Have a Geeky Christmas 2021

 It wouldn't be Christmas at Home on the Range if I didn't post the year's Geeky gifts.  Christmas Eve was a traditional turkey dinner (since I was in the hospital over Thanksgiving), and like a 5-year old I woke Partner in Grime up about 5 a.m. because "There's presents. . . and coffee. . . did I mention COFFEE".

This year there was more of the practical for him as his work has his traveling, often to places colder than here.  So warm vests, hats, sweaters, pj's, etc., and then, the fun stuff.

His stocking had an assortment of toiletries and snackables as well as the next Green New Deal vehicle. The balloon didn't have the face of a politician on it - but we might remedy that.

My tactical stocking came well equipped.  The dogs are little pens - and the magnets are perfect for our three favorite Labs - Barkley  - who loved to retrieve, Abby, who hated to retrieve unless it was edible, and Lorelei - who just loves her ball (but maybe loves the one on the ground more. . .let's see.

Let the nerdiness begin:

Yay - just what the Doctor ordered - a flash fill light for my Canon (so evening food photos have proper bacon illumination).

Always - we have to have out T-shirts.

And things for good, clean fun.

To keep Partner occupied - some Russian surplus tool stuff, books to read, and a desk organizer for telework central downstairs.

I scored in the girly stuff department (and no jokes about the Vegan cookbook there to the right of the "secret squirrel" desk mascot, it was on my wish list as I cook meat free several meals a week and can only do so much "beans and rice").

And there's the illustrated copy of Backyard Ballistics!  I'm not sure what a Cincinnati Fire Kite is, but I guarantee one will likely be built by summer.

I wondered what the noise was down in the shop - finally, some organization for my utility drawer AND some new knives!~

"Really Honey - you bought me a broom?"

Oh wait - it's a disguised walking stick - made out of a deer antler and hickory - because hickory is perfect if you need to whack the )*# out of someone because they called your "walking stick" a "cane" (PT on the leg IS going well, up to walking 2 miles a day now but it's been uphill).

For extra safety, I can walk with the guy with the flashing LED beanie.

It also has red and blue "police light" lights, just in case one of us needs to make a "traffic stop" to pick up dog poop while on K9 walking duty.

A little something for the shop wall.

And the living room wall

We couldn't forget Lorelei Lab. The "death tail" is an indicator she's happy with her duck.

When you are too cheap to buy one of those little lighted tabletop trees.

I think my husband realized he wanted to marry me when he realized I owned more soldering irons than I did purses.  

All I Ever Needed to Know

I have a number of friends who are grew up in the generation before and after mine. You'd not know it from either our activities or our conversations, but there are some TV shows I grew up seeing that the younger ones missed.

One of those is Blakes Seven. Running for a few brief seasons in the end of the 70's, and produced by BBC, it had 10 million viewers in it's prime, with divided camps as to whether it was a silly but entertaining space opera or a heroic poem. It's both.

Yes, it was a decidedly low budget (isn't that the same quarry?) story of a band of outlaws, on the run from their government, striving for justice in space, while battling some hilariously dangerous aliens. The early scrips were stunningly intelligent despite some chincy sets, far more appealing to me, as that age, than the slick offerings of other shows.

So for a quiet day at home I present a classic (author unknown)

ALL I EVER NEEDED TO KNOW I LEARNED FROM BLAKE'S 7

Trust is only dangerous when you have to rely on it.

Reality is a dangerous concept.

I am not stupid, I'm not expendable, and I'm not going.

No good deed goes unpunished.It is frequently easier to be honest when you have nothing to lose

Civilization has always depended on courtesy rather than truth.

On Earth it is considered ill-mannered to kill your friends while committing suicide.

The art of leadership is delegation.

All that patience gets you is older.

Regret is part of being alive -- but keep it a small part.

He who trusts can never be betrayed, only mistaken.

Infallibility depends on your point of view.

There are times when even the most cynical must trust in luck.

Heroics seldom run to schedule.The choice is very simple -- either you can fight, or you can die.

In the end, winning is the only safety.

Power usually makes its own rules.

It is not necessary to become irrational in order to prove that one cares; indeed, it is not necessary to prove it at all.

While there's life, there's threat.

Luck has nothing to do with it.

Strategic withdrawal is running away, but with dignity.

Idealism is a wonderful thing; all you really need is someone rational to put it to proper use.

Nobody is indispensable.

Everyone's entitled to one really bad mistake.

In the end, your word is all there is, really. There are other rules, but you'll find out what those are when you break them

Oh Deer - What's For Dinner?

I was in the hospital and recuperating during the start of deer season but thankfully I have friends that will trade some fresh venison for my homemade sourdough bread and rolls.

