Friday in random

Beans in the crockpot.

Not The Bean. That would just be wrong.


{not winter - July}

Banana muffins in the oven. I set the temperature to 350 degrees and it bounces to 450 and then 225. It's a wonder I manage to successfully cook anything in there. I've generally stopped complaining about it because shopping for a new one will be painful.

Cats in a pile. This is what they do when it feels like winter. Just outside the barn, in the sun, out of the wind. I'll never get a good picture of it, because they scatter when they hear the door. When the cat-heater is involved, it's similar to this:


{imagine a couple more felines and you've got it}

Winter in North Dakota?

We've had days here and there that felt like winter, and most of one week with a couple inches of snow on the ground that looked like winter. Really, it's been a gorgeous November, December, and first part of January too. We've gone below zero (F) maybe twice. I finally gave up on my last mini-greenhousesometime in early December. Parsley, if you must know.

Overdressed in January:



Now that it finally feels to me that our unseasonably warm days might be over, and winter has possibly tried to settled in... this is still not bad for mid-January here. Not bad at all.



Selfish me wants to say, "We totally deserve this after the last three winters (and Spring flooding) we barely survived dealt with." But it's far from over yet. Or maybe the last few years have been so harsh that I've completely forgotten what winter can be like.

Internet in warp speed!

Last night we actually measured what we're getting with our Wildblue Satellite Internet. Yeah, that's right. I'm finally gonna come right out and say it. They're way over-subscribed and their service stinks. We should be getting 0.512 Mbps downloading and 0.128 Mbsp uploading. That's what we're paying for.

Guess what we actually have?

It doesn't matter if you don't even know what then numbers mean. It's still impressive. We measured at 0.17 Mbps downloading and 0.05 Mbps uploading. That's what we have.

But Monday! Oh, sweet Monday when our fiber optic is hooked up and we're set free from this pain... 20 Mbps glory that I can't even imagine!

Liar in confession...

Forgive me. I lied, and I'm pretty sure I knew it. This image is really my favorite of my best from last year.

What we have

My mind was made up.

I had suddenly come to the realization that my relationship with our vintage 1980's dishwasher... it just wasn't working out. It was far too demanding. Finding myself in a position to have to practically wash dishes before and after whatever it did with them, was ridiculous.

I'd walked away before. But this time? This time I meant it. For real.

I even reclaimed the custard cup that spent the last six months upside down, supporting the sagging right corner of the bottom rack.

OVER. Totally.

And yet... here I sit, a week later, waiting. I'm waiting impatiently for that rattling and humming to stop so I can rinse my darn dishes off and go to bed. Again. Why do I keep going back?

The honest truth? I feel like whining and complaining about all the large appliances in this house.  I fought them all day long. Every single one.

Then our home sighs as the furnace moans and does it's job. The content little half-Siamese stretches out long in front of her favorite vent. Outside, it is cold. Very cold. We are warm. I am grateful.

In the midst of battle earlier, I screamed at my washing machine. (I was soundly defeated.) Even if I had to ring out soaked socks and underwear by hand, we do have clean clothes. When we moved here, we didn't know the previous owners would leave their washing machine, so we brought ours. It's a wonderful thing to have a spare washing machine. It screeched as my husband slid it across the concrete basement floor and into place. I am grateful.

The dishwasher is finally done with whatever it does, and sure enough, it was a good thing I stayed up to rinse those dishes off.  I turn on the faucet.  The water that comes out?  It's clean and hot. I expect this, but why? Clean water is really something, and hot water something even more. I am grateful.

Darkness out my window, the clock ticks, I tap at my keyboard, my children snore... I'm glad for having stayed up. Glad for the quiet.

When I stand up from this computer and push in my chair, I'll run my hand along the table. This is the table where my children gather to color, build dinosaurs out of play doh, eat, fight like siblings always do... the same table their grandfather sat at as a boy. Every scratch, every ding, every embedded piece of glitter, every creaky wobble of this table tells a story. I am grateful.

I'll tell myself that I'm not going to use that dishwasher again. Ever. I'll think I mean it, but I know better. It does kind of, sort of, clean my dishes.

And yes, I am grateful.

Dear corn burner

In honor of Valentine's day, which is possibly my least favorite holiday EVER, I have written an emotion-filled letter to our corn burner.

Oh corn burner, how I dislike you. Let me count the ways.

(Hate seems a rather strong word. I'll save it for things that really deserve it. *cough* Monsanto.)

Dear corn burner, the silence of having your fire out for almost a week was divine. After only three hours of your annoying presence heating our home again, my head is already throbbing.

The house is filled with your vibration and constant high pitched hum.

The echo of my ringing ears is rattling my brain.

I cannot sleep, thank you.

Your buildup of clinkers which causes the metal fire box within you to lift up into the air, and then slam down with such force and unexpected metal-on-metal sound (not unlike a gunshot) almost stops my heart... and awakens the baby.

Nothing makes me happier than having the baby scared awake.

Upon opening your door to clean out the buildup of clinkers, you thank us by spewing forth half-burned pieces of corn. The color of these charred rejects perfectly matches the metal rug protecting our floor underneath you. Just last week I found one piece of black corn in the baby's mouth. As I cleaned the charcoal charcorn off her hands and face, I had nothing but lovely things to say about you.

Because of you, I cannot open my living room or dining room windows, even in the summer. My windows are caulked shut in a desperate attempt to keep your smoky breath out of the house.

There is no end to your giving.

Your ash pan overfloweth ninety percent of the time.

A thin layer of black corn ash coats the white window ledges in our living room, even though I have recently dusted.

Because of your presence in our young-child-filled-home, I have a cedar picket fence in my living room. It is absolutely your fault that my pant leg caught (several occasions) on this fence as I was stepping over it to cater to your needful tendencies. And if I had killed myself in doing so, there is no question it would have been ALL your fault.

You consume copious quantities of corn, which necessitates the hauling of at least two heavy five-gallon buckets daily. Perhaps it is because of you that I stayed so fit through my pregnancy last winter.

Besides your corn feeding habit, you require daily maintenance. If I forget to shake the buildup of ash and charred rejected corn kernels off your damper each and every morning and evening, you become deeply offended and begin to suffocate yourself.

Dear corn burner, we must remain cordial with each other for just a few months longer.

There will be much rejoicing the day the grain wagon gives up it's last kernels of corn, and I will smile as your fire dies.

You will be a humble, silent and obedient plant stand through the summer.

Yet when fall rolls around once again, for some odd reason your fire will be cozy, and the smell of burned corn will seem strangely comforting and familiar.

However, right now I would like to throw you out the window.

But I can't.

I suppose that is probably a good thing.