Of Woods and Words

I See the Moon and the Moon Sees Me

2012-02-09T10:09:00.002-06:00

Just a quick post today. We're off to do something (probably more ice fishing) shortly, but I wanted to share these shots I took of the rising moon last night. If Facebook threads are any indicator, it seems to have been an especially beautiful full moon this month. The Ojibwe gave the February moon many names, but my favorite is "Makoonsag-gaa-nitaawaadi-giizis -When the Bear Cubs are Born Moon." Indeed, over in Ely, Jewel the Bear, who's observed by the North American Bear Center, recently gave birth to two cubs: a boy and a girl.

I noticed a couple things when I was out on the deck last night, trying to set up the camera tripod. Venus is twinkling brightly in the west. The constellation of Leo is starting to pop up in the south and Orion is moving to the west. Spring is truly on its way!

Obviously, I need to work on my night photography skills (and maybe invest in something beyond a point and shoot camera) but it was fun experiment and I'm pleased with the first time results.

Happy Stargazing!

Life in the Woods: Everyday Challenges

2012-02-07T08:44:00.000-06:00

I always assumed moving home was kind of a cop-out, something you do when you're scared of rush hour and can't wrap your head around the expense of work clothes.

When you return home, you return to a little safety net of familiarity. You'll know the majority of people you bump into while running errands and you'll pick right back up on the small town gossip. Although I live an hour away from my childhood home, I still have the same zip code that I had growing up (it has to be one of the "most area covering" zip codes in the country!) and I shop at the same grocery store as my mother and bank at an institution where my grandmother worked for 39 years. Because I've simply fallen back into "the way things always were," there's not a whole lot of "figuring it out" that has to be done on a daily basis.

Yet despite the familiarity of it all, I find myself doing things every day that I never thought I'd do.

There's the whole "learning to drive a manual transmission" thing that I think I'm finally getting a handle on. Every day, I light a fire in the wood stove, something I never did growing up. Let's not even get started on my everyday fashion. In the end, my daily apparel of wool pants, "moon boots" and Carhartt vests (Yes, I received not one, but two Carhartt vests for Christmas) isn't really the haute couture I'd imagined for myself.

And if you'd told me that one day I'd be crawling underneath the cabin to swap out propane tanks, I would have laughed in your face.

But on Saturday afternoon, I went to brown some venison (case in point). But when I turned the knob to light the burner, I was greeted by "tick, tick, tick." As the ticking continued and the burner still refused to ignite, I knew we'd run out of propane. I'd suspected we were near the bottom of the tank, since the stove had smelled slightly gassy the last couple times I'd turned it on, a sure sign that a replacement tank would be in short order.

Since moving into the cabin, I've always made Andy swap out the tanks because I didn't know how to do it. But the last time we ran out of propane, Andy was at work. So, after some detailed instructions from Andy over the phone, I donned my Carhartt vest, grabbed the crescent wrench and hopped underneath the deck to detach the empty propane cylinder. It took a little doing to get the cylinder detached. Propane tanks are threaded opposite of most things, making "lefty loosey, righty tighty" totally irrelevant and it was harder for me to wrap my brain around that than I would like to admit. Nevertheless, I eventually got it and getting the new cylinder in place was a piece of cake.

The propane tanks are small, just the standard cylinders that you'd use for your grill. Despite their petite size, the cylinders usually last us close to four months, but as luck would have it, when the tank ran out on Saturday, Andy was again nowhere to be found.

I figured I remembered how to switch out the tanks by myself, so I threw on some shoes and headed to the shed to grab a full propane cylinder. This time of year, the ground beneath the deck is littered with sunflower seed shells and as I knelt beneath the deck I noticed four little squirrel paws pop out on the side of the deck plank right above my head.

"Living the dream," I grumbled as I sent up a silent prayer to whoever was listening that the squirrel would not defecate on my head or make a nest out of my hair while I tried to remember which way to turn the wrench. (Towards the house to loosen and towards yourself to tighten.)

The gods above must have been listen. The squirrel scampered off, oblivious of my presence and the propane tanks were swapped out in minutes By the time Andy came home, stew burbled away on the stove top.

I will not be defeated by ticking ranges. I am woman: watch me swap out propane tanks.

The Freelance Writing Trenches: Getting Started

2012-02-05T15:02:00.001-06:00

I spent a lot of time in my advisor’s and other professors’ offices during my college career, never more so than during the close of my senior year. Wedged between their book-lined walls, I chatted up my professors, mulling over my next move. Grad school? An attempt to grasp an elusive and rapidly disappearing 9-5 writing job with benefits?

As obtaining my B.A. (a double major in English and Communication) grew closer and closer, I realized that after four years in the idyllic hallways of Tower Hall (a building nicknamed “Hogwarts” for its striking Gothic architecture), I was as clueless about what came after college as I had been when I hiked up the four flights of stairs to my very first college class.

Well, maybe not quite as clueless.

During my college years, in addition to working towards my degree, I’d spent three years writing for and two years as news editor of the student newspaper. I’d spent four years working for and two year editing the college’s literary and artistic journal. I’d develop my writing skills and knew I wanted a career in writing. Yet, the summer between my junior and senior year, I’d lost an opportunity for an internship with a small city newspaper because the publication became unable to fund the position. 2007 was not a great year to immerge into the world as a young woman with a love of print media and an English degree.

Of course, there was one option that would allow me to write and earn an, albeit, meager living after college. I wouldn’t have benefits, but I also wouldn’t have to go through the heartbreak of having every single writing job I applied for be defunded before they even finished the hiring process.(True story.) But I never discussed that option with my professors. It seemed too ridiculous. Who graduates from college wanting to be a freelance writer?

A friend emailed over the weekend to ask how exactly you get started as a freelance writer. I had to pause for a moment and think about how I began, because honestly, I’ve been kicking around the freelance writing thing since I was in high school.

So how do you approach dipping your toe in freelance writing? If I were to do it in a linear manner, here's what I'd recommend.

1) Get a consistent writing gig where you write for someone else. Don’t worry about getting paid for this gig. Your job here is to learn the joy of deadlines and experience some times eye roll-inducing interactions with editors. If you’ve worked on a school newspaper, helped edit a newsletter or journal, or anything of this nature, you can probably skip this step. I spent several years, both in high school and college, writing and editing for the online teen ezine kiwibox.com. Yes, kiwibox. It sounds ridiculous, but during that time I wrote literally 100+ articles and edited just as many. It was truly invaluable experience, no matter how silly it sounds now.

2) Amass your resources. I believe every would-be freelance writer should have a subscription to some writing magazine (I got Writer’s Digest), a subscription to Hope Clark’s e-newsletter Funds for Writers, and the latest version of Writer’s Market.

Got those? Good – immediately proceed to step 3. It’s just too tempting to use resources as a diversion from the actual freelance writing work.

3) Start pursuing paid gigs through queries and submissions. I started querying on an extremely fair weather basis during the summer of 2005. I got a couple nibbles, but no bites. I did however learn how to write a decent query letter. I sold my first article in 2008. Then another one in 2009. Then I got a regular writing gig. It's not a fast process, but just like driving home in the fog with one headlight, it'll get you there.

There is no (I repeat, no!) magic process you must follow to become a freelance writer. But there are two things you must do if you’re serious about making money as a writer:

Pursue publications for paid writing possibilities.
Write.

Simple?

We wish!

The Feast Nearby

2012-02-02T09:30:00.000-06:00

I did it. I bought and read another book about owning chickens. Andy better watch out because a chicken coop is totally going up in the backyard, sooner or later.

I think Amazon recommended The Feat Nearby to me a while back; probably late last summer when I was busy searching It's the memoir of an out of work food editor (and as a pretty loyal reader of Fine Cooking and Cooking Light, I'm all over that) who moves to her small cabin in southwest Michigan to reorganize her life. With her poodle and parrot as her companions, she lives frugally, but focused on eating locally.

While Mather's essays, which follow a full year of life in her 650 square ft. cabin (where the nearest stoplight is *gasp!* eight miles away. . . cynical Ada feels the need to point out that she lives 53-ish miles from the nearest stoplight) are written in lovely prose, the essays are just that: essays. This is no how-to book, this is a chance to wax poetic on chickens, raspberry jam, and the single life.

One thing I was disappointed by was the lack of concrete detail about how exactly she got by on a $40 a week food budget. And frankly, $40 a week for food . . . for one person? As someone who capped her weekly food budget at $30 immediately after college, I'm just not that impressed. Despite what we're lead to believe, it is not that hard to both eat cheaply and well, just buy lots of dried goods - lentils, rice, pasta and peanut butter are your friend - and make sure you eat everything (i.e. produce) before it goes bad. Now, if Mather was living on $40 a week, full stop, then we'd truly have a "hold the presses" sort of thing going on. Hrumph!

What was I saying?

Right, details. . .

While, I fully enjoyed the book for what it was, with a tagline like "how I lost my job, buried a marriage, and found my way by keeping chickens, foraging, preserving, bartering, and eating locally," I wanted some details. I didn't just want to hear in passing that you set up some strawberry preserves for fresh produce swapping system with your neighbor.

She talks a lot about carefully planning her yearly food supply (which included canning 50 pints of diced tomatoes!), but never gives many specifics. Call me crazy, but I want to see an appendix with information about exact amounts you canned, dehydrated, froze, etc. to get yourself through 12 months.

At the end of the essay she includes a set of recipes related to the essay's topics. We've tried out a couple of the recipes and they are yummy. I made the lamb and apricot tagine to use up the leg of lamb I picked up on sale after Easter last year and just the other night I followed her directions for stuffing a squash. They're both winners and they make me anxious to try out her other recipes. That said, her directions for yogurt proved disappointing, but then I'm just not sure you're supposed to make yogurt when it's -3F outside. So I'm stalking up that failure to me and not her.

If you're looking for a homey, comforting read (the woman knits, how can you not love her?) for long winter evenings, this is a great choice . . . especially if you have a penchant for reading cooking magazines anyway.

Full disclosure: I did not pay for this book because my fabulous brother gave me a B&N gift certificate for Christmas. (Score!) The opinions expressed in this review are my own and I received no compensation for this review.

P.S. Happy Groundhog's Day! 6 more weeks of winter where you are? We *always* have six more weeks of winter after February 2, so this day's a total cop-out in northern Minnesota.

Wordless Wednesday: February Blooms

2012-02-01T08:30:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow, the groundhog will tell us whether or not we'll have six more weeks of winter. Nevermind. There are blossoms to enjoy today.

Amaryllis

Remember the mum I left for dead? It's BACK!

Thanks for having more faith in my houseplant ability than I did, guys.

Life Without Television

2012-01-31T08:30:00.000-06:00

I feel like I talk a big talk about the fact that we don't have a television. I feel like I've lead people to believe that we lack a t.v. because we prefer more intellectual entertainment such as listening to NPR or sipping ~~boxed~~ fine wine and having compelling discussions about foreign politics over dinner. Perhaps I've lead you to believe that our nightly entertainment is annotating the margins of literary classics.

And I wouldn't be lying if I told you that MPR is on at least once every single day in the cabin or that I've spent the last three nights cuddled up on the couch reading an increasingly tattered copy of Anne of Avonlea.

But here are some truth facts about the whole "sans tv" situation.

We don't have room for a tv.
I don't want to pay the bills the service
I prefer to get my TLC and Bravo fix in short but intense doses when visiting others.

And remember that Netflix account?

Yep, this weekend Andy totally upped our Netflix account so we can have three DVDs at a time.

Can we claim superiority over all t.v. owners out there? I think not.

The Freelance Writing Trenches: Get Organized

2012-01-30T09:30:00.000-06:00

Freelance writing isn't exactly rocket science. Honest.

No matter how daunting the query system may appear, freelance writing is simply a perpetual game of cat and mouse between you and various publications.

Boiled down, the freelance system looks like this:
1) You pitch a job.
2) You get the job. (Or you don't, in which case, return to step 1)
3) You complete and submit the job.
4) Job is accepted and publication is scheduled
5) Upon publication, you get paid.
6) Rinse and repeat.

The only teensy, weensy issue with the above system is that you're hopefully going to have multiple jobs at various stages in the above system all the time. Suddenly things aren't so linear.

That's where a freelancer organization system comes in.

Using the freelancer organization system, let's revisit the freelancing system.

1) You pitch a job. (Record in your pitch log.)
2) You get the job. (Record in your pitch log.)
3) You complete and submit the job. (Record in your submission log)
4) Job is accepted and publication is scheduled. (Create and submit invoice)
5) Upon publication, you get paid. (Record payment in submission log or using your accounting software.)

I use basic Excel spreadsheets for my pitch and submission logs*. Because I'm a nice person, here are downloadable templates of the spreadsheets I use to organize my freelance writing jobs:

Pitch Log
Submission Log

I find these have all the columns I need but you can tweak the templates however you like. I'm not a stickler for filling in every column either - for example, if it seems irrelevant to fill in the publication's physical address, I just leave it blank.

I use the pitch log quite faithfully because it keeps me accountable and also prevents me for duplicating queries, which would be mighty embarrassing. You'll notice at the very far right column, I have a spot where you record alternative publications where you might pitch the same idea. It's always good to have a contingency plan in case your first choice market doesn't bite. If it's an idea you're sold on, pitch it until you have a nibble!

If I'm being honest, in the excitement of actually getting a job, I often fail to record the job in the submission log. Instead, the submission log is normally where I record any submissions to literary magazines. If I was going to be super organized, I would create a second sheet in the submission log devoted for pieces that are either submitted "on spec" or are submissions to literary magazines.(What's "on spec?" Click here!) That way one page would be devoted to awarded jobs and another page would be devoted to submissions of fully written pieces to publications for consideration (just a pitch with a finished product, really.) Use the submission log however you like.

When I'm ready to invoice, I use QuickBooks because I have all of my finances running through the program. However, you can create your own invoice system easily using an invoice template and your submission log. Be sure to save each unique invoice somewhere on your computer. Record both the date you submitted the invoice and the date you expect to be paid by in the submission log. Upon payment receipt, record the date in the submission log and somehow mark the invoice as paid. If payment hasn't appeared by the follow-up date, it's time to send another invoice.

*Spreadsheets are both adapted from examples from full-time freelancer Devon Ellington.

Blog Goals. Oh, Blog Goals.

2012-01-27T15:26:00.000-06:00

"So what are your current goals with Of Woods and Words?" Andy asked the other day.

We were in the middle of nowhere on yet another ice fishing adventure and frankly, at the moment, I was more concerned with downing a couple of cheesy crackers in front of the crackling fire than talking writer goals.

Goals for Of Woods and Words, you say?

When I started Of Woods and Words back in October 2009, of course there was that niggling thought in the back of my mind that it would be pretty bomb if my little blog went viral. Nearly two and a half years later I'm still here, but far from being the next Pioneer Woman. (But a girl can dream, right?)

When I post that first blog post, I was pretty ignorant of all things bloggy. I had no idea that blogging was such an industry. I quickly learned that your blog's success can be measured in any number of ways:

GFC followers
Page views
Facebook page likes
Twitter followers
Ad revenue
Number of comments
Etc. etc.

There are many, many blog posts out there railing against the popularity contest that can be blogging. This isn't going to be another one of those posts. After all, success when it comes to blogging demands readership and the best glimpse of that readership comes in the form of statistics. I'd be lying if I said I didn't pay attention to my follower numbers. It feels good to be recognized by Minnesota Moments as a Minnesota blogger. Recognition and growing numbers are always nice, think.

Growth is important and will always be one of my goals with Of Woods and Words, but I'm not willing to achieve that growth by compromising the voice that's been long established on this blog. (There's a reason why you don't see giveaways here. . . maybe someday, but it seems out of character at the moment.) Quality over quantity any day.