Venison Meatballs with Bacon and Thyme

1 and ¼ pounds ground venison

around ¼ pound smoked bacon chopped into ½ inch pieces

1 medium sweet onion, finely chopped

2 heaping Tablespoons chopped fresh Thyme

1 large egg

2 Tablespoons sourdough breadcrumbs (use your bread of choice)

3/4 teaspoon salt

pinch of garlic salt or garlic powder

1/4 teaspoon pepper

1/8 teaspoon Nutmeg (if using grated fresh Nutmeg use 1 or 2 small pinches)

unsalted butter for cooking

 Lightly cook bacon in a dry pan until lightly browned, set aside on a paper towel to cool.

In a large bowl mix all of the ingredients, add cooled bacon last, handle as little as possible, and form into meatballs. Add a small splash of milk or stock if needed to help it hold together.

Melt a pat of butter (adding more as needed) in the bacon pan on low/medium, then fry meatballs until done.  Serve with chopped herbs or add gravy. 

Quote For the Day

Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No 

matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always 

got there first, and is waiting for it

-- Terry Pratchett

SEND IT!

How many Labrador Snipers can you see in this photo?

Keeping on Track

Those of you who know me outside the blog know that the day after we lost Abby Lab I was admitted to the hospital. The antibiotic-resistant staph infection I've been fighting for over a year in one leg that went septic back in September reared its ugly head. Before it got too bad, they admitted me, called in an Infectious Disease Specialist (my own Dr. House), and pretty much "nuked it from space" with some antibiotics I'd never heard of but pretty much "kill everything" (take THAT Amoxicillin!)

 I'm finally on the backside of this and feel 400% better (after losing 24 pounds, not all of which was the result of the "pumpkin spice mousse" they tried to feed me on Thanksgiving Day).

Although my heart health is pretty amazing, according to the doctors, they recommended a lower sodium diet during recovery.  So. . . . .

click on photo to enlarge

A modification to my Scottish Pancake Recipe.  Scottish pancakes  (known as Dropped Scones) differ from their American cousins in that they are much smaller, thicker, sweeter, and have a slightly crunchy outer texture which is really good.  I simply modified my recipe to make it almost no sodium (less than 8 mg per serving).  Partner in Grime gave them a big thumbs up. 

Brigid's Scottish Pancakes - serves 2-3.

3/4 cup flour

1/2 cup sugar

1 Tablespoon Hain No Sodium Baking Powder (if you don't care about sodium substitute 1 teaspoon regular baking powder and 1/2 teaspoon salt).  Available at Amazon or Healthy Heart Mart online.

2 large eggs (room temperature)

3 Tablespoons milk (batter is quite thick)

Mix dry and wet ingredients separately then stir together just until combined.

NOTES:

-These are fluffy and delicate and spread out on the griddle.  Use no more than 2-3 Tablespoons of batter per pancake (for perspective photo is on a salad plate)

-These have more sugar than your American pancakes - cook on medium heat, NOT medium/high or high and make sure your pan is oiled well, including between batches.

-If using skim, low fat, or non-dairy"milk", add 1 teaspoon vegetable oil.

Serve with unsalted butter and real maple syrup.

So Long and Thanks for the Kibble

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."

-A.A. Milne, 'Winnie The Pooh.

'It is with heavy hearts we have to tell you all that Abby Lab went to the Bridge last Tuesday, peacefully, and happy (after a Reese's peanut butter cup she spit out at the Vet because "I want the nasty DRY treats Mom gives me!").  She made her journey from our home with a very caring Vet and her sister Lorelei Lab got to say goodbye.

 She would have been 16 in February.  Considering she started her journey to us after being left heartworm positive at a high hill shelter when she was 8, that's pretty good. She brought a lot of joy to us and helped heal so hearts broken when Barkley left us. 

I Can't Believe I Ate the WHOLE Thing . . .

The neighbors threw out a bunch of stale bread to feed the squirrels. Unfortunately, some of it went where Abby could snag it.

She can't eat grains. She's fine - a little chicken, yogurt, and dehydrated pumpkin powder with some time in the backyard did the trick (plus some open windows).  But I have two new terms with regards to the Labrador Retriever Digestive Track. 

Poocano

and

Poonami

This Veteran's Day - A Sense of Thrift

During a lot of the last 20 years, I have been a volunteer at local shelters for the physically abused, many also homeless. People ask why I do it, as it is often depressing, and sometimes futile.

