by Kathy Brasby | May 12, 2015 | Stories
Pushing the beaters into my mixer was guaranteed to bring at least one small person into the kitchen. A little like how the cat responded to the electric can opener.
No, exactly like the cat’s response.
So my four-year-old son appeared at my elbow right after I clicked in the beaters.
“Let’s make shape cookies,” he said, pushing a chair to the counter.
Impressive. The process to make sugar cookies cut into shapes with cookie cutters took longer. But I would teach him.
We mixed our cookie dough. “Now, we start with a ball, like this.” I scooped a handful of dough from the bowl and rolled it in my palms.
He watched intently, his nose drawing closer and closer to my hands. Yes, he was being a good student.
“Then I put the ball on the counter.” I set it lightly on the flour I had sprinkled out. “And then we use a rolling pin to flatten the dough.”
His eyes were glued to the dough. I rolled out the mixture into a smooth thin pancake and let him press the cookie cutters into it.
He selected a star. “That one looks like an explosion.”
What a creative idea for a cute little guy.
“I’ll do it this time,” he told me after the first batch was transferred to cookie sheets.
Maybe I was training a future chef. He took initiative and had obviously absorbed my careful directions.
He grabbed a handful of dough from the bowl and squeezed it hard.
“Well, you might not—“
Too late. He slapped the crushed dough onto the counter and began pounding it with the side of his fist until the mixture surrendered into an uneven flat lump.
For me, baking cookies is about the aroma and flavor.
For my would-be little chef, apparently it was more about hand-to-hand combat.
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by Kathy Brasby | May 5, 2015 | Stories
I got fresh insight yesterday into why God gives us sons after the snake convention.
Training to compete in 5K runs is totally misusing the word “compete” but there I was yesterday, getting in another two-mile run in preparation for my next 5K run. I compete only in the sense that I can outrun the walkers. For the most part.
But yesterday I decided to take one of my favorite running routes. I jogged on the road beside an irrigation canal, where I can watch the calming waters flow past me while the long green grass framing the road reaches out to touch my legs.
It was a peaceful run until something moved beside me as I ran. Something big. Something worth stopping and turning around to look.
A 30-foot long snake as thick as a car tire was coiled up, its tail shaking in fierce anger while its tongue darted in and out. At least that was my first impression.
And I ran within a foot of this furious monster.
I finally went on after my heart rate settled a bit, returned cautiously, and then came across a second snake sprawled across my path. At least it didn’t curl into a hissing coil as I sprinted by.
I had to tell someone this story so, when I got home, I marched into the computer room where both sons happened to be discussing some video game.
I told them what had happened.
Had our daughters heard this first, they would have gasped with fear or concern.
“Are you all right?” they probably would have said. “Were you scared? Did you get light-headed?” Stuff like that.
But I got to tell the sons first.
After I finished my tale about running with snakes, the older leaned forward with something sparkling in his eyes and said, “I’ll bet that really helped your pace today.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Apr 28, 2015 | Stories
We can be a little frugal (I avoided other terms like penny-pincher and scrooge-like) in our family.
That’s why our daughter decided to spend a day crafting her own wire rabbit cage. Cheaper that way. I mean, frugal, of course.
She discovered some extra wire panels behind the garage and set to work with her materials in front of the tool shed.
She had to bend corners, crimp the back and front panels onto the main framework, design her own doorway into the cage.
She spent most of the time on her knees twisting and binding wire.
And then it was done.
She took a step back to admire the cage. It fairly glowed in the afternoon sun.
Her back ached, her hands were sore, and she decided she needed a little recreation after the big project.
We had 40 acres of open pasture and so a run on the four-wheeler looked invigorating.
Off she went. At 14, she hadn’t started training for her driver’s license but she handled the four-wheeler with experience.
She zipped across trails, feeling the wind blow through her hair. She made a loop around the house, leaning into the turn.
The cool early-evening air sliced past her as she drove on and on.
And then she swung around the chicken house with a little more speed than she intended and the four-wheeler refused to turn tightly.
She didn’t want to roll her vehicle so she eased out of the sharp turn.
Just in time to see what was ahead of her on the path.
