Making Memories (and a few beaten biscuits)

I spent this morning making memories (and a few beaten biscuits) with the two little grandsons.

First, we drug out the beaten biscuit brake from the corner of the utility room, where it sits holding up boxes of dog treats the rest of the year.  This treasured antique looks like the wringer off of an old washer mounted on an enameled table.  Hand cranked it is the necessary tool for making the hard, flat biscuits that southerners love.

Next, we mixed up the dough in my largest mixing bowl.  Flour, salt, a little sugar, lard, and water and milk for the liquid. (Yep. No leavening.  They don't rise but bake like thick crackers.) It is mixed much like traditional biscuits but kneaded only enough to hold the dough together well.   The resulting lump of dough was carried into the utility room and plopped down on the biscuit brake.  "Are you ready?"  I asked the youngest, who was already in position at the crank.  "Let's go!" he responded.

With that I started the process of putting the dough between the rollers, folding it, and repeating the process.  The dough begins as a lumpy mass that tends to fall apart as it is cranked through the stainless, steel covered rollers.  As time passes the dough transforms into a smooth, elastic sheet that looks like thick, creamy leather.  As the folded dough is passed through the rollers again and again, the air trapped between the folds breaks through the firm dough with a loud "pop" signaling that the dough is done! 

It's not fast.  The dough has to be folded, and rolled about 100 times.  That leaves time for chatting as we work. 

"Why are they called "beaten" biscuits if we are rolling them?"  asks one of the boys.

"Well," I replied, "in the pioneer days people didn't have cool machines like this to work the dough.  So they used to literally "beat" the dough with something heavy, like the flat side of an ax." 

"Didn't they get tired?  I'm getting tired just cranking."  Sensing that I was about to lose my help, I suggested that it might be time to switch places so he could "poke" the dough through the rollers while I cranked. 

"Yes, they got tired.", I continued,  "but people worked harder back in the pioneer days.  They didn't have electricity or lots of gadgets to help them.  They certainly were in better shape than we are now.  The pioneer women probably used the same ax to chop the firewood for the stove that they would cook the biscuits in."

"I'll bet they were glad when someone invented the beaten biscuit machine!"  Grinning, I agreed that they probably were.  Soon the "pops" told me that it was time for a final rolling then we could cut the biscuits out .  The last job after that was using a fork to poke three sets of holes in each biscuit with the tines of the fork.  That done, we quickly put them in the oven to bake. 

Dusting off his hands, the oldest boy asked, "Hasn't anyone ever thought to make an electric beaten biscuit maker?"  "Yes" I replied, "there are ones with a motor."  "So why don't you have one?" came the quick response.  "I guess I just like doing it this way with my boys."  I offered, chuckling.

As they peeked at the baking biscuits in the oven, I overheard one say to the other, "I think we need to get daddy to put a motor on that thing for next year!"

The Big Ass TV

They just don't make things like they used to.  Our couch is a prime example.  After fifteen years of kids, dogs, snoozes, ballgames and cuddling in front of the fire, it is beginning to come apart.  While it is still the most comfortable couch we have ever had, it is beginning to look like it belongs in a college bachelor apartment.

With company coming over the holidays we decided it was time to bite the bullet and buy a new couch.  "You have to come with me.", I announced one morning.  "You are the one that uses it the most.  You watch ballgames and then often get up in the night and sleep on it.  So it has to fit you, not me."  "Well, you use it too." he responded, just short of a whine.  "You haven't been paying attention.  My end of the couch is equipped with a signal button under the cushion.  As soon as my butt hits the cushion someone needs something and I have to jump back up." I responded.

So, off we went to the city to shop for a new couch. 

It really didn't take long.  We wandered the store, sitting, reclining, and even laying down on first one couch then another.  One couch caught our fancy and before you could snap your fingers a saleslady was filling out forms and starting the bargaining process.  Hubby has years of sales under his belt so offers, counter-offers and deals were soon flying.  Before long we were leaving the store, with a quote in hand, to go home and measure our space again to be sure it would fit.  We would then call back, finalize the deal, and set up a delivery date. 

Since we were close, and I needed a water filter for the refrigerator, we swung by the HHGreg appliance store.  I headed for the refrigerator section while Hubby wandered off.  After securing the filter and paying for it, I started searching for Hubby.  I finally found him stretched out comfortably in a recliner in the TV section, talking earnestly to a friendly young salesman. (Funny how the recliners were placed right next to the TV section!) They were deep into a discussion of pixels, HD, inches, and remote controls.  "Look at this picture!", he enthused as I walked up.  "Kevin, here, says that it will work on the chimney with no problem." he continued, happily, "He even says it's on sale!" 