The women there who have been abused present an image to the world that is often one of stone, hiding the pain, hiding the bruises, until eventually, one night, the stone is shattered by the fury of a long fall or a storm surge. Sometimes it's simply eroded away, what is unique, distinct, worn away over time, as if by water, drop by ceaseless drop. Perhaps with those who will listen and support, some of whom have been there, a little of what is left can be reclaimed, still capable of beauty.

Some of them will go back, the fear of the unknown overwhelming, the knowledge that someone, otherwise, will wish them, forever, anything but peace. Peace is not often plentiful. I could almost always guess which ones would go back, they wore that quality of outworn violence like perfume, drawn back to the evangelical zeal of their abuser, simply too tired to fight any longer. It was often a fatal mistake, realized too late, as they were borne beyond the hurt and harm of man, into the ground.

Better they said, to go back, then live homelessly. Some escape, but live for years with their scars. Those scars are apparent to some, who try and offer a healing balm, but to others, they are but a rattler's warning, a bite to those that don't understand their pain.

Many of us already live homelessly. Not in our dwelling, but in the neighborhood of our true self. We spend years trying to change someone, only to realize the only thing that could change was ourselves. We spend so much time chasing after things, that we ignore what we have here now.

Some of the unhappiest people I know have the most expansive and expensive of possessions. I sold or gave away most of my stuff several years ago, downsizing to life much simpler. When I had my taxes done last year the tax guy said "congratulations, you are now in the 32% tax bracket", and then looked out on my 13-year-old rusty truck with a wry smile. After doing my taxes for years, he understands why we live as we do, giving generously to veterans, various rescue groups, and those in need. I don't miss my single days of a big house and a BMW, with not much left for anyone but myself. I have all I need, a family, a warm house, enough food to eat (OK, and a nice collection of tools.)

I sometimes look at pictures of a former home, the two-story entryway, the three-car garage, and have a twinge of regret, but it's rare. I could have stayed in that house and my world would have revolved around its upkeep and the people that might have been impressed by it weren't worthy of the efforts. Or I could pay off debt, learn to do the things to sustain, not just consume. I could ensure my Dad was cared for and I could spend time with people who were important, not just labor for the upkeep of those walls. It was an easy decision.>I don't own a lot, but if the world falls to ruin tomorrow, I will have enough to survive and the knowledge and means to know enough to protect it, something my Dad, a veteran of World War II taught me.

My parents always helped those that help themselves. Dad, getting his CPA after the military, did income taxes for free for the elderly. He was active in the church, in Lions, in Masons, living his life in a brotherhood of man under the fatherhood of God, as he would say if you asked him. Mom, as well, volunteered at the church and at the local hospital.

We don't always get to volunteer for duty. Dad certainly didn't, being sent without argument from his home in Montana to a war raging across the world, not knowing if he would ever come back to my Mom, his high school sweetheart. Four years, he was there, without a single trip back home stateside. Four years in which he learned to live with war, not just beside it, but surrounded by it like a force of nature, a physical law that can't be overlooked, the fear and the uncertainty of it like a tornado warning, a warning siren that never abates. Mom lived with it too during those years, watching as others in her community got the words of their loved one's death, as if death in war was an occupational hazard of freedom that the country knew as necessary.

Even when it was over, it really wasn't - every man for whom battle touched either as a finger against a hot stove, a warning, or a full-out conflagration that consumed everything within bore some scars. For war often has its own unfinished business, not realizing its recession, nor caring for the burdens it inflicted on so many who fought with the best of intentions. So I am glad there are still men and women who will take up the mantle of duty for freedom, as my Dad did, and fight for what they believe in and hopefully come home to continue to lead and to serve so that the world remains worth the sacrifices made.

Like my Dad, I try and give back during times where my own safety is secure as it can be, with the knowledge that the world out there is still an unsafe place for so many, especially the children. One such act was to sponsor a child through a Christian children's charity, just enough to provide for some schooling and at least one hot, nourishing meal a day. Sponsors were allowed to give extra money, with the stipulation that it would meet a specific need, not to be squandered. So one time, when bills were light, I sent a few hundred dollars I had saved up, with a specific need in mind.

I got a letter back from the little girl I sponsored in Africa, Louise Marie, handwritten, with colorful crayon drawings of a little house with a roof and a door, with little Crayola cartoon chickens and smiling children gathered around. You see, before the gift, her family had been living on the ground, in a lean-to, her widowed mother's $50 a month income as a sustenance farmer not enough for real shelter. With the money and the assistance of the charitable foundation, they built a house. It wasn't a house like you and I expect to live in. But it was a grand house to them, with four walls to protect them from harm, a floor, and a real roof to keep the water and elements out.

