Have I told you about my wood burning stove, yet? I don’t think I have. Perhaps I should someday…oh wait. That’s right. My husband deleted all photographic evidence I had for that post because he thought it a bit incriminating against the ignorant, er innocent.

For now, suffice it to say I have one. A big monster of a beast in my front room, heating my home.

Don’t you love our fancy humidifier?

Anyway, when you have a fire burning continuously in your front room, you can’t help but play in it. At first, this produces a considerable amount of smoke, but you learn. And once you learn, you move on.

Thus I decided to  bake bread. Like a pioneer woman. Not like The Pioneer Woman, mind you. People eat her stuff and share her recipes and buy her cookbook. No, like a pioneer woman.

Minus the buffalo chips.

So I bought a bread pan that wasn’t glass and got started. Oh how I love baking bread. It’s so tactile. Touching the milk on the stove to see if it is heated enough but not too much. Feeling when the goo turns to dough signaling it is time to turn it out on the counter to knead. And kneading it until it is all soft and warm and elastic. If only my husband didn’t compare every loaf to Wonder Bread, I might be inclined to make this a lot more.

Pondering, I thought maybe (just maybe) cooking with wood might be similar. Not that I’d get to touch it, but you definitely get to fiddle more than setting your oven at 350 and a timer for 50 minutes.

And next to the stove is such a nice place to leave it to rise.

Doesn’t it look nice? It’s 17 degrees outside and my bread is rising contentedly.

OK, it just might have been prettier and more rounded if I didn’t have children that can reach through the bars. But I’m keeping the kids and not worrying so much about swatted bread.

It’s not like they didn’t just finish beating it to a pulp, anyway. What’s one more swipe?

So this brings us to the baking part, full of happy memory-building family memories. But no Hanley family memory is complete without the part where it all falls apart. This one didn’t fail us. I didn’t even get it in the stove before it came through for us. See, I’m doing this baking in the clean out ash pan in the back.

And my brand-new, bought-just-for-this bread pan was a hair too big to fit. It’s so close, in fact, that I’m contemplating fixing my problem with a pair of vice grips. That didn’t seem like such a good thing to try just then, however.

Really, at this point I should have just turned on the oven and baked my bread. But that seemed like defeat.

The flattened black brick I was almost certain I would retrieve from the stove didn’t. Just fresh baked bread wafting its heavenly scent as it is pulled from the oven seemed like defeat. So I turned the dough out onto foil, wrapped it and shoved it through the little door.

What I pulled out later wasn’t pretty. But it wasn’t a blackened brick, either.

In fact, we actually ate the whole thing. And it wasn’t bad. I liked the flavor. Hearty. Reminded me a little of sour dough. The texture was all off, but that’s because I flattened it in my re-panning effort. It gave me hope.

This could really work.

And if it ever does, I’ll be back with a recipe and tips that are hopefully more useful than “Don’t buy a bread pan that is too large for the hole you plan to stick it through.”

Though that is perhaps a good life lesson, too.

Training a puppy is about like training a child. They have their own idea about what they should be doing and you don’t always know what you’re doing to begin with.

And so it is with Faithful, my daughter’s English shepherd. Mouse has decided that if hauling wood is to be an ongoing chore around here, having a dog that will pull a wagon would be of great use. We owned a Malamute once. She loved pulling. I mean, that dog came alive when strapped to anything. Including a leash and a pregnant woman, but that is a whole ‘nuther story.

Anyway, that is as close to training a dog for pulling as we’ve come so we’re sort of making this up as we go along.

So first Mouse puts on a harness and hooks her to the leash that is tied to the wagon full of wood.

"Why am I tied up over here when there's a chicken over there? Don't you think he's a little far from the hen house? Well, I think so and that's all that really matters, isn't it?"

She finally gets her attention and is ready to begin training. Except one little problem.

"Hey! What am I doing up here if the treats are back there?"

She doesn’t really expect the puppy to pull that much weight. She just wants her to get used to the sound of the wagon behind her and learn that “Mush!” means “Go!” But the rope she rigged up to pull with puts her behind the puppy. And the puppy knows where the treats are.

A little rethinking and they’re off!

"You got more of those treat things, right? 'Cause I can do this all day..."

So much more fun than just loading up the wagon and hauling it yourself. Someday it may even be less work, too.

I also think this little guy could be trouble some day.

"You talkin' to me?"

Over at Apollos Academy. Check it out. The chickens would rather stay in the hen house on a day like this, anyway.

It all started with a mess in the basement. Which led to an argument about who was working and who wasn’t. And to everyone being called back up to practice working together to clean the front room.

Figuring she’d end up doing most of the work anyway, Mouse decided she wanted to reorganize the basement. After they were finished with the front room, she went down and chased everyone else up, which of course meant that those who previously wanted nothing to do with the basement refused to leave it.