She spent most of the day building her own rabbit cage but it only took about three seconds to flatten it with those big four-wheel tires.
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by Kathy Brasby | Apr 21, 2015 | Stories
You know that some people show dogs and some show horses so it shouldn’t shock you that some people show rabbits, too.
At these shows, rabbits are required to have a tattoo in their left ear. A rabbit missing a tattoo is disqualified from a class.
Josie had three rabbits to show in one class and she had crutches after knee surgery. So friends offered to carry her entries to the show table.
“Check the tattoos,” she called out, “to be sure you have the right rabbit.”
Nicole peeked in the ear. “Um, Josie, there’s no tattoo.”
“None? Oh, dear.” Josie looked around. She was surrounded by other rabbit breeders and she lifted her voice. “Who has a tattoo pen with them?”
Somebody always had a tattoo pen.
“I’ll do it.” Terry held up her tattoo pen. “What is the tattoo in the ear?”
Josie checked her paperwork. “SPCOCOA.”
“Really.” Terry studied her for a moment. “In that ear you want me to put all that?”
Nicole fidgeted. A muffled voice blasted from the speakers above. “They’re calling for entries. We need to hurry.”
Josie threw her hands up. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Get whatever you can and we can substitute at the table.”
So that’s how a little brown rabbit named Cocoa ended up, for life, with the number one in her ear.
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by Kathy Brasby | Apr 14, 2015 | Stories
My husband, sometimes known as the salvage king because he can spot diamonds in the rough from the far side of a yard sale, found a satellite dish for the taking a few years ago. You know the kind: 9 feet tall and once proof that the homeowner was a techie pioneer but now are older than your grandmother’s television.
He dumped the dish in our pasture until he could make a run to the recycler. “I put it face down so the kids wouldn’t get caught under it,” he assured me. Good plan because at that time our kids were pretty good at exploring in places where they didn’t belong.
He dumped – er, tenderly laid – the dish in the far corner of our 35-acre pasture. Shortly after, as the lovely prairie grass began to wave in the wind, we turned our sheep and goats loose to fend for themselves. It was much easier than tossing hay to them.
A few weeks later, I was doing my daily check of the herd and I could not find three baby goats. When you have 35 acres of rolling pasture, three little goats can find a lot of places to hide. I marched all 35 acres.
I was more concerned than their mothers, who munched the endless supply of prairie grass with no worries.
As I was completing my pasture sweep, our daughter said, “Be sure to check under the dish.”
“Oh, right. The dish that is lying face down on the ground so that you couldn’t get under it.”
She shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to look.”
So we looked. Three baby goats staggered out from under their dark cave.
I don’t know how they got under there. I don’t know why their mothers didn’t stand guard. I don’t know why it occurred to our daughter to suggest we search there.
But I do know those baby goats survived. And, boy, were they thirsty.
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by Kathy Brasby | Mar 24, 2015 | Stories
I didn’t think we were going to Cuba until two days before we boarded an airplane at Cancun and headed east. “Americans can’t go to Cuba,” I told our missionary host.
Fortunately, he ignored me and we went.
Four days were spent in Havana and the trip also included a van trip across the island to the mountains at the east end.
Our first night in Havana, we went to a fancy restaurant where waitresses wore black dresses, white aprons and white caps. Like old-fashioned maids. Glittering crystal adorned each table with heavy silverware resting on starched napkins at each place setting.
And a pianist filled the air with sweet music.
When he saw us, he recognized us as Americans. Americans are rich in Cuba. No matter what money we had.
So he immediately began playing tunes by Frank Sinatra. Cuba, in case you haven’t heard, is largely lodged in the 1950’s and the musician must have assumed that Sinatra melodies would net him some nice tips.
Emboldened by his strong Sinatra performance, the pianist then approached our table. “I know many American songs,” he said. “What would you like to hear?”
My husband leaned toward him. “Could you play Amazing Grace?”
The man frowned slightly as he searched his memory banks. He finally shook his head. “I do not know that one.”
We smiled at each other and then my husband surrendered. “How about some Sinatra?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” The pianist scurried back to the piano and ironically played instead I Did it My Way.
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