Whoa!  What is happening here?

"We've got to go home and measure the chimney to make sure it will fit." he continued.  "We can pick it up after the ballgame this week-end."  "Honey," I asked in my most reasonable voice, "I thought we were measuring for a new couch?"  He grabbed his phone as we left the store, "The couch!  Right!" he dialed rapidly.  "I'm calling about the couch we just looked at.  If you can bring your price down to this (amount) we've got a deal.  You can't come down any lower?  OK.  Thanks for your help anyway."  He turned to me, "I guess the deal fell through.  We'll look some more later."

Thus, we bought a 60" TV that covers the entire chimney from mantle to crown molding.

 I guess we'll sit on the cracked, faded leather couch a little while longer.

The moral of this story is....don't ever take a man to buy a water filter.

Thanksgiving on the Farm

I love the holiday season, but I swear, the time between Halloween and Christmas gets shorter every year. 

Which is why I am just now getting time to tell you about Thanksgiving farm style.

I love Thanksgiving, but what I really love most is the day before Thanksgiving.  The major cleaning is done.  The table set and decorated.  I am filled with anticipation of the joyous celebration of family and thankfulness that will take place the next day.  I throw myself into a frenzy of cooking and baking, all the while dreaming of a Norman Rockwell family dinner with everyone gathered around the perfectly prepared foods set on the beautifully decorated table.  Everyone is smiling and happily visiting as the food is passed.  The children beam with eagerness, awaiting their filled plates. 

The day before Thanksgiving, I still think it will happen like that. 

We live on a farm.  It never happens like that!

The first surprise came the evening before Turkey Day, when all four grandchildren showed up to spend the night.  (I misunderstood the request of "Coming out" thinking it meant a short visit.  I realized my mistake when they arrived carrying overnight bags.)  I only cook for Thanksgiving on the day before, so I scrambled frantically for something for the six of us to eat.

"Don't fret," Hubby soothed, "I'll keep them occupied tomorrow.  It'll be like old times."  "Sure", I muttered, "I'll just squeeze in breakfast between peeling potatoes and making the pies."

The next morning Hubby finished his coffee and left to go to the barn to feed.  It wasn't long before I heard the back door open and feet rushing through the utility room.  "Get the boys!!" Hubby urged, "The cows are out and heading for the road!"  The two younger boys were ready in two shakes but the teenager was still trying to focus.  "Do I get to eat?" he mumbled.  "Yep" I responded, "Here's some peanut butter on toast!  Now hurry!"

Soon the cavalry was headed over the hill to the pasture in the bottom.   Hubby and son had been replacing a fence along the bottom that we grow tobacco in.  They thought they had it fixed enough that the cows would stay in, but the lure of the winter wheat planted on the tobacco ground as a cover crop was too much for the cows.  The mama cows were munching happily on their fresh salad but the calves were exploring the area beyond the unfenced tobacco ground.  With no barrier to keep them from going as far as the highway getting them back into the field was urgent.

As soon as they were rounded up and herded back,  Hubby started organizing his work force to string barbed wire to make sure they stayed there.  About mid-morning our son wandered in, anticipating scarfing a few munchies before dinner.  "Where is everyone?" he asked.  "The cows got out so they're in the bottom fixing fence."  "Uh, oh" he laughed, "I'd better go referee before things get ugly." 

Dinner time came and my daughter-in-law and I looked at each other over the food keeping warm on the stove.  "Well,  there's no point in wasting the appetizers." she laughed, as she poured us both a glass of wine.  "They'll be here when they get here!" 

We were well into our second glass when the workers came in.  "Mission accomplished with only the loss of one shirt."  son said as he poked his finger in the hole in the side of his shirt.  Barbed wire is nasty to work with. 

We women jumped up and started reheating and repairing the now late dinner.  The dinner, while maybe not Norman Rockwell, was delicious. 

After dinner, the men were headed for the couches and a snooze, when the phone rang.  It was our neighbor, "I just came home from Mom's and noticed that your cows were out in the bottom!"  With groans all around, the work crew headed for the barn to start all over again.

For those of you thinking it was a poor fencing job, the second time they came through the water gap in the creek.  It seems that once they got a taste of the winter wheat they would all but climb a tree to get back to it! 

Just another Thanksgiving on the farm.