Some would look at my simple home, my single purse I bought at Walmart, a closet that holds more in camo than silk, and shake their head. "You could have a new car", one would say "have you seen the new Chanel purses?" another would say. Yes, I do appreciate the beauty of something finely crafted, as much as the next woman, but like my Dad, I sleep more peacefully at night knowing my life was lived to keep others safe rather than earning money so I could buy "things".

Dad realized when he arrived home from that great war, how little it took to make him happy, a small home, the love of a good woman, going to sleep to the sound of crickets, not the echo of battle. Dad found, as I did years later that when you do pare down, by circumstance or by choice, it is quietly liberating, as you discover just what it is that was, still is, precious to you, what is worth your time and attention.

Thoreau once said, "The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.". That meant little to me when I first read it in English class. It would mean little to people who have had everything handed to them, with little effort, the cost of their education, their sustenance, their lifestyle. After years of sweat, tears, and hard work, I understood, having long ago severed ties with things, even people, who gave me only pain for my efforts, for, in the end, such things, by their exchange, violated my sense of thrift.

As snow clouds gather on the horizon, I look out towards the trees, to the chattering of birds as I step outside with two old rescue dogs. On the ground two doves, who when Abby approaches them, run, don't fly away, their brain not sensing the danger. Fortunately, she shows no interest in their harm. Above, two cardinals flutter like two tiny flags amongst the branches, then fly away, as if the wind had dispersed them like small scraps of cloth. On the railing, a small sparrow, looking a little worse for wear, looking at the empty feeder, watching me carefully, wondering if I will harm or help. On the air, the echo of all of their cries, mournful and plaintive, barely heard above the wind.

I think of the Bible Verse "Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?" I look at the fridge, as I enter my home, to a little picture, drawn with the colors of hope.

Today, I am thankful for those that listened to the call of duty and gave up their own personal freedom so others could live free. I am grateful that being raised by such a person taught me what is truly important, surrounding myself with those with whom I share a personal history as well as those possessions of service and protection. On days where doubt raises its head, as to my worth, as to my place in the world, I simply look at that little picture on my fridge and smile broadly, no longer hearing the echo of invisible bruises. Life is a risk, never a possession, live, and love, accordingly. Brigid

Next Man Up - a Memory

Dad and Barkley at his 89th Birthday Grill Out.

Dad was a huge sports fan.  Let's just put it this way.  When he had his stroke about 15 years ago he was smiling - because "NO ONE is going to take the remote away from the guy that had the stroke and he could watch sports 24 and 7 and *$%# Dancing With the Stars."  When we were younger, as much as Dad loved sports he sacrificed that time watching them to do silly things with his kids and spend time with his wife, though he was a coach for Little League.

I remember the Little League games.  I'd tag along if only to give my Mom a break from a houseful of kids (we attracted all the neighbor ruffians to see what kind of mischief we could all get into).  Dad was a good coach.  Like anything he did in life, he wasn't one to be overly wordy, realizing early on that when teaching the young, they are learning as much by watching you as by listening to you.

His being a man of few words was something I related to as I got older.  A scarceness of words does not always mean a lack of vocabulary, there are just certain times when the less said, is better.  Certainly in my work now, the abrupt loss of human life is often so simple and final that the verbiage that surrounds it, that encloses it and categorizes it needs to be simple too.  Sure, I can use all the proper scientific and Law enforcement terms, but when it comes down to it, I'm simply laying out the universal truth that is death, that probable vastness of what we all will face, words jotted down in hushed tone and hopeless, indomitable awareness.  Such truths need little embellishment, something Dad always seemed to understand.

On those days of bats and balls and the preferred snowcone (grape, thank you very much), I'd sit quietly in the stand and try and see just what it was that fascinated my Dad with this sport, with sports in general.  As I watched, the strong, living smell of dirt and sweat around me, it appeared to view nothing more than a flurry of movement, the smack of wood against the ball, and the tumbling of small forms after a small leather-covered sphere that drew attention like the wake of a boat as it fled the scene.  Yet, even from a distance, I could sense the camaraderie as well as the competitive spirits that my Dad was trying to hone, where time out in the dugout was only a precursor to all the things you could screw up when you grew up.

We didn't talk much on the drive home, my brother was tired, and Dad was sunburned and satisfied.  Mom would have a cool pitcher of Kool-Aid waiting for us, a beer for Dad and then we'd spend the rest of the night as a family, Dad's dreams of sports put off for the time being.