Anyway, in the midst of her reorganizing, she discovered an old doll-house lamp. Once upon a time, it really lit up and even played a little tune. She thought Bug would enjoy it for her doll house so she came up to change the batteries.

That didn’t help so she decided to take it apart.

“Hey, look mom! It has a circuit board in it!”

I smiled at her

“It’s kinda dirty. Maybe I’ll clean it.”

I left her to her self imposed chore, wondering how the lamp had survived the moving purge last winter. Suddenly, I heard a yelp and a holler from the kitchen.

“I did it, mom! I fixed it!”

She came to show me. The lamp lit up. It plinked out its little tune. It did indeed work and Mouse was beaming.

Next thing I knew, she had taken apart a toy piano that no longer played. A little cleaning and a few adjustments had my daughter announcing she wanted to become an engineer. Not wanting to dissuade her, I didn’t say a thing about math.

“Well, taking things apart and putting them back together is a good way to start.”

And I thought of Nate Saint whose parents let him take apart the car when he asked. After he got it all back together, it even ran almost as good as when he started.

Am I that kind of mother? I’d kind of like to be. I mean, it makes a much better story for future biographies than “When Mouse took an interest in the family car, her mother locked the doors, hid the keys and shuttled her off to the library to learn what she could from a book.”

But then again, we kinda need that car. And we have a LOT of toys to disassemble before we get that far.

Why, just now, did she have to ask me what kind of degree you need to become a mechanic?

There are days I wonder just how I got here. With all the choices I could have made, with all the directions I could have gone, which one was it exactly that landed me here?

Take the other day, for example. I walk in the front room to find my 21 month old standing on the dining room table gleefully flinging oatmeal. It’s all over him. It’s all over the table. It’s on the ceiling. It’s on the walls. It’s on the homeschool folders. Somehow, there is more oatmeal stuck in places it does not belong than I ever would have put in his bowl.

To which my seven year old responds by falling off his chair in a fit of giggles as if . . . well . . . as if he had a front row seat to Gallagher himself.

From the couch comes the muffled noises of a five year old whose head has been swallowed by the couch, presumably in a failed attempt at a head stand.

And all the while my three year old dances about the room in nothing but the underwear on her head.

“Where is your mother?!”  I want to shout.

But that’s when it hits me. I know exactly how I got here. It’s all because I had to use the restroom.

And two minutes is all it takes.

Just a small one, put on by Emerald Sunshine. If your children like to make models or dioramas, or you just need a little motivation after all that turkey, check it out! You might even win some Usborne books, and who doesn’t like that?

Edward Winslow wrote in A Journal of the Pilgrims at Plymouth (1621):

Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, among other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massosoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed upon our governor, and upon the captain, and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.

By the goodness of God, we are far from want. In fact, we have never known want like that of the Pilgrims. Giving up their homeland, leaving for an unknown shore across an unfriendly sea, suffering disease and starvation to make an investment in their future. They sought a wealth few of us think on today. As the closing two verses of The Landing of the Pilgrims so eloquently say,

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?–
They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod.
They have left unstained what there they found–
Freedom to worship God.

Freedom to worship God was the wealth they sought. And more than that, the freedom to educate their children. For in Holland, the Pilgrims did have freedom to worship God but they saw their children going the way of the world, adopting the Dutch culture. They wanted not only the freedom to worship God as they pleased, but to educate their children according to their conscience. It was for this they traversed a hostile sea, suffered disease and nearly starved.

It was this for which they were able to give thanks and for which I am most thankful this season.

Happy Thanksgiving!

If you post what you are thankful for this week, feel free to leave a link to share!

Approximately 2,010 years ago (give or take), the greatest marketing opportunity in history was born and the religious and secular worlds have been fighting over Him ever since. If only Herod had seen the commercial implications, perhaps a generation could have been spared.

He Himself didn’t really seem to get it, either, what with overturning money changers’ tables, insisting His kingdom was some sort of spiritual enterprise rather than worldly one, and His peculiar knack for telling large crowds what they didn’t want to hear.

“Repent and ye shall be saved.”

What kind of message is that? Seriously, His Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. Surely the bigger message here is,

“Merry Christmas.”

I remember a time when we were concerned about the commercialization of Christmas. Maybe the whole “Jesus is the reason for the season” thing was from before businesses became so irreverent as to begin wishing people a happy holiday instead, I don’t know. But the message seems to have changed since I first accepted Christ 18 years ago.

Now, instead of discussing how believers can “keep Christ in Christmas” during a stressful and particularly commercial time of year, prominent Christian groups are instead concerned with how to keep His name in the minds of marketers.

In response to affirmation from Dick’s Sporting Goods that they would indeed be using His name as a marketing tool, the American Family Association sent out an email alert calling off their boycott. Dick’s has seen the light. Not of God’s glory, of course. Just of the profitability of slapping His name on their commercial endeavors. And that’s the most important thing.

