been there?
I was afraid to ask. “Is it dead or alive?”
She studied the gap between the box and the wall. “Dead. Can I pick it up?”
No!” Good grief.
My husband always seemed to be working 40 miles away from home when these ugly situations came up. It sure would have been nice to turn that dead cat over to him. But, no, I was home alone.
Well, me and a curious preschooler.
“Leave it alone,” I said before she got any more ideas. You need to understand that this girl had once gone with me when I had a baby goat autopsied. She begged the veterinarian to let her watch the procedure and nearly got her nose cut off because she peered so closely into the body.
He was willing to show her the location of the lungs, the stomach, the liver after she asked a tumble of questions.
My point? This girl wasn’t traumatized by a dead cat.
I toyed with the idea of leaving the project for my husband, but I really didn’t want that dread hanging all day long. Besides, my daughter would probably want to sit with the dead cat until her dad got home.
Better get it over with. I finished milking the goat, took the milk into the house, and gathered my supplies. Trash bag. Check. Hand sanitizer? Face mask? Gloves?
I marched back to the barn with my little girl hot on my heels. She wasn’t about to miss this next step in her veterinarian experience. What a kid.
I leaned slowly over the feed box, my breath wheezing through the face mask. I had put a mask on my daughter, but she had slid it on top of her head. Sigh. Next, she’d be snapping the rubber band between her fingers. Not too concerned about this mess.
I was more concerned. I did not want to see roadkill in my milking room, but I finally focused my view into the gap.
There, tattered and soiled, munched and bent, was a purple and white stuffed cat toy.
She was right: it wasn’t alive.
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