When I started the blog, I wanted a place where I could write on a regular basis and gain some exposure as a writer. I feel I've been successful with that simple goal, but I also feel that's a goal without an expiration date. The only way to keep meeting that goal is to keep writing. So I will.

In addition to that basic founding goal, in the coming months, I'll likely be:

Continuing to explore sponsorship options - the blog might as well earn its keep and at least pay for its annual domain registration.
Working to provide my wonderful group of readers with helpful and interesting content; namely, I'd like to make this blog more of a resource for aspiring freelance writers.
Recording more mundane details about life in the woods. If the blog is nothing else, it's an excellent diary/photo album and that in and of itself makes it invaluable to me.

Maybe someday, I'll have 1000 followers. Maybe someday I'll go back through the post and publish them as a collection of essays. Maybe.

Until then, I'm glad to have you along for the ride. I don't say it enough, but thanks for stopping by.

A Dog Story

2012-01-24T20:19:00.001-06:00

"You didn't tell Jack's story," Andy said, looking up from reading through Thursday's post.

It's true, when I posted the picture of Jack, the little Shetland sheep dog I dogsat on and off this weekend, I just didn't have time to share Jack's dramatic little tale.

Get your hankies, folks. Here comes a dog story ala James Herriot and Greyfriars Bobby.

Jack belongs to an elderly couple who live on the other side of our lake. In the last couple years, both of Jack's owners have been dealing with some major, serious illnesses. Then, after the Mrs. had been moved into an assisted living facility, the Mr. drove into town with Jack when they were in a single vehicle accident. The vehicle rolled multiple times while Jack bounced around like a ping-pong ball inside. Eventually the vehicle wrapped itself around a rock.

Amazingly, both Jack and his owner survived. There were lots of broken bones and bruises on both counts. Although Jack popped right out of the damaged vehicle and was walking on the side of the road when the emergency vehicles arrived, he was rushed to emergency surgery where his spleen was removed.

That accident changed a lot of things for Jack. Once he and his owner had recovered, his owners moved to a nearby city where it's easier for them to receive care and assistance for the time being. Unfortunately, Jack couldn't come with. Jack's owners hope to return to their home in the woods some day, but until they do, one of our neighbors up here is taking care of Jack. Jack visits his owners from time to time and according to all accounts, it's those reunions when he's happiest.

I shared my dog sitting duties this weekend with another neighbor who lives not far from Jack's owners' place. While Dogsitter 2 was at work, yet another neighbor came over to let Jack out. (Jack's kind of a community dog by this point.) Dogsitter 2 always keeps Jack on a leash when he's let out, but the neighbor just let Jack out, assuming he'd do his business and head back inside. (This is a fair assumption as Jack usually does do this.) Instead, Jack took off down the road. The neighbor called and called, but Jack would not come back.

By the time Dogsitter 2 returned, the neighbor was panicked.

"Don't worry," said Dogsitter 2. "I think I knew where he is."

Dogsitter 2 walked over to Jack's owners' house. There were little pawprints leading up the steps to the front door of the dark house where Jack had pawed at the door, hoping to be let in. The pawprints then went back down the steps and wound underneath the porch. When Dogsitter 2 peer beneath the porch, he found Jack sitting underneath the porch where his pen used to be, his tail wagging like mad, waiting.

It's been months since the accident, but puppy dogs never give up hope on their beloved owners returning.

I told you that you'd need hankies.

P.S. Remember how I felt Jack was less than thrilled with how we spent Thursday? (And for the record: slow cooker yogurt was a bust.)

Don't worry. I totally won him over on Sunday.

The Freelance Writing Trenches: Query Away

2012-01-23T14:45:00.002-06:00

The morning started with a county-wide power outage. By the time the power was back up, it was snowing and it hasn't stopped yet. As the hours tick by, the snow's intensity grows. Currently, the far shore of the lake and even the ice house in the middle of lake have disappeared in asnowy whiteout. It seems like a good day to spend in front of the wood stove, drinking cocoa and planning next year's garden.

But as much as the wood stove beckons, after running my latest batch of receipts through QuickBooks, it appears that my time would be better spent sending some queries out. Time to up the income levels at Of Woods and Words!

Oh queries. A pain in the arse really. Yet without the query letter, where would any of us freelance writers of be?

There may be editors out there just dying to give you some work, but unless you specifically and articulately ask for that work, they're going to give the work to another writer who they already know exists. The query letter is our chance to both announce and prove ourselves. When starting out, query letters often seem like time-consuming missives sent off into the ether, but you really do need to query if you want paying gigs. The more you query, the more writing credentials you earn and with more writing credentials, the greater success you'll achieve with your query letters.

Moral of the story: just send out some query letters already!

Even though I now have a much higher rate of success with my query letters then when I started out three years ago, the truth is I don't query as much as I should. I find it easy to get overwhelmed by the process, even though I've done it many times.

Here's the basic process of how to write a query letter:

1) Research the publication you'd like to query.
2) Determine if the publication's a good fit for your writing. Be honest about this. Trying to get a square peg into a round hole really is a waste of time.
3) Come up with a brilliant article idea for the publication. Make sure this idea is fairly original and truly a fit for the publication. (You don't want to come off like Hugh Grant in Notting Hill, interviewing Julia Roberts for Horse and Hound.) You'll also need to check the archives to make sure the magazine hasn't recently published something similar.
4) Carefully outline your article idea. This means you need to use specifics - who you plan to interview, how you plan to organize the article, etc. Sell yourself as the best person to do the job by listing your credentials and highlighting anything else that might make you an especially good choice for writing this particular article.
5) Submit - making sure you've addressed everything to the appropriate editor, have a completely error-free letter/email that make it sound like you actually know what you're talking about.

There are many, many how-to books devoted to the subject of query letters. My favorite remains Michael Perry's Handbook to Freelance Writing.

On average, a good query letter should take you at least an hour to complete. It's time consuming, which is why I like to procrastinate with them.

Happy querying!

Fish dinner, dogsitting, and subzero days

2012-01-19T13:54:00.000-06:00

We had another ice fishing adventure yesterday. A much more successful adventure, I might add.

We returned to the same lake, but set up shop in a different area. It was another pretty cold day of ice fishing. It was below zero when we set out down the trail and the temperature probably rose to about 10 degrees while we were out fishing.

Luckily, there was a handy area to set up a little fire so we could boil water for tea and cocoa and warm up hands. We didn't spend too much time by the fire though because we kept having to run out onto the ice to check our tip-ups. Not a bad problem to have and all those trips back and forth on the ice sure keep you nice and warm!

In the end, we brought home three lake trout, some of which will be dinner tonight.

Today's shaping up to be the first day of completely subzero temperatures this year. Looks like we'll have a high of about -4 F today. Happily, it's a sunny day which means the cabin stays nice and toasty with passive solar. The pine grosbeaks at the feeders don't seem to mind the cold at all.

I also have a companion today. This is Jack, the neighbor's dog, who I'm sitting, on and off, over the weekend.

So far, Jack is pretty underwhelmed by daily activities at Chateau du Bois et Mons. Sorry Jack, some of us work for living. After yesterday's adventure, today's excitement is limited to work, making slow cooker yogurt (this is an experiment), bringing the night's firewood and pretty soon, a trip to the mailbox.

Of Wind, Wool, and Stash Busting

2012-01-18T08:38:00.000-06:00

A couple of you - okay, one - asked for some shots of my latest knitting projects after I posted about my knit-wit ways a couple weeks back. I'm happy to oblige.

I've declared 2012 the year of stash busting. I never meant to built up a stash of yarn (honest!), but somehow, with little bits being leftover from a project here and a project there, my yarn bag runneth over. Rather than devoting the winter months to a major sweater project like I have the last two winters, this year I'm all about using up the little odds and ends.

Let the stash busting begin!

I mention yesterday that I need new chopper liners. (Read yesterday's post if you don't know what chopper liners are!) However, after seeing my dad's literally disintegrating chopper liners over Christmas, I knew he need them more than I did. I used some red wool left over from a pair of mittens for Andy and a bit of almond left over from a wedding afghan for these guys. The mittens are double knit, which makes them extra cozy and much more wind resistant than most knit goods.

Andy's a big fan of the double knit concept (so much so that he has two pairs of mittens like the ones above) and when he found a couple bits of bulky yarn in my stash - leftover from some felted men's caps - he requested a double knit hat. So I improvised . . .

Obviously, my off-the cusp pattern needs some perfecting since this was made to fit Andy, but just barely squeezes over my head. In my defense, I just barely had enough yarn to finish the cap as is. It's definitely not colors I would have chosen for myself (but are colors I had chosen for others' presents . . . ? Again in my defense, the presents were for men, if that makes an difference. . . .) but after taking this cap on last week's ice fishing adventure, it's proven itself to be a warm wind stopper. I wear this cap when I walk out to the mail and am often so warm by the end of the walk that I have to take my mittens off.

My latest project is destined to be a stash busting failure though. Why? Because I'm going to run out of yarn before I finish with these anklets, made out of leftover yarn from another sock project! Not terribly good stash busting if you end up going out to buy more yarn, eh? Ah well, I'll just have to make another pair of socks with my new leftover yarn. ;)

If you're on Ravelry, feel free to friend me. I love seeing what everyone else is working on.

That said: What knitting projects are you working on - knitting or otherwise?

Ice Fishing: It begins

2012-01-17T08:28:00.000-06:00

Ice fishing season is in full swing in the Northwoods. It's been lake trout season since December 31st on lakes completely inside the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness and this past Saturday, the winter lake trout season started for all Minnesota trout lakes. Our lake was transformed into a veritable ice fishing village (above) this past weekend. Then Monday came and *poof* everyone disappeared.

This past week, before we could just head out the door and down the lake to fish, we set off down the road a piece and hiked about a mile into a BWCAW lake for the first ice fishing trip of the year.

Despite the fact that it was just above 0 (Yes, Fahrenheit), we set out in high spirits.Cold temperatures usually means sunshine and by the middle of January, you take sunshine over just about anything.

Headed up the Topper Portage, auger in hand

I'm not really sure why people ice fish. You know, when you boil it down it's basically: drill a hole in the ice, wiggle a string around in the water through the ice, get cold, go home.

But I suspect views like this have something to do with this chilly sport's appeal.

Beautiful South Lake with the Rose Lake Cliffs in the background

We didn't catch a single fish, nor even get a single nibble. Then again, we didn't stay out that long - only a couple hours because my hands got cold, probably because one of my chopper liners (aka, wool mittens which go inside large leather mittens, now in northern Minnesota as "choppers" for those who don't know Minnesotan) has a massive hole in it that need to get repaired before my next subzero excursion. On the portage out, we passed a guy who'd camped out on the lake the night before. In his sled, he had two large trout. "I'm not done with you yet, South Lake," Andy vowed.

To be continued . . .

The Freelance Writing Trenches: The Joys of a Professional Website

2012-01-16T07:51:00.000-06:00

I've been punching at random buttons on websites and verification links in emails for the last hour and a half. I'm in the process of renewing my "professional" website's domain. Last January, when I set up the website, I assumed renewing my website's domain would be a walk in the park, something I could do in a semi-conscious state.

Au contraire!

Why do I even have this &@#%! website, I grumbled to myself as I searched for yet another authorization code. And why do I bother with a "professional" website when I already have this kick-ass blog, you may wonder.

I have a few reasons for wanting a professional website for my freelance writing business:

1) It looks fancy. I believe the whole "dress to impress" business applies to the web as well. If I want to be viewed as a professional freelance writer than I bloody well ought to act like one. Having that website in my email signature just makes me feel more legit. And by feeling more legit, maybe you become more legit? (I don't know.)

2) It's good organization. This blog is lovely, but this blog is also all over the place. While I'm sure editors are dying get my wild rice venison sausage recipe or know that the Christmas tree finally went up, unfortunately, most editors probably don't have time to read through the Of Woods and Words archives to figure out who I am and whether or not I'm able to handle the writing gig they're thinking about giving me. My website provides a terse presentation of who I am and what I'm about. I can organize clips and link to my published works on a portfolio page which makes my professional website an easy place to send editors. And yes, I have referred editors to my website and have ended up getting a contract out it. Bam!

3) I own my domain. Granted, the domain I own for my professional website probably wasn't going to get snapped up anytime soon. But if I put off buying my domain, it might have gotten taken for some flukey reason before I could get to it. That would have made me tres unhappy. So I own my own dot com; no one can take it from me.

As you've probably guessed, it's point 3 in that little argument that's causing the problems. Since I built the website last year (through wix.com), I've been getting a slew of increasingly urgent sounding emails from Network Solutions about renewing my domain until it was going, going, gone. When I actually got around to logging in to see how much they wanted for renewing my domain, I nearly spit out my morning Earl Grey.

You know that game where you take a number and you hold it in your mind?

Let's just say, I was holding a number under $10 in my mind for the annual renewal and Network Solutions was holding a number between $30 - $50 in their mind. (More too, if they could get you on various "extras.")

Time to transfer my domain. Enter GoDaddy.

This afternoon, I transfer my domain to GoDaddy to the tune of $8.17 for the year. Why was I with Network Solutions in the first place? When I signed up for wix last year, I qualified for a free domain for year. And hey, free bets $8.17 any day.

Is a professional website integral to my success? Probably not. But it's nice to have and it's generally headache free. Normal maintenance is an occasional "freshening up" of copy and updating the portfolio portion with new links and clips. On average, I probably spent about an hour a month on it. I used wix because a friend recommended it and because it seemed easy to use. You could also easily fashion yourself a website through wordpress or a variety of other website builders.

Let me know if you have questions.

Don't worry; I'm a professional.

Why Women Need Fat: a book review

2012-01-12T07:27:00.108-06:00

Queen was right. Fat bottomed girls really do make the rockin' world go 'round.

At least, that's the claim Drs. William D. Lassek and Steven J. C. Gaulin lay out in their new book, Why Women Need Fat: How "Healthy" Food Makes Us Gain Excess Weight and the Surprising Solution to Losing It Forever. The book grew out of Lassek and Gaulin's anthropology study on why men prefer women with an hourglass figure. (Like all things evolutionary, it boils down to babies.)

Through the study's research, the authors noticed that women started to lose their hourglass figures when Americans began increasing their consumption of vegetable-based (or omega-6) fats in 1950s. Vegetable oil is cheap and used in many of our processed foods. At the same time, we've been reducing our consumption of the fat we really need, omega-3 fat which comes from animal based fats such as butter and lard. While omega-3 fat is stored in our hips and legs until it's needed during pregnancy, omega-6 fat tends to go to our waists, Gaulin and Lassek say.

With its catchy title, it's tempting to use this book as an excuse for seconds of dessert. But as much as American women should likely be increasing their omega 3 fat intake, the authors state that an increase of omega 3 fat needs to met with a decrease in omega 6 fats, especially corn and soybean oils.

The book doesn't offer a quick fix diet. In fact, the authors claim that dieting as it's practiced in the U.S., with attempts to drop significant portions of weight in a relatively brief period of time, is destined to fail. Instead, Lassek and Gaulin outline a compelling, easy to read argument for permanently changing our eating to center around whole foods. By moving away from processed foods and bad fats, they say, over time (we're talking years here) you'll shed unnecessary. One the things I most enjoyed about the book was how articulately it encouraged women to look at their weight in a more thoughtful way.

As long time member of "Team Butter," this book confirmed many of my suspicions - that the best thing you can do for your body is ditch the diets, make a permanent change to your eating habits, and keep real food on the table.

You can join "Team Butter" yourself over at the BlogHer Book Club. Here's to a healthy lifestyle that's surprisingly delicious!

Disclosure: I participated in this review for the BlogHer Book Club. I was compensated for my time and received a complimentary copy of the book, however all opinions expressed in the review are my own.

Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?