“It is amazing to see the culture change that is occurring inside corporate board rooms. All across America, companies are coming to realize they should include Christ and Christmas in their advertising.”  AFA email, dated November 19, 2010

Luke 1:49 tells us, “Holy is His name.” Sacred, blameless and set apart. Set apart for glossy ad inserts, that is. Shouldn’t we boycott everyone who doesn’t see this simple truth? And that bit way back in the Old Testament about not using the Lord’s name in vain? Well, when there are this many dollar signs attached, you can hardly call it “in vain,” right?

So now we are free to shop online at Dick’s Christmas Shop and rest assured in the knowledge that His name is being kept in its rightful place at the altar of American commericalism.

Oh, and while we’re on the subject don’t forget to buy a button.

_________________________

With a wave of my gardening gloves to Bore Me to Tears

Researching the history of gunpowder brings me on an exotic journey along the Silk Road. I  reflect for a moment on the threads beginning to emerge. Geography. Culture. Science. How does this relate to what we’ve studied so far and how does it prepare us for what is yet to come? And how can I write the lesson so that it makes sense to mothers miles away whom I’ve never met, yet are depending on me for their own science lessons?

I reflect for a moment and begin to type. One-handed, for I am now the mother of a new baby. It goes slowly . . . painfully so on the laptop where my cursor jumps about the screen, occasionally depositing letters randomly through my text. But then my thoughts are slow and distracted.

My little Glow Worm is nestled in my other arm, nursing steadily. I pause to look at him, to memorize him, to stroke his skin and kiss his forehead. Slate blue eyes stare up at me, catching my eyes for a moment before becoming distracted by a lock of my hair. A little hand grasps at his cheek, his hair, his ear. I slip a finger into his palm and for a moment he grabs hold with surprising strength for such a small baby.

I watch as his eyes slowly close. I feel his body relax as he collapses into me until it is difficult to really sense where I end and he begins. A faint smile marks the moment he falls asleep and I kiss his forehead, tuck his little hand back across his chest and watch him sleep.

And I am reminded that nursing is so much more than feeding.

If I come across one more website telling me that brassicas are delicious, hardy and easy to grow, I am going to scream. Seriously. After losing everything I’ve ever planted from that entire family to the homely little cabbage moth year after year, I decided I’m done with them. They aren’t worth the trouble.

Now, if I actually got any, maybe they would be worth the trouble. But I never have. Not a single lowly broccoli. Not a single leaf of cabbage. Not a single little Bruusels sprout, the most exotic thing I’ve ever tried to grow.

Did I ever tell you about my last fight with the cabbage moth? Well, war, more like. I decided to give the worst – of – all vegetable – families one last shot in my garden. In some strange fit of fancy, I decided all that stood between me and garden fresh broccoli was a little more determination. I’d start the crop earlier, giving it a head start before the cabbage moth really got going. I’d look over my plantings more frequently, looking for eggs and worms. I’d win the battle and I’d do it without spraying.

Every time I saw a cabbage moth, the kids and I would run out to the garden with a butterfly net and feed the little pest to my son’s frog. Every day I’d go over the leaves of my plants, but all I found at first were holes. It wasn’t until my broccoli was reduced to free-standing veins that I found my first worm. I gradually got more adept at spotting worms and eggs, but you know what? I’d scrape away three eggs in the morning only to find them replaced by nine more in the afternoon.

And still the holes grew larger and the leaves grew fewer.

I started running the chickens through the garden a couple times a day, hoping they’d spot the worms I missed. What did it matter if they took a few nips themselves as payment for their services? In the end, I penned them over the only remaining cabbages I had with the vain notion that I’d rather lose my cabbage crop to my chickens than to cabbage moths. Which I subsequently did. But at least they gave me eggs in return. Then I vowed never to plant anything in the brassica family ever again so long as we both shall live.

Brassicas may be delicious, but they are not hardy and easy to grow. At least not for me.

So now I’m sitting here looking over my finished garden plan for the spring . . . the one I mapped out on graph paper with each little square representing one actual square foot in my garden that is already too large for me to manage alone . . . and wondering. What on earth was I thinking when I devoted exactly sixty square feet to brassicas?

Is it a simple case of gardener’s amnesia? Or is it that I somehow don’t feel I can really call myself a gardener until I’ve managed to bring to my table one of the most common of vegetables in American gardens? Granted I’m planning on building a box covered in a cloth to keep the insects off the plants without my constant intervention, but I am not so naive as to think that will actually work.

After all, I’m not so sure the cabbage moths around here aren’t equipped with gnawing teeth and digging claws. Their offspring certainly do judging by the holes they make in my cabbages long before they’re big enough to even see.

Now please tell me I’m not the only one. Even if by some miracle you find brassicas possible to grow (I’m not willing to entertain the notion of  “easy”), certainly you must have some garden nemesis, whether it be squash vine borer, Japanese beetle, cutworm or some other cropivore?

Please?