English Muffins that pass the test

The first time I made english muffins from scratch, a little person here cried when I served him one. They were the wrong shape. They weren't perfectly round.

Living so far to the wild side of things, like I do, I thought I'd risk it again. Heaven help me.



I'm not a food blogger. Sometimes I like to pretend I am.

I have this handicap that prevents me from being able to follow recipes precisely. Yes, even when baking. That alone should be enough to keep me from putting this stuff online.



I make nearly all our bread myself. I haven't yet mastered tortillas or, obviously, english muffins. During one of our blizzards this winter, I ran out of flour. The last storm? The one before? I can't remember.

What I do remember is that it wasn't a very good thing. I also remember that it was the direct result of me being frustrated with someone, and in my anger neglecting to write flour on my grocery list when I should have.



Being human knocked me flat on my butt once again. Just like it always does. What a curse.

Thankfully, I find forgiveness each time, even if I don't find that extra package of flour that should be in my cupboard.



When the recipe says to "roll out to 1/2" thick" does anyone actually measure that?

No? Good. I didn't think so either.

Check out my super-fancy biscuit cutter! Multi-purpose tools are my friend.



Last time I skipped the part where the biscuits muffins are supposed to rise. I didn't think it was necessary. Anyone who has cooked pitas on a skillet knows how these yeasty types of things rise right up when they get hot.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm not always right.

This time I decided to let them rise for half an hour.



And then I forgot about them for two hours.

When they finally caught my eye again, I was severely tempted to toss one of those squishy little discs up to see if it would stick to the ceiling. Kids, don't try this at home.

Ahem.



Look! I put them on the pan!

It was too hot!

Ack! They cooked too fast!



Apparently I need a larger biscuit cutter than a drinking glass, they turned out a little small. But the bigger failure which made my heart beat faster? They're not absolutely wonderfully perfectly round. I briefly wondered if I should have thrown them all at the ceiling earlier and just walked away.

I split one and it was kind of doughy in the middle. I figured this wasn't a problem because they're meant to be toasted.



Toasted, and smothered in local honey... Now this is what I'm talking about!



But the real test... the kid?

"Mommy, they're so good I'm going to eat ten every day! Every day!"

The recipe I sort of followed is HERE.

Enjoying the warmth

It was one of the warmest days we'd had in a long time. I mean, like, nearly forty degres (F). And in the car, with the sun blasting through the windows? It felt like a summer day.



I'm just not sure what to say about that.

He did take his gloves off.

Sometimes we heard what sounded like a muffled Darth Vader speaking in Spanish. We still have no clue what he was trying to say.

Considering a full-body selfie

First, let me just say, this was ridiculous. For all the self potraits I've done I have never attempted a full-body selfie. Now I know why.

Considering the amount of time it took to get the focus right...

Considering that I couldn't remember to keep myself in front of that ugly outlet on the wall and hide my remote at the same time...

Considering that I lost the remote half-way through when my preschooler needed some help locating a toy...

Considering that my attempt at posing with my hand on my hip just made me look like I was trying to grab myself...

Considering that I cheated and propped a mirror against the other wall so I could see exactly how silly I looked...



Eh. This will do, I guess.



All the posing and angle tips Elena shared really do make an incredible difference, by the way.

For love of hoses and pipes

We wandered into paradise the other day. For one of us, at least.

You found what?



Can I get some eye contact here? (Not likely)

But then! Then we stumbled upon the mother-lode!



Sweet mercy. An entire wall full of hoses and pipes.



They were stacked up, and rolled up, and piled up.



It was a good day, a very good day for those who love plumbing.

Blaming the cat

I was out with my camera the other day when I heard an awful racket coming from the barn. Our handsome cat has a reputation for punching chickens, which totally makes my day every time I see it. Someday, somehow, I will get pictures of it.

Fortunately for my hens, it wasn't to be on that particular day.

Outside the barn door was an innocent sunbather. He appeared to be minding his own business. I was convinced.



Inside the barn I found this lovely lady announcing that she had laid an egg. Apparently, this is an extremely important part of the egg laying process.



It was a cold day, see the fog from her breath?

Hens can be noisy. Obnoxiously so.

She must tell the entire world that she's produced an egg. It's hard work, I guess. She's proud, and she should be too.

Or else maybe she just wants the other girls to know the nest is open?



I have no idea.

What I do know, for sure, is that I get all kinds of dirty looks...



if I stick a big camera in her face during the middle of her opera.

Seeing myself

Since I stopped hosting a self portrait link-up, I haven't had much motivation to keep pushing myself in that direction. I really enjoy self portraits for the technical and creative challenge that they present.

I was intrigued when I discovered Elena's Selfie Magic challenges (thank you Ashley). The selfie challenge is in conjunction with a healthy/fit living challenge. My excitement turned to amazement when I clicked over to her flickr, her work is seriously inspiring.

The first week is "Our Dream Self". A visual goal of a healthier self.

What do we see when we look at ourselves in a mirror?



Do we see ourselves for what we really are... or what we were, or what we hope to be?

I have some changes to make. I need to start taking better care of myself so I can be the mom that my kids deserve.

Frozen farm

It was two degrees (above zero F) when I was out a few hours ago to take these, and now we're already up to nine degrees. While it's still cold, that's a whole lot warmer than it was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before.

The You Capture challenge this week is "cold". Cold is all relative here.

Do I show you my best photo first or my worst one? Maybe chronological order?

First I wandered out to the end of the sidewalk road. What you can't see is how full of snow the ditches are.


1/5000 f/2.8 ISO 50

It's only the end because they don't plow past our place in the winter.

Then I wandered back over to our shop.

Cold door. Cold handle. Cold shadow.


1/2000 f/2.8 ISO 50

A little cold sun flare.


1/640 f/32 ISO 3200

I was using my big lens. Twenty three elements makes for a lot of sun flare (and weight too).

Then I heard some awful racket in the barn and headed back that way.

I guess she just laid an egg and the world needed to know.


1/800 f/2.8 ISO 800

See the fog from her breath? Cold. And I didn't sharpen that photo at all, just sayin'. The big lens kicks chicken butt once again.

If you're curious, I braved -24F to take pics of the moon that I posted HERE. Now that was cold.

Good intentions

It was time to dig out the box bulging with envelopes that hold little bits of hope. There was one item in particular I was searching for. I rummaged through the box five times. Five times! No oregano seed. The one thing I really wanted. It wasn't there.



My beautiful oregano arrived at a tragic end last summer. Our epic drain tile project met the neighbor's gigantic payloader. Guess where? Right on top of my flower and herb garden. Although I grabbed a shovel and rescued that oregano in time, my good intentions went awry. I forgot about it. My oregano dried to a crispy memory of it's once glorious self.

Good intentions aren't always enough.

Oregano is a perennial, it will grow back from the root every year. Once it's growing happy and strong I suppose a gardener has every right to toss the seed packet out. Unless, you know, it's been saved from a monstrosity of a machine named Big Bessie and then abandoned.

Dried oregano is fine, really, but not if it was supposed to grow again the following year.

I settled for onions and leeks.



I caressed the cilantro seed too. Cilantro won't transplant. I know better. I don't know what came over me.



This is one of my favorite things to do when winter has become so dreary.  That earthy smell as I open a bag of seed starting mix, the rattle of the seeds as they race each other out of the packet, the trickle of water running through beautiful little pots, the squeal of a helpful toddler as she dumps potting mix all over the kitchen floor...



Oh yes, I grabbed the parsley too.

This is certainly a better winter project than whacking a hormonal adolescent rooster with a green plastic handled, seven dollar machete.

Not that I'd know anything at all about that.

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.