2012-01-11T09:44:00.000-06:00

Wolf tracks Andy and I discovered on a walk last week

One afternoon, back when the ice was forming in December, I watched two large dogs carefully pick their way across the slick new ice at the mouth of the bay. Orange and rosy hues from the sunset reflected in the ice, casting the two dogs in a golden glow. The larger of the two dogs had disappeared onto the shore by the time I'd grabbed the binoculars. As I peer out at the smaller dog, who was obviously struggling to keep her footing on the ice, I realized she was a dog, yes, but not one I'd be playing fetch with any time soon. I'd just watched two wolves cross the ice I'd been skating on not long before.

Wolves aren't an unusual sighting in these parts. In fact, in the last year, I've seen more wolves in the wild than I've seen moose. Minnesota has the wolf herd of approximately 3000, the largest wolf herd in the contiguous United States. Last month, the wolves were delisted from the endangered species list in the western Great Lake states and that means there's the possibility of there being a wolf hunt in Minnesota this year.

Although they're fairly ubiquitous, I can't help feeling a little apprehensive about it all. I know it's silly, probably just childhood conditioning from stories such as Little Red Riding Hood and The Three Little Pigs kicking in. My senses prick up when I hear the faint howl of wolves in the evening. As fascinating as it was to stumble upon a pair of wolf tracks when Andy and I were hiking down the lake last week, it also reminded me that I'm sharing these woods with some large predators.

This summer, a wolf grabbed the neighbors' dog by the ruff before the wolf was scared off. (Granted, this same dog was also bitten in the bottom by some critter, probably a bear, this summer. Curiosity got the black lab?) More recently, just this month, another acquaintance's dog was killed by a wolf. The local radio station is issuing warnings like this.

The other day I was bemoaning my lack of activity this winter. When Andy suggested a solo hike down the lake, I quickly poo-pooed the idea. I said I don't like trudging through the snow, but frankly, the wolves kind of put me on edge.

"You're right," Andy said (ironically?). "It is wolf mating season."

Who's afraid of the big, bad wolf? Not me . . . ?

The Winter That Wasn't

2012-01-10T09:33:00.000-06:00

It might look like winter outside, but don't be fooled. This morning I woke up to a 71 degree inside temperature and a 32 degree outside temperature. Absurdity!

About this time last year, we were bundling up through -30 degree temperatures. That's a 60 degree difference between then and now!

Last year, it was perfectly normal for me to bring sled loads of firewood into the house each afternoon. This year, I bring in 1-2 loads that I can carry in my arms in each day. If this weather keeps up, we'll have enough firewood left out back to get us through the next two winters. (Heck, I'd be okay with that!)

I've been around long enough to have experienced the unseasonable weather cycles that El Nino and La Nina have thrown at us before. I remember walking the dog in a jean jacket (does that date me?) one January during my high school years. I remember the next winter delivered bone chilling temperatures. This ebb and flow of "real winter" and "fake winter" has become normal in recent years. Global warming? I'm tempted to lean that way, but I don't claim to really know what's prompting the swing in winters.

I may fully acknowledge the "normalcy" of this "unseasonable-nsh", but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

This "half" winter is wearing, almost more wearing than a "real" winter. During a "real" winter, you can bundle up stoically and act all tough and hardy. But a "half" winter holds out the optimistic promise of spring just out of reach, until we start to feel like Pavlov's dogs.

Because it's just winter enough to be a total pain in the arse. The days are growing longer, but it's still dark the majority of the time. With my winter driving paranoia, it still takes me nearly two hours to get to town.(I wish I was kidding. Anyone who's ever gotten stuck behind me on this slow moving journey wishes I was kidding too.) Normally, a string of 32 degree days means a big melt up ahead (spring! flowers! migration!) but in "half" winter, a string of 32 degree days is just par for the course. It just a God damned play on your emotions and hopes, that's what.

And I know the local businesses are lucky to have the snow that we have. As one of the few places in the ~~state~~ country with snow, it should be a decent winter season. This is a good thing. The little snow makes it easy to move the woods and we should have some downright balmy ice fishing adventures if this warm weather keeps up. More good things.

Still, me and my seasonal affective disorder can't help hoping that this "half" winter gives way to "full" spring in the blink of an eye.

The Wild Rice Venison Sausage Recipe

2012-01-09T09:29:00.002-06:00

Happy Monday y'all! It's another sunny morning in the Northwoods and it looks like it's going to be a warm one. Andy mentioned last night that if this warm weather keeps up, we're going to have four cords of firewood left at the end of the winter. I'm not going to complain about that, but this unseasonable weather does make me think I should be starting seeds any day now. Unfortunately, my friends, that day is still a long ways off. *sigh*

This morning, I had an email waiting for me, asking if I ever found a recipe for wild rice venison sausage. I sure did!
In fact, we're just finishing up a batch of Northwoods pasties, made with a pound of the wild rice sausage we made back in November. I'm not sure how my Cornish ancestors would feel about "Northwoods pasties" which are definitely a departure for the traditional Cornish pastie, but wild rice venison sausage wrapped in pastry with potatoes, onions, rutabaga, and carrots = yummy in my book.

So I figured, no better time than now to share the recipe. Hopefully by sharing it, we'll give Google an actual useful search result for "wild rice venison sausage recipe" and spare others the frustratioof just finding a lot of web results about serving wild rice with venison sausage. (In the end, not what I was looking for.)

Wild Rice Venison Sausage
1 lb ground venison
1 lb ground pork
2 cups cooked, cooled wild rice
3/4 cup chopped onions
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1/2 teaspoon coarse-ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 teaspoons poultry seasoning (I used McCormick's)
2 teaspoons dried chicken stock
Salt to taste

Place all ingredients in a large bowl and mix until well combined. (I always just dive in with my hands, but be warned, the raw onion may react with your skin. Don't worry, the tingling will go away after a couple minutes - the sense of having an allergic reaction is only temporary. ;P ) Run the mixture through your meat grinder to further combine ingredients, then cover bowl and place in fridge overnight. The next day, after testing for seasoning by frying up a small bit, divided in pound portions. Package in freezer bags, then wrap in freezer paper, label, and freeze. Alternatively, you can package this in casings. I have never done this; for me, it's easier to just freeze the sausage in bulk and I've always found more than enough use for the bulk sausage.

Please note: I quadrupled this recipe, so all measurements are approximate. Best practice is to measure out the amount of the spices that seem right to you (i.e. you might want to cut down on the pepper, but increase the salt, depending on your taste). You can always adjust seasonings the next day after they've had a bit of time to "marry" in the fridge.

We use the sausage in egg bakes, pasties, or just fried up in little patties. Use it anyway you like and let me know if you make improvements to the recipe.

Knit-Wits

2012-01-06T08:51:00.000-06:00

There are certain signs that your knitting "hobby" has morphed into something slightly uncontrollable.

For example, just last night, Andy and I sat down to watch The Fantastic Mr. Fox. I'd heard good things about the film adaptation and I loved, loved the book as a kid, so I was looking forward to it. But almost as soon as the film began, it became clear that film was trying too hard. It just didn't match the cozy, funny, and slightly dark children's book I remembered reading over and over again. I could have considered the movie a bust, but there was some take away value in the film: Mrs. Fox had some great sweaters in that film. And yes, I do realize I'm talking about the wardrobe of a puppet right now.

Keeping an eye out for knitwear can really get you through some dogs of films. Honestly, if the makers of the Lifetime biopic of Coco Chanel hadn't dressed their leading lady in such a beautiful sweater throughout various scenes, I doubt I would have made it through the whole thing. (I mean, Shirley Maclaine as Coco Chanel? Please . . . .) But the sweater is gorgeous. So gorgeous that I stalked the internet for stills of it so I could fashion a pattern after it.

I went to Sherlock Holmes: the Game of Shadows over the holidays. Like any Guy Ritchie film, I spent most of the film wondering what the heck was going and why everyone was beating each other up all the time. By the time I left the theatre though, I had an idea that maybe I could make a sweater or vest with cables based off of the motifs in the Oriental rugs showcased in the interior decor throughout the film.

I'd feel a little self-conscious about this, but I know for a fact that Maggi over at Just Add Glitter and Stir does that exact same thing. Whatever floats your boat, eh?
What are unusual things you notice in movies?

What's In A Name?

2012-01-05T09:00:00.000-06:00

Despite not sending any Christmas cards out this year, we received a fair amount of holiday greetings. They spread out over the tops of three shelving units in the living room, forming a merry hodgepodge that inspired a major feng shui attack on Saturday. The cards are all packed away now (why I don't just recycle them, I don't know, but I always pretend I'll use them for "craft projects" at some undetermined date) but the memory of these cheery little greetings live on.

This holiday season that's just passed us by marked Andy's and my fourth Christmas together and our third living together. Ever since that fateful day when I moved in, how the joint mail we receive is addressed has been a source of amusement. More often than not, our holiday cards come addressed to me - my full name - with Andy's first name tacked on after that. Occasionally it goes the other way though, with my name tacked on in an "afterthought" sort of way. Rare is the sender who lists both our full names (all spelled correctly) and uses our correct address.

It's a common misconception, but Andy and I are not married. Or engaged. The vast majority of mail we receive recognizes and reflects this fact in its own awkward way.

So it was a little surprising this holiday season to receive a card addressed to what my married name would be if I weren't planning to hang onto my maiden name anyway. No mention of Andy was made anywhere on the card - just my first name and Andy's last name . . . combined. Andy and I exchanged bemused looks as we examined the envelope.

The percentage of women taking their husband's last names is higher than ever. (The big exception to this rule are women who are firmly established in their careers before marriage.) I have no issues with taking your husband's last name; especially in this land of _____sons if taking your husband's last name lands you with a more unique and interesting name.

But I have no desire to change my name. It's unique, it sounds nice, and it earns me the distinction of being the only person on Facebook with such a name. Sure it gets mispronounced all the time (sometimes I feel like that Ting Tings song - "That's Not My Name"- was written about me), but as a freelance writer, my name is my brand and contains an idea of who I might be.

I looked at my name printed on the envelope with Andy's last name and I felt like I was looking at a ghost of myself. Just let me grabbed my pearls, heels, and the vacuum and call me Mrs. Andy. Who needs feminism when you've got a man?

One thing that's always irritated me is when a married women's name is reduced to just a "Mrs." in front of her hsuband's full name. I mean, what are we? Chopped liver? Silent partners? Yet, I've been going through the guest books from work lately and happened upon a woman who wrote out her full name then put in parentheses "Mrs. John." I know for a fact her husband has been deceased for years.

What's in a name? Ideally the person we are most proud of being.

2012: A Freelancer's Fiscal Resolutions

2012-01-02T07:26:00.007-06:00

The finished product

As I sat in the back bedroom on New Year's Eve, smoothing out tissue paper, folding it up, and piling it in a box for use during next year's holiday season, it seemed like a good time to make some fiscal resolutions for 2012.

Don't get me wrong, although I am the anal person who opens her presents by carefully lifting up each piece of tape on the package to minimize wrapping paper damage, things are not so tight around here that I iron wrapping paper for reuse. (I only do that if the paper's real cute.)

However, I am cheap enough to see no point in piling all the tissue paper into the recycling bin, when there's absolutely no reason why I can't use it again next year. It's just going to get all crumpled up again when it gets used: who cares about a few wrinkles?

Kind of like how Scarlett O'Hara shoves a dirty turnip into her mouth and melodramatically proclaims, "I'll never be hungry again" at the end of Gone with the Wind, I sat there smoothing out the tissue paper and thought, please 2012, allow me to smooth tissue paper not out of necessity but because I abhor unnecessary waste.

Here's how am I resolving to make it through 2012 without feeling like a poor person:

1) Christmas Fund
Every December, I have that "reach for the paper bag and hyperventilate" moment when I realize I have extremely limited funds to figure out lovely, meaningful presents that don't look cheap. To prevent this horrifying experience from repeating itself in 2012, each week in 2012, I'm setting aside $10 into a Christmas fund. By December, I'll have nearly $500 saved up for Christmas presents and related expenses (i.e. tissue paper) - more than enough to cover everyone on my gift checklist.

2) Freelance pay check percentages
I've been making my way through Joseph D'Agnese and Denise Kiernan's The Money Book for Freelancers, Part-Timers, and the Self-Employed. The book does a great job of charting out a system for freelancers to manage their sporadic payments. One of the key ideas pushed in the book is to take each incoming payment and immediately take out a set percent for taxes (taxed income does have its perks!), retirement and the emergency account. I'll be putting that method into practice for all of my freelance checks this year so those funds are used more effectively and thoughtfully, rather than just throwing the payments at whichever bill is most in need at the moment of receipt.

3) Invoice tardy clients
I have a regular client who pays me whenever they feel like it. Whenever they feel like it is usually months after my work's been published - around the time when I've forgotten what I wrote and what I'm owed, actually. This method is stressful and also makes it difficult for me to catch discrepancies. Now that I have all my financials running through QuickBooks, this client's totally getting invoices. At least one of us can be on top of things that way.

Do you have plans to make 2012 a less stressful financial year?

2011- in review

2011-12-28T08:35:00.001-06:00

Ah, 2011. A year that was good to me, that kicked me around, that in the end felt just a bit static. Onward to 2012 and all it may hold, I say. But for now, here's a look back at all that was 2011.

January: I shared beauty tips and explain how to get the perfect blowout.

February: We all know there are lions and tigers and bears out in the woods. (Okay, maybe just bears.) But back in February, I could have sworn things of more magical nature were lurking out there too.

March: Birthday month. Which always seems to evoke worry. And where there's worry, there's plenty of cathartic knitting.

Winter 2011 knitting project

April: The garden began. I got some nice recognition for my writing. (Hooray!)

May: I managed a quick getaway to Chicago with my friend Sarah before heading back to full time work at the museum.

At a White Sox/Twins game

June: Juggled the "back to work" balancing act.

July:

I caught a fish!

Crafting weekend came north!

August: I decided to put everything I saw into jars. I mean, everything.

September: While the garden grew and grew, the forest decided to catch on fire.

Wedding apparel!

October: I found writing encouragement in an unexpected place and explained the cyclical nature of seasonal employment.

Smokey Bear Jack-O-Lantern happened

November: A month filled with bounty of venison.

December: There was a murder, ice, and a bit of Christmas cheer.

The murder scene

What was your favorite 2011 memory? Share it in the comments below.

Note: I'm still caught up in holiday hoopla. I'll be back in earnest come January 2nd. Until, then, a happiest new year to all of you! Cheers to 2012!

Holidays Done Right

2011-12-21T08:41:00.000-06:00

Happy Solstice everyone! Not sure we're going to get any sunlight today on this shortest day of the year, but it does look like a very blue sky is trying to peep out from behind some dramatic grey, purple, and pink clouds. Today we have just over 8 hours of daylight; about 9.5 hours of visible light. Although we will start gaining daylight by just seconds starting tomorrow, it's always nice to make it over the hump.

After I get a few more hours of work in today, I'll be hitting the hot and dusty (or should I say, the curvy and icy) and heading into town for the night. Tomorrow, I'll accompany my parents to Chicagoland, where we'll be spending a week with my paternal grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We'll be meeting up with my brother and his girlfriend while we're down there as well. On the return trip, I'll be dropped off for another crafting extravaganza. I won't be back to the cabin until the new year!

Andy is understandable somewhat miffed by all of this, but someone's got to stay home to watch the cabin and make some money. ;) And before you feel too bad for Andy, keep in mind that his mom'll be up to spend the holiday with him and he has family gatherings to attend. He will be fine. I think.. . . There is plenty of food in the freezer, so hopefully he won't spend too many nights eating his bachelor standby: cold refried beans smeared on an unheated tortilla.