So when we were grown, and especially after my StepMom passed, Dad's favorite spot was in his recliner watching whatever sports were on TV, reliving perhaps in his mind, those days out in the open air, and the sound of a bat hitting the ball.  Even when I'd visit, I'd try not to interrupt his time though I remember with a smile one evening when he came into the kitchen, leaving his game, and gave me a hug and told me he loved me.  I looked at him and said, "It's half time isn't it?" Sheepishly he said it was.  I got him another cold beer and helped him back to his favorite spot.

There are to be no more visits, no more balloons of greeting in my room, no words of a simple "I missed you" as he went off to the family room and his chair and television. That TV is silent now, given to charity after he left us, its sound faded and gone like the end of a knowing smile.  Next to it sat an empty tub of popcorn, emblazoned with a Cubs logo. Dad, with all his love of sports, did not have a good thing to say about Chicago's teams and I remember well his displeasure when the Cubs beat the Indians a couple of times.    

After hearing him go on and on about that, I said gently, and with humor - "Dad you know those tins of Garrets Popcorn - Chicago Mix - I send every 3 weeks, that comes in a Cubs or a Bears tin and cost $60 for the popcorn and $30 for the shipping that you just LOVE to eat and share with your visitors?"

And he said "Woot! Go Cubs!"

A man of few words, but words that are missed every day. 

Things You Learn From Watching a Scary Movie

When Partner in Grime is on the road, evenings are usually spent curling up with a book.  The last few years I did so much writing I hardly read anything so now I'm getting caught up, in no big hurry to write another book for a while.

I also sometimes will stream some movies. We gave away our TV.  Considering that we were paying for cable and we watched maybe 1 hour a month it just wasn't practical and in a small Bungalow, space is at a premium.  Now I just watch or stream shows or movies in the office/den on the large computer monitor.  This last trip of his, I got on a scary movie binge.  Probably not a great idea sleeping alone in a very old house that makes weird noises.

But I have to say, after watching a couple of scary movies, I've learned some things, which I will pass on.

When it seems that you have killed the monster, never check closely to see if it's really dead.

If you find that your house is built upon or near a cemetery, had previous inhabitants who went mad, flung themselves off the roof, or died in some horrible accident OR inhabitants that dressed in black robes with a giant flaming Pentagram in the yard (I know they said it was a Tupperware party, they lied) move immediately.

Never read a book of demon summoning aloud, especially not as a YouTube video.

Do not search the basement if the power suddenly goes out.

Never ask "is somebody there?" if you live alone and hear a strange noise.

When traveling in numbers, never "pair off" or go it alone.

As a general rule, don't solve puzzles that open portals to Hell.

Never stand in, on, above, below, beside, or anywhere near a grave, tomb crypt, mausoleum or another house of the dead at midnight on Friday the 13th.

If you hear a strange noise in a distant part of the house and find out it's just the cat, leave the house immediately, as it's never the cat.

If appliances start operating themselves, move out. If it's the 1940's stand mixer, call a Priest.

If you find an old farm town among the cornfields which looks deserted, it's probably for a good reason.  Take the hint and turn around. If there are two vacant-eyed kids selling kettle corn at a roadside stand in said deserted town ignore all posted speed limits.

The mutant alien cucumber from "It Conquered the World.

Vegetables can hurt you.  Eat more Pizza.

If you hear a strange noise outside  Do NOT go out there. Or at least take a weapon, some common sense, or a disposable secondary character to use as a distraction.

Don't babysit - seriously, in scary movies babysitters are psychopath crack. Mow lawns, the psychos never go after the kid mowing the lawn.

When Muppets Do Meth

Don't fool with recombinant DNA technology unless you're really sure you know what you are doing.

If you are running from the monster, boogieman, etc, expect to trip or fall down at least twice, more if you are female and scantily clad.  Also note that, although you are running and the monster is merely shambling along - it will still catch up with you

If that house in seemingly excellent condition is SUPER cheap don't buy it.

If your companions or housemates suddenly being to exhibit uncharacteristic behavior such as hissing, fascination with blood, glowing eyes, increasing hairiness, and so on, get away from them as fast as possible.

If your car runs out of gas in the middle of nowhere do not knock on the door of the nearest dark dwelling for help.  That never ends well.

If your children suddenly speak to you in Latin or in a  deep, dark voice other than their own, pack up their things and drop them off at a relative you don't like.

Don't be a teenager - sure the parties and alcohol and lack of parents at your rave in Mom and Dad's mansion may seem like fun but it just draws demented ax murderers.  Case in point.  Last night,  I watched a movie wearing flannel jammies (Scottish birth control) and munching on popcorn while some tea brewed.  I can guarantee there wasn't an ax murderer within 50 miles.

And lastly folks - if you want to survive to the end of the movie - KEEP YOUR CLOTHES ON!

I'm not scared Mom, let's watch another one.