There have been lots of posts on the blogsphere lately about trying to find Christmas tree, so I thought I'd focus this post on some of the positive aspects of the holidays. Here are a few things I'm glad I've done so far this holiday season:

Bought local gifts. I always have good intentions of buying my presents locally. Then when push comes to shove, I inevitably end up buying all my presents from Amazon. (It's so easy!) But this past Friday, I spent some time downtown and finished up my Christmas shopping in town. Not all my presents were bought locally, mind you, but it did feel good to know that some of my Christmas dollars were going to cycle right back through my community.

Made holiday cookies in limited quantities. Everyone loves a treat. But ubiquitous Christmas cookies just tend to make people ill, and eventually, after all that sugar's worn off, downright grumpy. This year's Christmas cookie baking has been limited to the cookie baking extravaganza with my mom's family (and the majority of those cookies were donated to a community cookie sale) and one batch of Danish puff. My waistline thanks me.

Stayed focused. This holiday season, I kept my head down and kept working. I banked hours, I got things done ahead of time. It really wasn't fun. But it means that I can leave for the next week and a half and not worry about not working. I've earned my holiday this year and won't experience a dip in income over the holidays. *whew!*

Family time. I have not spent a Christmas with my father's family since 2005. My grandparents are in their 80s. That means Christmases to come are probably finite. Since I am able to, it feels like the right thing to spend the holidays with them.

Come what may. Earlier in the month, I just wasn't feeling the Christmas cheer.But rather than let the calendar dictate my feelings, I waited to go through the Christmas decorations until I was actually interested in rooting through the box and decorating the cabin. We got the tree later than usual, but we were both ready to have a tree by the time it did go up. The holidays have unfolded naturally which made it all a little less stressful. Now I'm ready (I think!) to be full of cheer and goodwill to men.

What things are you glad you did this holiday season?

O' Christmas Tree

2011-12-20T08:49:00.000-06:00

We finally got our Christmas tree this weekend. I'd like to tell you how we tramped out into the woods on Saturday morning through the freshly fallen snow in search of the perfect tree. How we paused to make snow angels. How we hemmed and hawed over which tree to bring home. How a spontaneous snowball fight broke out.

In truth, we looked at exactly one tree - which from a distance looked pretty but ended up being a spruce tree and spruce trees, in my honest opinion, smell like cat piss - before settling on the balsam fir that's currently in the living room. The entire process of getting out of the truck, selecting the tree, chopping down the tree, and throwing it into the pick up bed took approximately 4 minutes.

I explained to Andy that our Christmas tree reconnaissance was going to look kind of half-assed on the blog. "Hey, we got an awesome tree," he said.

It's true.

This year we opted for a vertical, slim tree, rather than a short and squat tree. The slender tree takes up no more space than the chair that was sitting in its place. It's nice to have the twinkly lights and sparkle of the tree without having the tree take over the room. We aren't constantly bumping into tree branches and that seems to be keeping the ubiquitous balsam needles at bay as well, at least for now.

I have no desire to having a "matchy" or "elegant" Christmas tree. My mismatch of ornaments and Christmas decorations come from all sorts of stages in my life. We don't have a whole lot of homemade ornaments, which I suppose is indicative of the fact that we have no children (our own or nieces or nephews) in our lives. We have just a handful of homemade decorations:

My aunt made this little bell out of a teeny flower pot back in 1994. I know that, because "Ada '94" is written on the top of it. For a while, my aunt painted flower pots of all sizes to sell for supplemental income. The small business never really took off. I wonder where she'd go with an Etsy account . . .

Here's a "Tantalizer" circa 1970 via 2011 New Year's Crafting weekend. It is hideous. Therefore, I chose to display it as prominently as possible.

The vast majority of ornaments on the tree are mine. But Andy made this painted globe back in the day. The picture doesn't do it justice, but it really is quite pretty.

The most ornaments on the tree are Hallmark ornaments. That's because my grandmother is a Hallmark fanatic - we're talking like Hallmark Club card holding fanatic. It just isn't Christmas until you've gotten this year's ornament from Gramma.

As you might guess, through the last 25 Christmases, I've amassed quite a collection. These are some of my favorites:

Madame Alexander Irish Dancer. I got this either the Christmas before or the Christmas after I spent a semester in western Ireland.

I'm not sure when I got this little angel, but she reminds me so much of all the Sunday school Christmas pageants I was in. In fact, when you press her halo, she recites a Bible verse my mother said I once read during a pageant. I don't remember.

I got this little suitcase the Christmas during my six months living and working in London. My real life suitcase is almost identical to this ornament, right down to all the bulges!

This isn't a Hallmark ornament - it came from Harrod's Christmas World display. I picked it up during my time in London. Harrod's is well known for its teddy bears so a Christmas tree ornament that featured a teddy bear and the Harrod's green doorman outfit was just too much to resist.

Andy's declared this year's tree the prettiest Christmas tree that's ever been in the cabin. I've only seen two Christmas trees in the cabin - this year's and last year's- but if those are indeed the only two trees that have graced the cabin's living space then yes, I totally agree. Prettiest Christmas tree ever.

Is your Christmas tree up? What are some of your favorite ornaments?

Broken Snow Globe

2011-12-19T08:28:00.000-06:00

In the days leading up to the Christmas holiday, the very time of the year when we're told to be of good cheer and spread peace on earth, the snow globe our little community supposedly exists in broke. On Thursday afternoon, there was a shooting at the local courthouse. The shooting comes as a stark contrast to how our community projects itself to the world. Nestled between deep forest and the shores of the Lake Superior, our community is marketed shamelessly as "the nearest slice of heaven", the idyllic community where you can escape the stress, bustle, and madness of your everyday existence.

But for the last few days, our small community has been an epicenter of madness. Within moments of the shooting, the area news crews were in transient to town. Just three hours after the shooting, googling "Cook County courthouse shooting" resulted in 156 news stories. For a county with just over 5000 year-round residents, 156 of anything is a lot.

In a nutshell, here's what happened: On Monday last week, the local courthouse began a jury trial of a man accused of criminal sexual conduct against three teenage girls. The county attorney was prosecuting. The charges were first made back in 2006 and 2007, but because the accused first entered into an Alford plea which he then retracted, the trial finally happened some 4-5 years after the fact. On Thursday, shortly after 4 p.m., the jury found him guilty.

This is when the questions begin. Did the accused have the gun when the verdict was read? Did he go out to his vehicle when he was getting his supposed "breath of air" after the verdict was read and retrieve the weapon then? We don't know.

We do know that shortly after the verdict was read, the accused (and now suspect) shoot both a subpoenaed witness and the county attorney. In the ensuing struggle to restrain the man, a few others were bruised and injured. The man was eventually placed in custody. Everyone is expected to make a full recovery.

Although it appears the event was saved from the true tragedy of death, this is still a traumatic event that will have far reaching effects. No doubt, this will effect victims of the original case, the accused/shooter, the shooting victims, and anyone in anyway involved with the aftermath of shooting. Beyond those immediately affected will be the family and friends of those involved. Ripples of this event will be felt through the entire community. I suspect many courthouse employees will struggle to return to work tomorrow, the first day the courthouse will be open since the shooting.

In this small community, everyone's paths crisscross and tangle. As evidence of just how close knit our community is, my uncle was called for jury duty for this trial but was not sat because of upcoming medical procedures he needs to attend to.

Now that the details of what exactly happened have been hammered out, I believe the community will long be stuck on these questions: How could this happen here? What can we do to prevent this from happening again?

Violence springs from many places: oppression, depression, desperation, madness, just to name a few. A dialogue focused only on pointing fingers will get us nowhere if we're to make progress with understanding this crime. Should there have been metal detectors in the courthouse? Probably. Could the case have been handled in a way that reduced the bad feelings that sprang forth? Maybe. Probably not.

We can't change the violence that happened. But we owe it to everyone in the community to enter into a dialogue about our community's attitude towards violence. We can no longer cover our ears and act as though bad things don't occur here. Violence does occur here.

This snow globe's not going to be glued back together anytime soon. For now, we must stride boldly out of the broken bubble to work towards changing the courthouse's safety precautions, better educating our community about the realities of violence, and taking care of all those hurt and affected by last week's event.

On Being Calm

2011-12-15T08:41:00.000-06:00

Things have been hectic around here lately. Here's part of the reason for the slight madness: my Star Trib article which went live online yesterday afternoon and is in today's paper in the Taste section. Check it out; even if my fish lineage is kind of shady as one commenter so kindly pointed out.

I've just survived another deadline week. Actually, it was more like a deadline fortnight this go 'round. But I can't fall into my usual post-deadline protocol. (Aka, slack off until the next assignments roll in.) While I did sigh a big sigh of relief when the last assignment went flying out of my outbox yesterday morning, there's still plenty to do I'm headed out of town next week for the holidays and won't be back for a week and a half. That long absence means blog posts and commentaries need to be written ahead of time and some work hours need to be banked.

I'm often told how calm I look. I'm not quite sure where this misinterpretation springs from, but you know the whole thing about not judging a book by its front cover. I think that's what's going on here.

I may look serene on the outside (Really? Really?) but inside I'm more often than not a pile of nerves. I like to put my head down on my pillow at night and stew for a good half hour on all the things I need to get done. I think it's a family trait. Perhaps because we're a rather quiet bunch (at least when in public) we're mistaken for being cool, calm and collected. Only we know we're really stressed out nut jobs with high blood pressure issues.

So while it is a weight off my shoulders to have those articles written and invoices in the mail (Maybe there will be Christmas in Whoville after all. . .;) the fact that I no longer have deadlines hovering over my head like a piano means I can turn my scrambling thoughts to such things as: actually buying Christmas presents, putting up the decorations, packing, and maybe writing one blog post this month that's filled with coherent thoughts. (Haha.)

Maybe, just maybe, one of these days, I'll feel . . . calm: cool, calm, and collected.

I'll get back to you in January on that.

Anyone else tasting that holiday stress yet?

Wordless Wednesday: Cabin Fever?

2011-12-14T07:53:00.001-06:00

I'd say there's no explanation, but perhaps the fact that we're rapidly approaching the shortest day of the year is explanation enough.

Elves, elves, everywhere!

2011-12-13T15:20:00.000-06:00

I have further excuse for giving "Holiday Season 2011" a squinty, slightly cynical "grain of salt" once over.

At the annual cookie bake this past Friday, my mom lent me a copy of David Sedaris's Holidays on Ice. The collection includes Sedaris's now infamous "Santaland Diaries," which chronicles the Christmas season he spent working at Macy's, along with several other holiday essays and short stories.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you live in a cabin in the middle of the woods, far removed from the onslaught of CHRISTMAS! that television and other media spew out at America from about November 1st onward, reading David Sedaris is going to give you a slightly skewed perspective on the whole holiday season. Rather than focusing on the warm fuzziness that's meant to bond us all during these snowy, present filled days, Sedaris tends to highlight the strange (and often strained) absurdity that really makes the holidays a universal experience. He is snarky, irreverent, and often downright ridiculous.

Since posting last week about this holiday season taking a little longer than usual to kick in for me, I've found many others who are feeling a little low on the Christmas cheer meter so far. (We must not be singing loud enough!) This most wonderful time of the year can bring about a lot of unique stress - presents and subsequent money worries, get-togethers, winter driving, balancing family time and work obligations - that doesn't happen any other time of the year. Keeping hold of the reigns of the holiday season is tricky, exhausting, and sometimes, just downright impossible.

So I posted the line from Elf that pays homage to "Santaland Diaries" on Facebook to see if anyone else was feeling rather Crumpet-ish. (Crumpet was Sedaris's elf name.)

Instead this happened:

An honest to goodness Elf quote off.

It reminds me of, what I personally think, is the wisest part of Sedaris's "Santaland Diaries", the part when he acknowledges just how alike all humans are:

All of the adults ask for a Gold Card or a BMW and they rock with laughter, thinking they are the first person brazen enough to request such pleasures.

Santa says, I'll see what I can do.

All of us take pride and pleasure in the fact that we are unique, but I'm afraid that when all is said and done the police are right: it all comes down to fingerprints.

But being alike isn't necessarily a bad thing. In fact, when it comes to Elf quote-offs, it can be downright comforting.

What's your favorite holiday reading material? What's your favorite holiday movie?

Skating Through Life

2011-12-12T08:45:00.033-06:00

Remember how I went on and on about how unusual it is to get good skating conditions around here? Disregard.

The center of the lake had been steadily freezing over last week and when Andy and I set out across the moon-soaked nightscape on Friday evening to investigate the ice's progress, we found a good 4 inches of ice out there. The MN DNR says 4" is safe for people and that's good enough for me! While I may skate on 1.5 inches in the bay, when ice is the only thing between me and a 70 ft drop to the bottom of the lake, I like to play by the rules.

Christmas may come once a year, but skating conditions like this come about once a decade. This weekend's skating totally rivals skating on the Grand Marais harbor when I was six.

There's something wrong with Andy's skates

When we were out on the very clear ice, I said to Andy, "Wouldn't be crazy if we saw a fish?" So far I've found two. On a Saturday, I screeched to a halt when I spied a crappy lying on its side under the ice. Yes, a crappie. Then yesterday, I found this cisco. Andy acts like you see fish all the time like this, but I don't think so.

Truly, it was a weekend full of things to marvel at. One of those times, when you take a minute to pause and think, wow, this is pretty darn incredible, how lucky am I?

What did you get up to this weekend?

Eggnog Pancakes: A Tutorial

2011-12-11T08:45:00.001-06:00

Things are feeling a little more festive around here lately. Still no tree or decorations up, but after Andy and I spent a good portion of yesterday reclaiming the kitchen, living room, and bathroom from the ever encroaching clutter and filth, I'm actually able to envision how a tree just might fit into the cabin.

I realized one reason it's been hard to think of Christmas as being just around the corner is the fact that we've been firmly rooted in "deer season" for so very long now. On Thursday night, we finally finished making venison sausage - a double batch of chorizo and like a quadruple batch of wild rice sausage, which I think is this year's winner in the sausage taste test. Now that the chest freezer is filled with 60+ lbs of processed venison, I can officially take off my butcher hat and pull on my Santa hat.

So we're making little steps towards the holiday season. One giant leap towards downright festiveness came when I made a batch of these yesterday morning:

That's right, eggnog pancakes. Mmmm, noggy goodness. I've mentioned these pancakes before, back in the blog's infancy, but good things are worth repeating and this time I'm actually going to show you how to make them.

Before you all go eggnog hating on me, let me say, I'm not a huge eggnog fan either. A small glass of it once a year is plenty for me. However, I really enjoy the faint eggnogy, nutmegy flavor the eggnog gives these pancakes. Of course, adding eggnog to pancakes makes these probably the most ridiculously fattening holiday treat you could cook up. (But see, I used light eggnog - health food!)

Eggnog Pancakes

1 1/4 cups unbleached all purpose flour
2 1/2 tsp baking powder
2 Tbsp sugar
3/4 tsp salt
1 egg
3/4 cup eggnog (you can use light)
1/4 - 1/2 cup milk
3 Tbsp melted butter

Sift together flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt. In a separate bowl, mix together egg, eggnog, 1/4 cup milk, and butter. Combine dry and wet ingredients until just blended. Be carefully not to overmix: some lumps may remain- don't worry about them! If batter seems too thick, add more milk until desired consistency is achieved. (I prefer my pancakes quite thin, so I end up adding the whole 1/2 cup of milk.) Drop batter in large spoonfuls on heated, grease griddle. Cook until bubbles form and bottom is golden brown, then flip. Cook on other side until golden brown. Serve warm with real maple syrup. Merry Christmas!

Ding-Dong Merrily

2011-12-07T22:19:00.000-06:00

There's eggnog in the fridge and a Christmas card on the shelf.
There are presents in the making and budgets to be kept.
Yet despite the cold, the darkness and the snow,
this Advent season is quickly ticking by and I've nothing to show.

Lately, the blogosphere has been filled with merry posts about holiday decorating, holiday baking, and kids in Santa hats. It's lovely and it's fun, but it's making me feel like this:

Because this is how far I've got with my holiday decorating so far:
1) Open closet door
2) Pull down holiday decoration container
3) Shut closet door.
4) Open container.
5) Throw autumn/Halloween decorations into container.
6) Walk away.

And mind you, this happened a week ago. I have not walked back yet. The container is still sitting there in the corner, although I did move it farther out of sight this morning so I'd stop feeling so guilty about it.

It was pretty common place during my childhood for our Christmas tree and decorations to go up the day after Thanksgiving. However, Andy prefers we wait a little longer than that and considering the finite amount of space in the cabin and my finite tolerance for Christmas trees weeping balsam needles all over the floor, the wait makes sense. So maybe a tree this weekend. Maybe.

To be honest, things are kind of a beautiful disaster at the moment. I'm up to my ears in deadlines and freelance projects. The house is such a disgusting pit that we try to intercept any visitors (namely, the UPS man) on the deck before they can catch a glimpse inside. We are still processing that frackin' deer. (Don't worry, it's been frozen, we're just in the midst of round 2 of the sausage making.)

And my attempt to call off Christmas? Foiled. Foiled completely, my friends. After making my very mature and very important announcements that I was not doing presents nor Christmas cards this year, (Sorry guys. Sorry USPS) Andy started dogearing catalogs (I'm taking creative license with this fact) and then just this evening suggested that perhaps we should . . . send Christmas cards this year.

I'm off to get myself one strong glass of eggnog . . .

Murderous Good Fun

2011-12-05T21:49:00.000-06:00

As seems to be the norm anymore, we spent the weekend away from the cabin. On Friday morning, we all schlepped south to the metro. Andy had family gatherings to attend. I had a murder planned for Saturday night.

Since college graduation (which she did a year ahead of schedule because she's obnoxious like that), my friend Sarah's been working some pretty crazy hours as a public accountant. We're talking 70-80 hour work weeks on average and if that's not cause enough to go mildly homicidal, I'm not sure what is. We all know the true test of friendship, right? A friend helps you move. A good friend helps you move a body.

But back in April, right before we took on the Windy City together, Sarah got a new job, one with "I can still lead a human life" hours. So in celebration of all sorts of things - birthdays, friends and time to enjoy both - Sarah decided to throw a murder mystery dinner party before the holidays really set in.

When I've tried to explain what a "mystery in a box" dinner party was over the last couple months, I've been greeted with a lot of blank stares. For whatever reason, despite never having attended such a party, I was familiar with the concept. Too much time spent reading mail-order catalogs as a child, I guess. If you're not familiar, the basic premise is that all the dinner guests play characters who have all been at the scene of murder which happened right before the game begins. All the characters have a motive for killing the imaginary murder victim, but only one character's actually committed the crime. Over the course of the dinner, clues are revealed until finally the (predetermined) murderer is discovered. It's like a live action game of Clue.

If you've seen Sarah's house, you know she has a bit of a passion for Asian decor. Naturally, she selected a murder mystery set in 1910 Hong Kong. This was a great idea for several reasons. It requires very little decoration other than popping together and stringing some paper lanterns. Also, Chinese food is easy to produce in mass quantities. It did however mean that we - Sarah, her high school friend Kristen, and I - spent all of Saturday morning constructing a kimono for Sarah. (We mixed and matched Asian cultures a bit - the night ended with a cake shaped like sushi which another friend brought and was delicious.)

Two signs a party's bound to succeed? Sake and drink umbrellas.

Dinner table set for twelve guests.

A break between rounds.

The happy hostesses.

I found my dress on etsy. It's kimono inspired, but in no way Hong Kong 1910 - more Thailand 2011, I'd say. But hey, if I'm going to shell out my hard-earned money, it's going to be on something I'm going to wear again. I know Sarah feels the same way. Pretty sure she's going to be a geisha for like the next ten Halloweens.

In the end, I wasn't the actual character who committed the murder (whew!) and a pretty fantastic time was had by all. All our prep work in the kitchen in the early afternoon really paid off when it came to get the dinner courses out and although no one took the game to seriously (case in point, one of the guys did the entire game in a German accent when a Chinese accent alluded him) everyone played along and enjoyed the ridiculousness of it all. Murder's never been so fun.

Ice, ice baby

2011-12-01T20:43:00.000-06:00

There are some days that you wait for all year long. Days you wait all year for even though sometimes those days never come.

This time of year, when temperatures are really cooling down and we're settling into the winter months, we hold our breath, wondering if this will be the year we'll be able to skate on the frozen lake.

Ice is finicky stuff. While it's guaranteed that at some point soon the lake will completely freeze over, transforming our backyard into a highway for snowmobilers, skiers, and ice fisherman, how that ice - which in some spots will be two-three feet thick by the end of winter -- will form is determined by the weather.

Just because there's ice doesn't mean there's skating. If it snows while the ice is forming, the snow pushes the ice down, allowing lake water to come up over the ice and creating slush which freezes into bumpy, yucky, un-skateable stuff. If the wind blows while the ice is forming, it can push the ice up on itself and create ridges. Again, not great for skating. When it comes right down with it, smooth, skatable ice is a pretty rare occasion.

But we haven't gotten any snow since Saturday's six inches and as the temperatures drop lower and lower with little to no wind, things are looking pretty promising for skating this year. In fact, last night Andy and I ventured out on the bay. There's still open water outside of the bay and there was just about an inch and a half near the shore: enough to support us as long as we didn't stand too close together. (Ideally you want at least three inches of ice before going out on it. . . Do as I say, not as I do ;)

I stayed very close to shore when I was skating: only going out so far that I would only fall up to my waist if I were to go through. If the snow stays at bay, we could be skating on the entire lake by the end of the weekend. How cool would it be to skating on the same territory we were boating on just a couple months ago?

Wordless Wednesday: Winter Wonderland Arrives

2011-11-30T08:51:00.000-06:00

Going Dormant

2011-11-28T16:39:00.000-06:00

On my last day of my seasonal job last month, Andy and his mother bought me a potted mum. It was lovely: full and bushy, completely covered with mauve blossoms. I take it out of the cramped, plastic pot the greenhouse had it in, repotted it in a terracotta planter and set it on a living room cabinet. It continued to look lovely for a good month and then it started to lose its blossoms. No big deal, I thought as I deadheaded it, to everything turn, turn.

But as the weeks go gone by, the mum's appearance continues to deteriorate. At the very time when both my Christmas cactus and African violet are loaded to barracuda with buds and blossoms, the mum just looks like it wants to kill itself. Every time I pass by, I can always hear it whisper: "Take me now sweet Jesus . . . and get it over with."

Actually, I'm sure the mum would love to have a long, fulfilling life. Truth be told, I'm the hitch in the mum's giddy-up. Apparently, I should have been watering this sucker every day if I wanted to keep it green and lush all winter.As the mum's declined, I've queried Google with increasingly frantic searches that are some variant of "how to keep potted mum alive indoors over the winter." The search results have been less than edifying (would someone please just devote their life to creating a helpful database on houseplant care already?) but I think I have a couple things figure out about my mum.

Turns out, I have two choices on what to do with it. (Well, three if you count my current path of plant homicide . . . Planticide? Pesticide?)

I can:
1) Begin watering the mum daily and move it to a place where it might have a better chance of getting 12 hours of daily light. Considering that I have not seen the sun in, oh, 10 days, that's kind of a laugh.

or

2) Put it in the dark, heated (but not too hot) room under the cabin, water it occasionally and let it go dormant for the winter months.

I'm leaning towards option number two, for obvious reasons - aforementioned lake of sunlight, the fact that the rest of my houseplants demand only a weekly watering (and they're lucky if they get that). And truth be told, I'm kind of jealous. Jealous of my houseplant.

Because if the mum chooses dormancy, why can't I?!

We're in the final slog of longest, darkest days until the Winter Solstice is upon us and it is dark my friends. So very dark. How dark?

Andy went into the bedroom last night at 6:30 to "stretch out" and promptly fell asleep. In these deep grey days, I slog through my workload in a half-conscious daze. As an example of how desperate things are around here, I just got down on my hands and knees to feel around on the floor, which I have not vacuumed in months, for a single milk chocolate chip I had dropped . . . so I could eat it. Seriously, put me to bed with a warm cup of cocoa and wake me up when the lake is frozen over and the sun is shining (aka, January) when I can actually do something!

Oh, these are dark days, dark days indeed. But sadly, only the mum gets to go dormant.

A day for community

2011-11-24T09:35:00.000-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! May your turkey (or tofurkey, if that's how you roll) be plentiful and your tables and counter tops overflow with pies, rolls, potatoes, sweet potatoes, dressing, veggies, and whatever other starchy goodness your family and friends serve up as part of your annual T-day feast.

Currently, I'm hunkered down at Andy's mom's house, watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (that is to say, I'm watching commercials and commentators, there's very little parading going on) on mute and a special "Thankfulness" edition of a local radio program. Yesterday I baked two pumpkin pies and spent a bit of the afternoon at the church doing prep work for the community Thanksgiving dinner my mother coordinates every year.

Pretty much since we moved back to my mom's hometown when I was in first grade, we've spent Thanksgiving Day at church at the annual community Thanksgiving dnner. When I was in middle school, my mom started to coordinate the dinner (today marks the dinner's 38th year) and since then, she's only taken one year off. Our Thanksgivings aren't spent in a family living room watching football. Instead, they're spent in a steamy church kitchen making mashed potatoes, stuffing, sweet potatoes, et al for 100+ people.

The dinner is often confused with being a charity effort, but that isn't the case at all. It's a community dinner. It's a free dinner option for anyone, regardless of their political, religious, or socioeconomic standing who doesn't want the hassle of making the dinner themselves. So yes, there are people who come because they have nowhere else to go, but there are also entire extended families who choose to eat their Thanksgiving dinner in this setting. Delivery and pick-up meals are available for those with limited mobility and we also offer rides to those who want to attend. The tag line for the dinner is "No charge, no sermon."

This community seems not that far from the original (albeit probably mostly mythical) idea of the first Thanksgiving. That is, everyone coming together and bringing something to offer everyone else. However, in 2011, instead of saying, "You bring the squash, I'll bring the corn" it's more like, "you bring the Cool-Whip, I'll bring the (frozen) corn." Every single ingredient for the dinner is donated and the labor that prepares the meal is completely voluntary.

Our church also houses the county's food shelf and my mom was telling me yesterday how awkward she felt earlier in the week when she was in the church basement setting things up and a Native man came in to pick up food to bring up to the local reservation.While we all know that happy story of cooperation between the pilgrims and the American Indian that we base this holiday around is hardly the whole story, as the man left, he called out "Have a nice holiday!" This morning, a member of the local band of Ojibwe was on the radio, explaining how he feels about the holiday. "We like it," he said. "You don't have to go to work. There's lots of foods. It's an opportunity to say 'thanks.'"

So regardless of how Thankgiving really began, we do seem to agree on what today's all about: coming together, celebrating more than enough to go around, and saying "thank you."

Meat. Lots of Meat

2011-11-22T08:14:00.000-06:00

Greetings from the Of Woods and Words butcher shop.

Ever since Andy got his buck a week ago Saturday, we've been busy processing venison. I'll spare you the gory details, but there has been much chopping, grinding, freezer wrapping, labeling and dishwashing going on in these parts. The cabin has about 4 square feet of useable counter space, so it's been a juggling act, to say the least. We have some very happy jays and a rather smug looking red fox who are happily gobbling up the scraps we leaves outside.

Thank goodness Andy didn't try to get a second deer with his license this season. While I'd felt we'd gotten a decent amount of meat from last year's doe -- about 20-25 pounds of venison, including sausage-- this buck easily has provided us with twice as much. Between the garden produce we put away in early autumn and the recent venison additions, our chest freezer is nearly brimming at the top and we haven't even finished "SausageFest 2011" yet.

Speaking of SausageFest 2011, on Saturday evening, Andy and I finished up a batch of Italian sausage. And when I say batch, I mean 21+ pounds of Italian sausage. Pretty much any bit of useable venison that's not tenderloins, roasts, or round steak, gets ground up for sausage. The ground venison is then mixed 50:50 with ground pork. Because venison is an extremely lean meat, the pork is necessary to "bind" the sausage together. The fact that we ended up with about 20 pounds of ground venison this year means we'll ended up making approximately 40 pounds of sausage. Holy schmoly!

Last year we made a batch (about 8 pounds each) of Italian and breakfast sausage. The Italian sausage was by far the favorite, which is why Andy decided we need to make so very much of it this year. We don't bother putting the sausage in casings, just freeze it in bulk for use in lasanga, spaghetti, and pizza throughout the winter. But 21 lasangas is an awful lot of lasanga. I have a feeling we'll be giving some the sausage away.

And yet, we still have 10 pounds of ground venison that needs to be converted into sausage. I'm thinking a batch of chorizo, maybe a small batch of breakfast sausage, and some jerky. Also does anyone have a good recipe for wild rice venison sausage. Google has totally failed me in my search for a wild rice sausage recipe, yet I know wild rice venison sausage is a standby in many Minnesota households, so if you have a recipe, please do share!

All this venison must be seeping into my subconscious. Just last night, I dreamed I saw a ginormous buck, only to realize I needn't bother telling Andy because deer season was already over. (The season ended on Sunday night.) I don't even want to explore the meaning behind this one!

You're welcome to dinner any time. Just be forewarned: chances are, we'll be having lasanga.

Being Thankful

2011-11-21T10:26:00.000-06:00

I went to a Benedictine (Catholic) college. The college shared property with a monastery and it wasn't uncommon to have a nun as a professor. One day, in the class that was supposed to be prepping us for a J-term in Rome, the Father who was teaching the class asked a nun who had recently visited Italy to come speak with us. For whatever reason, we got on the topic of prayer.

"What's the most common prayer?" the nun asked. We all looked at each other. Umm, the Lord's Prayer? The nun cleared her throat. "When we pray, we're usually asking God for something," she explained. "Every once in a while, it's nice to say a prayer that just says 'thank you.'"

It is, isn't it?

Whether you're talking to the man upstairs or whether you're b.s.ing with a friend, sometimes we just need to stop the ongoing, droning monologue about everything we wish we had and step back and realize what we already have. If we don't take a minute to say "thank you" we risk going through life with blinders on and missing the big picture.

So today, I'm saying thank you. Not just because it 'tis the season, but because, truly, I have so many things to be grateful for.

I'm thankful to share my life with a funny, talented, thoughtful man. After more than three years together - two+ spent living together - it's hard to imagine life without my partner in crime: Andy.

I'm thankful to live in a beautiful part of the country, in a lovely little cabin on the edge of a gorgeous lake. (Sorry about all those adjectives.) Seriously, day, every season here in the woods brings something new to marvel at.

I'm thankful for self-sufficiency, for being able to stock our shelves and line our freezers with food we've picked, grown, or hunted. On a similar note, I'm thankful for no credit card debt and limited student loans, which allow us to carve out a simple life all our own. I'm thankful for enough to go around. I'm thankful to have a degree.

I'm thankful for more than enough firewood to keep us warm during the long, dark winter that's nearly upon us.

I'm thankful for enough time for hobbies, be it gardening, knitting, canning, berry picking, writing, or what have you. I'm thank to be able to use my writing as an income source. I'm thankful to have a contract sitting on my desk for employment next summer.

I'm thankful for wonderful and slightly ridiculous friends who remain an important part of my life, even when the miles between us are long. I'm thankful I'm still invited to be a part of these people's lives. I'm thankful for laughter. I'm thankful for the sense of community blogging has created in my life.

I'm thankful to be able to watch things grow.

I'm thankful for family nearby to provide support, and occasionally, a bed to sleep in.

I'm thankful for much more, but I wanted to end this before you were thankful that I'd run out of things to be thankful for.

What are you thankful for this Thanksgiving season? I'm linking up with the "Give Thanks Party" over at Ashley's, After Nine to Five.

My Seven Wonders

2011-11-17T14:23:00.000-06:00

Today over at Mama Kat's, we're asked to list off the seven wonders of the world that we've seen with our own eyes. I can't pass up on an opportunity for a trip down travel memory lane and I've always been fascinated with the seven wonders of the ancient world. (It fits so nicely into that ancient Greek thing I've got going on . . . sorry modern Greece, you're kind of painful to watch right now.) And do we all remember on 7-7-07 when we all voted for the new seven wonders of the world? Just me? Okay then . . . .

Only the pyramids survive from the original list of Seven Wonders of the Ancient World and lucky enough for me, I 've actually seen them!

All right, so maybe that's just the Luxor in Las Vegas. Still, I'm counting Vegas in as a wonderment all its own.

Wonder #1) Las Vegas

I'm not a total liar though. The Colosseum made the modern seven wonders list and I've really seen it! I have to admit that as amazing the Colosseum is, it's hardly Rome's only wonder. I loved the Spanish Steps, the Forum, and Keats' House too.

Wonder #2) Colosseum, Rome

I was pulling for Stonehenge to make it to the new seven wonders of the world, but it didn't make the cut. Bummer. To make Stonehenge feel better about its loss, I've visited these ancient rocks three times. (No kidding: April 2003, March 2005, and October 2007.) I love Stonehenge, but I really don't need to see it again. However, I would accompany you on a visit, if you asked nicely.

Wonder #3) Stonehenge, England

While human made things are impressive and all, I find myself most impressed by nature's own handiwork. Take the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland, for example. The Causeway is made up of thousands of perfectly octagonal rock pillars, which you can attribute to volcanic forces or giants, depending on how fanciful you feel. Nearby the Causeway, there's also Giant's Organ - similar rock pillars in the side of a cliff -- and Giant's Boot, a huge rock shaped like, well, a boot.

Wonder #4 Giant's Causeway, Northern Ireland

I live in a place where most trees only reach my hip. (You go wildfire regeneration!) So I'm always in awe when I see a really big tree. I mean, a really, really big tree.

Wonder #5) Big Trees, Everywhere (Example above is the Sitka Spruce in the Hoh Rainforest, Olympic National Park, Washington)

So maybe size does matter. One thing I consider a world wonder actually makes up my backyard. It's Lake Superior, the largest freshwater lake in the world. Celebrated in song and story, the lake's just down right pretty.

Wonder #6) Lake Superior, Minnesota, Ontario, Michigan, Wisconsin

I really hemmed and hawed for a long time about what the seventh wonder was going to be, but finally settled on Arches National Park, in southeastern Utah. It loses some "wonder"-full points for only being semi-permanent, but in this day and age, what really is permanent, I say.

Wonder #7) Arches National Park, Utah

My close but no cigar list:
Newgrange, Ireland
The Mississippi River, Midwest
Manhattan, New York
Eiffel Tower, Paris
Speyer Cathedral, Germany

What are your seven wonders of the world? Have you seen any of the wonders that I've seen? What's a wonder you want to see?

This is hard!

2011-11-16T07:29:00.059-06:00

I spent this past Sunday afternoon catching up with two old friends. Although we all live within a two-hour radius of each other, it seems our paths rarely cross. We're all busy doing our own thing and once in a blue moon, we pause to take a few hours and catch each other up on life and all its happenings.

One's married and having her first baby in less than a month's time. The other's still figuring out what exactly her post-college life will hold, what direction her career will take, and how a relationship might figure into all of those big questions. Then there's me. I have a stable relationship and, for the most part, a stable life, but I live at the ends of the earth and as Andy so nicely put it a couple weeks back when I was bemoaning where all my money disappears to: "Ada, you don't have a spending problem, you have an income problem."

We're all at different stages of our young lives, but we all shared a common consensus: this is hard!

A bloggy friend, Amanda, just launched her first e-book, The Grad Meets World Ultimate Guide to the First Year Out of College. The book's jam packed with all sorts of things I would have liked to have known during that first year out of college and it got me thinking. When I graduated back in the stone ages of 2007, I'd decided on taking a gap year and waiting out a tempestuous job market. (Surprise: it got worse!) But I found even when I decided I was done with the transient gap year, my transient days were anything but behind me. Now, nearly five years out of college, I have yet to have a 40 h/w, 52 w/y, we pay for health insurance and sock away some that paycheck for your retirement sort of job.

And I'm okay with this. I'm proud to have made as much progress as I have with my freelance writing and I'm happy to have a day job that keeps me in groceries, if not total sanity. Still, it's hard not to sometimes feel like there might be something else out there, lurking just out of reach, the golden key if you will to worry-free living.

Just this evening I was watching the Sex and the City episode where Trey turns to Charlotte and says, "I'm 43. When does it start being easy?"

As the three of us talked on Sunday afternoon, it became apparent, no matter what path you choose, it's no smooth sailing at age 25 and 26. And if Trey says it's still hard at 43, I think I'll believe him, even if he is a doofus. Heck, I beat it's still downright rough at 92.

But then again, if it weren't difficult, things just might get a little dull.So here's to perseverance and holding our own during all life dishes out. No one ever said it was going to be easy. That's just a silly notion we all seem to pick up sometime during our undergraduate years.

A Truthful, Toothful, Tuesday Post

2011-11-15T14:05:00.000-06:00

I'm going to take a cue from a friend who frequently adopts the list format for her blog posts to save time. When you make lists, you don't have to worry about completing your thoughts or making a point. And since I'm back at the cabin, at least for the time being and am woefully behind on all sorts of stuff, here's what's been going on lately . . . in list form.

1) You guys! Did you know that Thanksgiving is a mere 9 days away? What the what? How did this happen?! I'm going to have to bake pumpkin pies next week already.

2) It's Andy's birthday today!

To celebrate, I made him a bourbon molasses pecan pie from the latest Better Homes and Gardens. As soon as I took the pie out of the oven, I realized I'd forgotten the vanilla.

It's official: I can not make birthday treats without forgetting some crucial ingredient. However, I feel Andy's pecan pie will fair better without vanilla than Dad's pumpkin pie did without sugar. . . maybe.

3) It's also deadline day. (Note the lack of exclamation points on that statement.)

The big article I was worrying about a couple weeks is due today, but I actually sent it a week ago: I just had to get a cd of accompanying photos for the article in the mail today. I feel pretty calm about the whole thing.

However, today's also deadline day for the publication I write for monthly. I have more flexibility with this deadline and luckily all of those articles are under control. I still have about an article and a half to write before I call it a day though.

4) Our internet is finally back!!

I'd love to tell you how helpful the internet provider was in the whole ordeal, but the truth is, after multiple calls to tech support and customer support, the person who actually fixed it doesn't even work for the company. It was a frustrating two weeks, to say the least, but like Ma Ingalls used to say: "All's well that ends well."

5) I have teeth again!

See:

Last Monday, the dentist reglued my veneer on. On Wednesday I decided to eat a frozen cookie. Needless to say, the reglued veneer did not stay cemented in place for very long. So it was back to the dentist's yesterday where they put a permanent coating on my tooth. Grand total of the tooth ordeal = $200. However, they suckered me into scheduling a cleaning, so they haven't quite finished milking my bank accounts yet and Christmas is still a no-go around these parts since I'll be subsidizing the dental office employees' Christmas celebrations rather than my own this year.

5) In answer to the deer questions from the last post, the deer is absolutely not hanging anywhere in the cabin. Did I say cabin? I didn't, didn't I. Shed. I meant shed. The deer's out in the shed. I will admit I forgot it was in there on Saturday when I head out to the shed to grab some gardening supplies and I was very startled to find that I wasn't alone out there!

6) So many chores to take care of before winter's here in earnest. Last bit of firewood to split and stack; a ton of venison to butcher, process, and freezer; the dock and boat still need to come out; and all on top of the normal money making business of every day.

Rambling, Man . . .

2011-11-13T09:39:00.000-06:00

We've been a little scattered around Of Woods and Words lately.

I chalk this general discombobulation to two little words: deer season. Since the season opener eve last Friday, we've been hopping around between various locales: the cabin, Andy's mom place, and my parents'. In the last week, I've spent more nights in town than I have at the cabin. As much as I often claim to have an "urge for going," something about vacillating between home and your parents' place isn't quite as glamorous as heading to MSP and catching the next flight to say, Barcelona. Besides, being transient comes with a few pitfalls:

Full Disclosure: This is actually my childhood bedroom in Jan. 2005 while packing for a semester abroad

Since we live in an area still recovering from a recent wildfire, the deer population around the cabin isn't especially remarkable. As the undergrowth regenerates, there's been an obvious increase in the deer population, but Andy thought he'd have better luck if he hunted closer to town, where there are deer, literally, all over the place. Between dental appointments, freelance assignments, and various other commitments for me, it's just been easier for us to spend free time in town, especially since we're right on the cusp of "questionable driving conditions" season.

Andy'd had enough of town by this Friday morning ("Too many people" . . . "What are these neighbor people you speak of?" Please, do remember that town has a population of less than 2000) so he took off for the cabin and I planned to stay with my parents until Monday.

But when I got back from an article interview yesterday morning, Dad mention that Andy'd called looking for my camera. Apparently, Andy'd gotten a large buck near the cabin. Guess that whole hypothesis about there being better hunting grounds closer to town was kind of flawed.

Not knowing if Andy needed some help, I hopped in the car and headed back up to the cabin. There was indeed a large buck hanging in the cabin when I arrived. I wasn't really needed to assist with anything, but Andy sure was happy to have me around to regale with stories of the hunt. To all my vegetarian readers, you'll be happy know that I arrived too late to take the mandatory "Andy with dead deer" photo. I kind of think dead deer pictures are tacky anyway .. .

The deer was a 17.5" antler spread and a Boone and Crockett club number, at least the way we measured it, of 112.5. We may have missed a couple of the spread measurements for the Boone and Crockett. (FYI, the record holding Boone and Crockett measurement for whitetail deer is 213.5/8"!!)

I have to admit I'm much more pleased about Andy's success now than I was last year. (Yes, he did shot the deer on the exact same date as last year. We figure he might as well wait until 7:45 on the morning November 12 to go deer hunting each year.) I've already been busily scouring cookbooks and the internet for new venison recipes. It's a good thing I got some practice with venison cooking last year, because Andy figures we'll probably get somewhere between 40-50 pounds of useable meat from this deer. That's about double the amount of meat we got from last year's doe and yep, that rounds out to a cost of 60 cents a pound when you figure in the cost of the license . . . heck yeah!

That's the news from Of Woods and Words. For now I'm off to town (and beyond!) to catch up with some old friends. Tomorrow's filled with town appointments and errands and maybe, just maybe, on Tuesday we'll put an end to all this rambling.

Man.

On Being Brave

2011-11-10T15:45:00.000-06:00

This morning, I woke up to a winter wonderland. If you've been reading this blog long enough, you know that this didn't exactly make my day.

Okay, so normally, an inch or two of fresh snow outside the window doesn't bother me too much -- it is rather pretty -- but today's snowfall marked my first winter driving experience of this season. Considering that last winter's driving experiences ended abruptly with me on my side in the ditch, it's fair to say that I've been dreading this day. Add to that dread the fact that I'm still adjusting to the manual transmission Baja. How excited was I about the snowfall outside my window? Not very.

But I had a dentist appointment to get to. No amount of dread was going to make this better. I was going to have to be brave.

"The roads are okay," Andy said over the phone from work. "Just be careful. Use the gears to slow down."

I left the house with hour and forty five minutes to spare until my appointment. The trip to town normally takes an hour. When I pulled out onto the main highway, I realized Andy's assessment of "okay" might be a little exaggerated. OKAY?! I felt the hysteria rising my throat. The road hadn't even been plowed.

Nevertheless, our hero presses on . . .

A little ways down the road, after I'd waited at the bottom of a ginormous hill for a very minor accident involving a pickup and a truck and trail to clear out, it struck me: if police officers are just a step away from being criminals, maybe being brave is just a step away from bloody stupid.

On the other hand, I was learning some important lessons. It turned out driving a manual through the snow and slop wasn't so bad. The Corolla had handled like a hockey puck in snowy conditions; the Baja handled like a tank. "This is amazing," I thought. I shifted easy between the gears. I didn't have to touch the brake pedal at all. The car slowed by itself whenever I took my foot off the gas. I felt firmly glued to the slippery road. I giggled a little when I passed an (undamaged) Camry on its side in the ditch. I mean, who does that? (Don't answer that.)

However, by the time I was halfway down the Trail, it was apparent that I wasn't going to make my appointment. Do you know how long it takes to get into town when you're averaging 28 mph and you've got 55 miles to chug away at that speed? (Okay, I could do the math, but that's never been my forte.) It takes a long time. Like two hours long.

I pulled into Andy's workplace, called the dentist's to reschedule, waited around long enough for the plow to pass me (I'd seen the plow coming up the Trail pretty early into my journey down the Trail, so I knew he must have made the dead end loop and was not far behind me), and kept on going. Chug, chug, chug.

I'll admit, I wasn't having the time of my life. Nor did I feel particularly brave. To be honest, I felt more boneheaded than brave. Driving through all this crap and still not making it to my appointment? What was the point of that? This farce was nothing but a freakin' waste of time. Think of all the things I could be getting done if I'd just stayed home.

My mood changed considerably when I finally hit dry pavement. I'd just survived my first winter driving of winter 2011-2012. . . . to put it in Bridget Jones speak, feeling rather rockstar-ish.

However, the question's still hanging out there:

Brave or bloody stupid?

Still can't tell.

Calling Off Christmas

2011-11-07T09:45:00.000-06:00

Speaking of Christmas, (we were, weren't we?) Andy and I have made an unofficial decision to call Christmas off this year.

No, we haven't been isolated from community and popular culture for so long that we've become curmudgeons who will in no way acknowledge the holiday season. I fully plan to deck the halls, bake the cookies, play the carols, get together with friends and family, etc. etc. when the holiday season truly is upon us.

(I've been spending an extended weekend in town, splitting my time between Andy's mom's place and my parents' while Andy deer hunts and after all this time in the land of fast internet and cable t.v., I feel a need to inform the world's ad agencies that Christmas is not just around the corner. Let's hold our horses, shall we?)

Despite my firm belief that Christmas is not imminent just yet, the holiday season and all its fuss and spending has been on my mind lately.

For one thing, I've been assigned the annual holiday gift guide for the publication I'm a contributing writer for. I spent some time with Mom in the shops downtown yesterday, trying to figure some new exciting spin to put on the same ol' items from the same ol' stores for this year's guide.For another thing, it's apparent that between tires, teeth and nonexistent internet (aka, technician visit!), discretionary spending funds are going to be pretty much nonexistent this December.

There's also the little fact that we don't really need anything. Sure, there are plenty of pretty, nonessential items I'd love to have, but when I look at my life objectively, it's clear we want for nothing. Our freezer and pantry are brimming with delicious, homegrown/homemade food; the closets are stuffed with clothes and footwear; we have two cars; plenty of firewood to keep us warm through the winter; we cover our monthly expenses; and there's enough money to cover the aforementioned expenses without too much strain or stress. So why make things stressful by feeling we have to go all out with presents this year?

Yes, I am the person who retailers hate and who is in no way stimulating our floundering economy.

Not that I won't be purchasing Christmas presents this year. But I'm approaching the gift giving this year as a way to share a small token of love and appreciation with the people I love rather than go through the sometimes stressful, sometimes frustrating process of trying to figure out larger (and more expensive) items for everyone on my list this year. Maybe we'll just do stocking stuffers for everyone this year. Maybe small themed baskets. I haven't decided yet, but I'm hoping for a simple, but sincere Christmas this year.

It seems like this year "presents" giving us a wonderful opportunity to focus on all we already have. Why let Christmas crowd out the autumn holiday we should really be stretching out over the entire year: Thanksgiving.

Have you ever called off Christmas? Will your Christmas spending this year stay the same as prior years or do you plan to cut or expand your budget?

All I Want For Christmas Are My Two Front Teeth

2011-11-04T14:46:00.001-05:00

This morning, my tooth fell out.

Actually, I shouldn't be so dramatic.

This morning an entire tooth did not fall out of my mouth.

Rather, this morning, as I sat down with my plate full of bacon and blueberry pancake, bit into a piece of bacon and felt a funny sensation in one of my front teeth . . . a cracking sensation. When I went to investigate, I pulled out a teeny white shell. The shell looked familiar, but I have to admit the first thought that ran through my head was "what the &*@#! was in that bacon?!" But I quickly realized, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that the familiar white shell was the veneer that had been glued to my front tooth for more than a decade.

Since I was sixteen, I've had veneer caps on my two top front teeth. For whatever reason, both my brother and I suffered severe stains on our permanent top front teeth. No one's sure why. Something in the water? Children's vitamins? Who knows? The moral of the story is that the dentist decided the most fail-proof way to "remove" the stains was to cover them up with supposedly "permanent" veneers.

And it was fail-proof. . .

See, you can even tell those aren't my "real" front teeth

Until today.

Now I'm missing the front of those veneers, exposing my weird, chiseled down "real" tooth, while back of the veneer still hangs on jaggedly. Trust me, it is not a look quite as cute as this:

SOURCE

As luck would have it, the dentist isn't open on Friday, so I won't know what's going to happen with this tooth of mine until Monday at the earliest. But I'm not in any pain, just a little self-conscious (the veneers always were a matter of vanity) and a little bummed out about more unexpected expenses. And while I certainly wasn't planning on having a tooth cap pop off, my brother has had both of his veneers pop off in the last few years so I knew I might be dealing with this problem sooner or later. Still, bummer.

I swear, all I want for Christmas this year are my two front teeth.

Are you listening Santa?

Rage Against the Word Count

2011-11-03T10:55:00.000-05:00

I’m going to admit something that may make me sound like an overachieving priss. Back in college, when assigned 750 word papers (it could be expected you’d be writing two or three of these per English course) I consistently turned in 1000 - 1500 word papers. I never felt I could make my point in 750 words, so I just kept writing until I ran out of things to say.

Did the papers need to be twice their assigned length? Probably not. Given enough time with a red editing pen, ~~no doubt~~ I could have slashed out hundreds of ~~extra~~ words, removed redundant points and turned in a tight 750 paper. But since my papers, ~~regardless of their length,~~ more often than not earned “A”s, trimming the papers seemed like a waste of time. Professors may have gotten more than they’d asked for with my ridiculously long papers (for one 10-page paper assignment, I turned in 18 pages), but I got exactly what I wanted.

In hindsight, it probably would have behooved the professors to dock me points ~~for my lengthy papers~~. Certainly, I successfully answered the question asked in the assignment, but my blatant disregard of the paper’s word limit really meant I hadn’t completed the paper in the manner in which it had been assigned. I would have raged against any professor who suggested I might cut my paper, ~~(“But I can’t make my point in less than 1300 words!”)~~ but truth ~~of it~~ is: they would have been right ~~and I would have been wrong.~~

As it is, I’ve had to curb my verbosity ~~all by my lonesome~~. Long-windedness is an indulgence~~; one~~ that most freelance writers don’t get to experience.

If I turned in a 1500 word article for a 750 word assignment ~~these days~~, my editors would have a shit-fit. In freelance writing, I’m given a word count because that’s ~~literally~~ all there’s room for in the publication. Even if the writing isn’t for a print publication, the writing still must be concise ~~because you can’t expect to hold people’s attention for much more than 500 words~~ on the web.

Right now I’m working on a 1000 word article for a publication with the largest circulation I’ve ever written for. It’s also my highest paying market to date. As exciting as it is, there’s just one little rub: I have enough material to write a solid 2500 word article.

In the past couple days I’ve been trying to cram every possible point ~~I want to make~~ for the article into the confines of 1000 words. I’ve cut ~~and cut and cut~~. I’ve reworded sections and reorganized points. It feels not dissimilar to shoving just one more clown into the car.

I’ll get this sucker down to 1000 words ~~if it’s the last thing I do~~. I have no choice. Regardless of when I run out of things to say, I run out of words at the 1000 mark.

Daylights Savings Time and Wardrobe Malfunctions

2011-11-02T10:53:00.000-05:00

When it comes to working from home, I have a couple rules. They have nothing to do with goals or time management. In fact, they’re so simple, they sound kind of silly.

Rule# 1: Get up at a decent hour every day. Preferably, the same decent hour every day. Coincidently, following this rule is dependent on me going to bed at a reasonable hour each night as well.

Rule # 2: Put some pants on.

As you might have guessed, lately I have not been following either rule with any great success. Something about our internet outage, which continues to drag on -- I’m currently using an archaic dial-up connection . . . Internet forever! -- leaves me feeling out of touch and slightly picked on. With the barrier of not having ready access to the internet making it difficult to communicate and research, I see no real need to spring out of bed each morning: might as well let the day unfold organically until we’re back at full capacity.

And then there’s the other fact: it is so very dark in the mornings. Andy leaves the house before 7 each morning and has taken to building a fire before he goes. As the fire crackles in the stove and the little house shakes off its nightly chill, it’s hard not burrow under the covers and fall into a final, especially cozy, slumber before starting the day. Perhaps when we shed daylight savings time this weekend, I’ll be able to pull myself out of bed at a decent hour (aka, anytime before 8), but during our current run of dark mornings and grey days, sleeping in seems inevitable.

Each morning, after I’ve broken rule #1, I proceed to break rule #2. While rule #1 exists because I firmly believe a good start to the day will buoy you through anything else the day throws at you, rule #2 exists because I’m also a firm believer that what you wear each day influences your reactions to the world around you. Regardless of what I accomplish while wearing a bathrobe, the fact that I was wearing a bathrobe while I did it kind of makes me feel like an under-employed ninny. I try to sit down in front of the computer every day, fully clothed in something I’d go out in public in. But lately I’ve taken to wearing my roomiest jeans and an old bleach-stained sweatshirt or ancient Polarfleece pullover. Not exactly the outfit of champions.

There are a couple reasons for my slovenly wear as of late. Since our firewood delivery last month, I spend about an hour every afternoon stacking wood, a filthy chore. I see no reason to get dressed twice in one day (let’s just be happy I managed to pull it off once, okay?) so I’ve gravitated towards my work grubs. That also might have a little something to do with the fact I can only seem to find work grubs in my wardrobe.

I’ve never been someone with an overabundance of clothes. I wear things until they’re shot. In college, my roommates used to throw my hole-y socks away because they knew I’d keep wearing the socks until they literally disintegrated. Because I’ve stayed the same size since hitting puberty (albeit, with a slight thickening in the thighs and upper arms in recent years) much of my clothing is a good decade old.

Right now all of my mildly fashionable jeans are all sporting a rip at the tippy-top of the right back pocket. (Maybe go up a size next time, eh?)

My eight-year-old belt finally frayed into uselessness a couple days back. All my socks have holes in the heels. When most people say they have nothing to wear, they’re usually being dramatic.

When I say I have nothing to wear, it’s because it’s the truth.

Who knew two little rules could be so tricky to keep? However, I’m determined to get back on track. After all, a well-rested slob is only good company for so long.

Do you have any tricks for getting going each morning? Any rules you live by?

Happy Halloween!! (Aka, what I did while the internet was out)

2011-10-31T14:34:00.000-05:00

Our internet's been out since Thursday afternoon.

Please, take a minute to be horrified by this with me for a moment.

I swear, one minute I was happily downloading emails into Outlook (does anyone even use Outlook anymore? Maybe that's what killed it . . .) and the next minute the internet was gone. Like not there one little bit. While our satellite internet is sketchy at best and it's not unheard of to go for days with extremely slow internet, it would appear that this time our modem has completely given up the ghost. No matter what the cloud cover outside, no matter how many times we unplug and replug in our router, all we get from our modem is a bunch of twinkly lights. *sigh* I might feel slightly calmer about this if I didn't keep getting voicemail every time I called our service provider's customer service line.

So no, the internet's not back up and running yet. Currently, I'm in town, doing laundry and updating the blog. Kind of tricky running freelance business from my home that depends a good deal on access to social media, but ah well, we'll persevere.

In the meantime, I've . . . .

Tried to get some writing done. You know, you can completely write short essays in just one morning when you aren't popping in between the Word document you're typing in, seven blogs you're trying to keep up with, while simultaneously trying to think of a witty Tweet. On the other hand, focus = not that much fun.
I've stacked some firewood. Not that much though.
Done some deer scouting with Andy. Deer season starts Saturday. Andy is getting excited.
Cleaned the bathroom. At one point this summer, I was cleaning the bathroom every week. Things have slipped a little bit. Looks like we're back on my "once I can't stand it any longer" bathroom cleaning schedule.
Vacuumed
Filed paperwork
Scoured the kitchen
Listened to this weekend's edition of "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me" three times.
Helped Mom tear out a sweater.
Read almost the entire series of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
Spent an exorbitant amount of time carving Smokey Bear's head into a pumpkin.

That last point, carving Smokey into a pumpkin (design chosen because of this year's high proportion of both bears and fires), will probably be the extent of our Halloween celebrations. We're almost guaranteed not to have trick-or-treaters and our cabin remains a Halloween candy free zone. Today also marks the 20th anniversary of the 1991 Great Halloween Blizzard.Looks like we'll be spared two feet of snowfall this Halloween though. (Hooray!)

Anyone dressing up for the holiday? Do you get trick-or-treaters?

Hoping everyone has a lovely Halloween/Samhain. Hard to believe the holiday season is truly upon us now. Yikes!

A Second Fall

2011-10-27T08:59:00.000-05:00

For a long time, I've believed that we have two springs every year. It's a Northwoods sort of thing. The first spring comes when mud replaces snow. The second spring comes when green nubs of grass push through the brown grass and the teeniest of wildflowers begin blooming.

This year, I've decided we also get a second fall. The first fall comes with all that expect blue skies, nip in the air, and glorious fall colors. But sometime in the last week or so, we transitioned in our second fall, when the skies cloud up, the nip in the air turns downright chilly and the leaves are all but gone. Now we're in a dead time, an interval before snow.

Honestly, I think it's a lovely time of year.

Andy and I took a break from cutting, splitting, and stacking firewood yesterday to head out on a deer scouting forage. Warm temperatures stretched so far into October this year that it's hard to believe it's the end of October and nearly Halloween, let alone almost deer season. Apparently the deer don't believe it either; there's very little deer sign out there right now, although our cooler temperatures as of late should get the deer moving around again.

But even if there are no deer to be found, there are still plenty of reasons to be out in the woods.

I wanted this funky lichen to be "British Soldiers" but I don't think it is.

This morning I woke up to thick, fluffy snowflakes falling. A dusting of snow settled on everything.

It's time to enjoy this second fall as long as we can before it slips into a colder, snowier type of season.

Moving Mountains: Together

2011-10-25T10:10:00.000-05:00

You think this is hard? I'm passing a gallstone as we speak! *That's* hard!
- Sue Sylvester

There's another reason I keep fairly mum about my freelancing. Usually, when I try to explain how I make my (albeit: supplemental) income, I get one of two reactions. Reaction 1) Person has no idea what freelance writing is. Acts like you're the cleverest thing since sliced bread. Reaction 2) The doubt niggling at the corners of the person's smile and they proceed to explain how hard it is to make it as a writer.

Neither reaction is really preferable, although it is nice to feel clever for a bit, even if the feeling's fleeting. But I feel particularly uncomfortable when someone tells me I've chosen a difficult way to make a living. Because really, I don't feel like I've chosen a more difficult way than anyone else. With the decaying traditional job market, I'm not sure there is such a thing as a secure job anymore, especially if you're a 20-something.

It can be trying to hear from someone retired or close to retirement tell you how hard your life is. (Know what's hard? Listening to people tell you how hard your life is.) Although we're all in this less than stellar economy together, there seems to be a certain disconnect amongst older Americans about what work possibilities really lie out there for young Americans. The work world they knew, the one that was secure, doesn't exist anymore.

If you're a 20-something out in the world right now, chances are you didn't you just fall into a traditional 9-5 job, you know, the kind that provides health insurance and retirement options, right after college. Or if you did, words like "layoffs" and "downsizing" are enough to make your stomach turn on a regular basis.

I know I'm anything but alone when it comes to working to make a living in an unconventional manner. There are so many people out there going beyond the 9-5 hustle to make a more satisfying living. People like Ashley who quit her day job and now make her living with her crafts. Or Amanda, who like me, works a full-time job, but has a freelance writing "side hustle." (By the way, if you haven't checked out my guest post over at Amanda's blog, Grad Meets World, you should check it out now!) Or Carissa, a photographer and jeweler.

So when someone acts like I'm doing something extraordinary, a part of me wants to say: You're the one putting the proverbial mountain in here. We 20-something freelancers aren't really out to prove anything, we're just trying to live a comfortable, fulfilling life.

Sure it's hard. But there's one thing that makes it easier: we're all in it together,

And we're up to the challenge.

Things I Wish I'd Known Before Freelancing

2011-10-24T07:21:00.036-05:00

A friend recently reached out on her blog for some advice on starting freelance writing. It got me thinking.

I've been dabbling with freelance writing since I was a college sophomore. In those early days, freelance writing was something I dipped my toes into each summer. It wasn't until a year or so after graduating that I actually waded in. The deeper I wade, the more I've learn, and some of what I've learned sure would have been nice to know while I was still sitting on the shore.

1) It's Never Too Early To Think of Taxes

Maybe I've been dabbling in the freelance writing world too long, because boy was I surprised last year when my freelance earnings last year bypassed what the IRS considers hobby earnings and had to be claimed on my tax return. I'm only grossing a couple thousand dollars annually, so I don't bother to pay quarterly taxes yet.However, your life will be infinitely easier come tax time if you've actually spend the year acting like you'll be making oodles of writing money that the IRS'll want to know about.

You should:

File a W-9 with every freelance writing job contract.
Track your mileage on freelance assignments.
Keep all your receipts for office supplies and other freelance writing related purchases.
Hold on to those thank you letter from any charitable donation you've made over the year. (Despite being poor I do make a couple of those every year.)

2) The Books Will Help . . . to a Certain Extent

There are all sorts of writing books out there. Some will provide you with helpful insight you'll return to again and again. Others, you won't even finish. You've heard this hundreds of times by now, but no book has the power to transform you into a freelance writer. Time and perseverance are the only fail proof ways I know of to become a freelance writer.

That said, there are a couple books, I think every beginning freelance writer should have on their bookshelf, or, even better, their desk:

You should also purchase, or at least subscribe to the online listing of the current year's Writer's Market. The book is the definitive listing of literary agents, small presses, trade markets, literary markets, magazines, and contests. If you have no idea where to start submitting your writing, this 1000+ page puppy will give you so many possibilities your head'll spinning after 15 minutes of leafing through its listings.

As you become more comfortable with the query process, you'll become less dependent on this massive tome. While I haven't bought the book for a couple years, I'm extremely grateful for both the advice Writer's Market gives on how to query probably and the eye-opener the book was about how much possibility still exists in the print world.

3) Query Thoughtfully

It's very easy to read through the paragraph descriptions of a publication in Writer's Market's listings and think "Oh my goodness, that one piece I wrote would be perfect for this magazine. I'm going to query them immediately." Hold. Your. Horses.

There's a little rule when it comes to querying. A rule that says you should be familiar with the publication before you query them with an article. Luckily, in this internet age, you don't necessarily need to head down to the library to leaf through back issues. A couple minutes spent poking around on a publication's website should give you a pretty good idea of whether or not your writing would be a good fit. It's also a good idea to do a search of the publication's website to see if they've published anything recently on the topic you'll be querying about. Chances are pretty good that about half the time "that perfect match" of a publication won't be at all what you thought.You're not necessarily wasting an editor's time by sending in an ill-fitting query . . . you're wasting someone way more important's time: yours!

4) Your Queries Aren't Just Another Drop in the Ocean

It's really easy to get down on the query process. If I can use an ice fishing analogy, sometimes it feel like you're going ice fishing on a fish-less lake. You spend all this time crafting the perfect query, you send it off and then you wait, and wait, and wait. Most publications won't tell you they're not interested; after a certain point, you can assume you won't be hearing back. That said, you should never give up hope completely on a query unless you've heard a definitive "no" back on it. I've gotten assignments out of queries more than a year after I sent out the query, which, to me, makes the whole process worthwhile.

However, if you want more instant gratification (and less pay), pursue online freelance writing opportunities which are more prevalent than traditional print ones.

5) Recognize Writing As A Part of Your Life

Write daily. Figure out a process for getting queries out on a regular basis. Find other writers to hobnob with, both on and off-line. Subscribe to a writing magazine. (I get Writer's Digest although, I've heard better things about Poets and Writers.) Look into continuing education possibilities. If you only have time to read on writing publication a week, subscribe to C. Hope Clark's Funds for Writers e-newsletter. That lady knows what she's talking about.

6) It will take a lot of time

If you want to be a freelance writer, you need patience. Lots and lots of patience. Because, you guessed it, if you're spending years waiting for people to respond to your queries, making it as a freelance writer is one of those "slow but steady" sort of things.

One of the best things I did when I was getting serious about making a living as a writer was analyze the local writing market for opportunities Now I have a regular (paying) gig writing features for a small monthly publication and I write a biweekly commentary for the local radio, which does not earn me pay, but sometimes results in awards.

How about you? Is there a newsletter for a local nonprofit you could help with? A small monthly magazine that you could be come a regular contributor to?

Start small and build as you go. In the process, you'll hone your writing chops and build a portfolio.

Going in Circles

2011-10-21T09:39:00.000-05:00

Earlier this month, I wrote about the cyclical nature of seasonal employment. Despite realizing that switching between two jobs and lifestyles each year is a process not dissimilar to going through the complete cycle of grief biannually, this go-around, I'm having trouble adjusting. When I mentioned how odd I was finding this fall's transition back to working from home, my friend Sarah pointed out that this might just be because there's nothing "new" about the transition.

While this was my second summer at the museum, I'm used to my summers repeating themselves. It's what I've done in the winter that's been different every single year since I graduated college. This is the first time in a long time that my life has completely repeated itself over the course of an entire year. I'm literally going in circles.

This is not a bad thing. But it's a little disorienting.

"Didn't I just go past that rock last October?"

Granted, the museum's only just closed on Sunday and this is actually my first "normal workday" morning that I've spent at home. Still, some things have changed around here. For instance, just yesterday morning I had a desk.

(Granted, it's not really my desk. For one thing it's a table. For another, it actually belongs to Andy's mother.)

Now? Not so much.

Let's look closer at what's going on here. What once contained some houseplants, reference books, notebooks, stationary and a laptop, suddenly sprouted a desktop computer, a ginormous printer/scanner/copier, and many, many more piles of, um, "files" yesterday afternoon.

While I've complained about my less than tidy desk before, it's really the winter months when desk space is most at a premium around here. Because during the off-season I work a few hours a week for the historical society that operates the museum, I end up adopting several pieces of office equipment on a seasonal basis for a couple reasons: 1) so it doesn't freeze in the museum 2) to avoid spending half my day transferring files.

There are about a gazillion things I could spend this first morning working from home doing. But something tells me, if I don't get this clutter straightened out, I'll spend the day going in circles. And while, I might feel fine about going in circles annually, during a work day "going in circles" is really just code for "spinning your wheels."

Can you work in clutter? What do you do to make transitions easier?

Wordless Wednesday: The Mythical Firewood Arrives

2011-10-19T18:34:00.000-05:00

Since, I don't know, February, Andy's been planning out our firewood for this winter. We got a cord of firewood a couple months back which, in reality, was probably plenty to get us through this winter, but we'd also been planning on getting some un-split, uncut firewood to put up to dry for next year. It finally arrived today!

Approximately 4 cords of firewood. (For the record, we use between 2-3 cords a winter.)

The wood kind of instantaneously multiples as soon as it falls out of the truck.

Guess these two tools'll be getting a workout in the next couple weeks. We're going to be nice and toasty this winter, for sure.

The Power of A Post-It

2011-10-17T07:23:00.002-05:00

Despite having slowly but surely pursued my goal of wanting to be a writer (whatever the means), for over a decade now, I still hide in humor when anyone asks me terribly pointed questions about my writing. I still feel like those writing goals and dreams still exist in a very dark, secret place in me, a place where I prefer to keep the light off for most people and sometimes, even for myself.

The truth is, I write about what interests me and what I feel like writing about at the moment. (How's that for a crappy answer to "what inspires you?") Other than becoming a financially self-sufficient freelance writer, I can't spell out specific goals that I want from my writing: fame doesn't seem too important, but I do want to succeed at living a thoughtful life doing what I love.

When people ask what I write, I really flounder. I'm not a niche writer (unless you count "Northwoods living" as a niche) and lately the only writing I do is stuff that pays me. The novel I worked so diligently at two winters ago has reached the point where it either needs to be abandoned or completely re-done and frankly, I'm kind of leaning towards abandonment. Don't they say the first two novels you write should never be seen by anyone's eyes other than your own? If so, prepare for greatness on my next effort because that'll be novel #3!

With my fiction (and most certainly my poetry) writing all but forgotten during the summer season, the other day, when a visitor at work asked about my writing, I forced my creative nonfiction writing into this nice little box: Northwoods memoir. Memoir?*ugh*

But as I stood there babbling on in an effort to make my writing life sound mildly interesting, I realized the visitor wasn't the one cringing at my descriptions; I was. The guy seemed genuinely interested in what I do. He'd just bought a book my volunteer of the day had written a couple years back. (She was the one who mentioned that I wrote.) Turns out the visitor was a singer and he'd made it his mission in life to support the arts and artists.

I told him about my commentary. I wished my business cards weren't in a crumpled mess in the bottom of my backpack. He asked how he'd know when my book came out.

My book? The latest novel seemed like a slightly sad, if not valiant effort that might live for eternity on my hard drive. In the last couple years, I feel my writing has shifted towards a much more nonfiction focus, although I can't imagine publishing a nonfiction book. It seemed silly to talk about a book. Not because it seems impossible, but because it still feels like something very far off to me, something that has yet to be realized.

When was my book coming out?! The question baffled me. And maybe more than baffled, it embarrassed me. I'm so very far off from having a book published.

So I laughed. "Oh, I expect it'll be a very big deal," I joked, trying to play it cool and not expose my awkwardness; trying to force the conversation back into that dark, safe little place where we just don't talk about such things.

"Well, give me something to write on," he said. I handed him a pad of orange Post-Its.

"Here," he said. He handed back the Post-It note pad. He'd scrawled his address across it and at the bottom he'd written a note: "1st signing of your book please!"

Validation in the form of a Post-it. In the light of day, that whole book writing thing didn't seem so silly after all.

Book Club Friday: Comfort Reads

2011-10-14T07:23:00.022-05:00

I've posted about comfort food before. (Mmmm, oatmeal.) But today, I'm thinking about comfort reads.

Yesterday, we had an entire day of rain. Although the inch + of rain we got was much needed right down to the very last drop, the grey, chilly weather signaled a decided turn in the weather. Good-bye sunshine and balmy highs in the lower 70s; hello autumn's windy gusts, chilly rain and highs in the low 40s.

Drizzly weather always makes me think one thought: time to make some warm beverage (preferably mint tea, cocoa or cocoa and Baileys) and cuddle up with a good book.

Granted, when I say "good book," let us not get that term confused with "great literature." Rainy days are good days for books I like to refer to as "fluffy puppies." Kind of like how whenever I was sick when I was little, the only books I could muster the strength to read during my ailment were The Boxcar Children, when the weather's grey and chilly, I don't want to really have to think about anything while I read, I just want to be transported to whole different place through the turning of pages.

On the way home from the wedding last month, we swung by my parents' house and I loaded up my tote with a bunch of what I call comfort reads.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants quartet. By Ann Brashares
Technically I'm far too old to still enjoy these books. While I didn't much care for the movie renditions of these, (I love you Alexis Bledel but you don't even look Greek let alone like Lena.) I will always have a soft spot for these teenage novels. Through the eyes of Tibby, Lena, Carmen and Bridget, you get an honest look at confusion we feel about a myriad of topics our entire lives: love, family, friends, work, death. Without falling victim to being a solely romance driven novel, I give Brashares big props for talking about the full spectrum of life experiences and taking these novels well beyond the "there's this boy . . ." cliche. Besides, at times these are snort through your nose funny. And I still like to remind people at work of Duncan Howes rules for customer service: "Rule #1: the customer is always right. Rule #2: if the customer is not right, please refer back to rule #1."

The Anne of Green Gables series. By L.M. Montgomery.
If ever there were books that were meant to be paired with a rainy day, some hot tea and maybe a buttery cookie or three, Montgomery's classic Anne books would be it. I've read the entire series of eight novels, not once, not twice, but three times. A couple summers back, I decided to go through the whole series again, but only got through novel #1. (Damn you adulthood!) Anne's life on Prince Edward Island is by no means idyllic -- she comes from a place where you're expected to work for what you have and her life is punctuated by mishaps and tragedies, both big and small. And maybe that's why she's so likeable; because her world seems so very true. I'd like to think Anne and I are kindred spirits. (But apparently I share one love with Montgomery's other main heroine - Emily - that of italics.)

44 Scotland Street books. By Alexander McCall Smith
I've only read these books once and I've only read the first three, back in 2007, when there only were three. Set in Edinburgh, Scotland, the novel covers the antics of the varied inhabitants of 44 Scotland Street which include a University student, an anthropologist, and an overbearing mother. This is fluff at its finest. The plots are never fully realized and the characters are missing that one final touch that would truly bring them to life. But there's good reason for the basicness of the books: although they reads like a novel, the books were first published in serial form in an Edinburgh newspaper. And something about those Dickens-ish roots (or Anne of Green Gables-ish for that matter) makes it all the more appealing.

What's your favorite comfort read?

Wordless Wednesday: The Zucchini

2011-10-12T09:05:00.000-05:00

Last week, I pulled the last loaf of chocolate zucchini bread out of the freezer. It was kind of a bittersweet (or should I say, semisweet) moment. But something tells me our zucchini bread days of the year are anything but behind us.

Yes, that is a zucchini the size of my forearm.

I know, I know. I said I was going to pull up the zucchini last week. But I didn't get around to it and now I'm paying for my negligence with many, many loaves of chocolate zucchini.

And I thought that cuke was big . . .

In the night . . . in the dark . . . things are brewing

2011-10-10T07:30:00.003-05:00

It always comes just when you've let your mind wander. Outside the dark windows, the wind howled. I could hear aspen leaves pinging against the window screen and the dock grinding against its moorings out in the roiling bay. Occasionally, a distant creak and crash came from somewhere deep in the forest. The power flickered once . . . twice . . . three times, then prevailed. I re-queued the DVD, pulled at my ball of yarn and started another row of knitting. Nothing bad was going to happen. Not tonight.

But the phone rang at a time all too late and the wrong day (Friday) for it to be a friendly "check-in." And just as I said "hello?", Andy's emergency pager went off. So while I took a message from our neighbor that a tree had tipped into a live electric line down the road and nothing could be done to extinguish the small fire until the electric company came (from 70+ miles away) to switch off the power and would Andy come and help turn on the wildland fire sprinkler systems around the bay, Andy was wriggling into his fire gear. And suddenly, I was switching my pajama bottoms for real pants, shoving my feet into tired sneakers and running down the gravel road, the flashlight throwing a jiggling white light out into the darkness in front of us.

I should have known that a morning that dawned red could only mean calamity. But the unease I felt rising to a reddish orange glow in the northern sky dissipated as the day wore on, even as the wind kicked up. It was a red-flag day for the fire danger and the local agencies had banned fires of any nature. Not even charcoal grills were allowed. Water levels were so low that our "floating" dock sat on the lake's bottom and the dying grass and leaves in the woods crackled underfoot.

I left the flashlight with Andy and returned to cabin after it became apparent that my biggest contribution to the firefighting effort would be to stay out of the way. To the moan of approaching sirens, I crouched beneath the porch, fiddling with our own sprinkler pump. When I filled bottles of water from the lake shore for the pump's reservoir, the wind blew so hard that it flipped the bottom of my flimsy button-up shirt up over my chest and twisted the shirt around me.

The smoking tree burnt a 10'x10' patch under the power line before the electricity was shut off and the fire department could extinguish it. By the time I walked over with a thermos of coffee for the quickly fading volunteer crew, it was nearly midnight. Under the flashing glow of red emergency vehicle lights, I watched the firefighters rolling hoses and packing away chainsaws.

The wind still buffeted the cabin when I finally rustled under the covers. But as I listened to the floor boards creak and Andy toss and turn next to me, I tried to lull myself back into that sense of security I'd had earlier in the evening.

Nothing bad was going to happen. Not tonight.

Fall's Fruit: Apples

2011-10-07T08:14:00.000-05:00

I've been noticing a lot of posts popping up on the blogosphere lately about apples and what to do with them after picking a bushel or so of them.

There's no apple tree on the cabin property and honestly, I'm not sure if there is an apple tree on the Gunflint Trail; I suppose they constitute bear bait.

Growing up in my great-grandparents' house, we had three apple trees in the backyard, all in the "winter" of their life. For years we gathered loads of apples from the yellow transparent apple tree and turned out pies, applesauce, apple butter, and crisps. But after sustaining considerable bear damage, the trees finally kicked it and my parents planted two new apple trees the spring I graduated from high school. This year, eight years after the seedlings went in the ground, my parents' apple trees produced enough apples for a single apple crisp.

While I have fond memories of peeling apples and rolling out pie crusts, I wasn't expecting to join in the annual apple harvest this year. But Andy's mother's neighbor has a well-established apple tree that they apparently don't use and I was more than happy to take some apples off their hands.

I thought I'd share a couple of my favorite uses for apples in this post, besides apple pie.

(Why is it that I can only ever get a picture snapped of mostly eaten pie?) I just used Joy of Cooking's apple pie filling recipe. The crust recipe is a secret. ;)

What with my new water bath canner and all, I knew I wanted to make a big batch of applesauce with the apples I scored this year. While some people (ahem, Andy) may say I eat like a kindergartener, to me applesauce is the ultimate comfort food.

Our family recipe for applesauce is pretty specific:
Fill a soup pot with apple slices. (At best guess, I'd say this is approximately 2 gallons of apple slices)
Add just enough water to keep the slices from sticking - start out with about a cup and add more water as necessary
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar.

Cook until soft, stirring occasionally. Puree if you like, but I prefer it chunky. Place hot applesauce into hot, sterilized canning jars. Process in water bath for 20 minutes. Makes approximate 3.5 quarts.

When I made applesauce earlier this fall, I rushed it along a little bit, which resulted in me using a high heat when cooking it and adding a lot of water. It still tastes homey, mildly sweet and delicious, but it's got some big chunks in it. If I were to do it, I'd probably simmer it for much longer over lower heat.

If I had more time (and apples) I'd have probably make a small batch of unsweetened apple sauce too for using in baking. I've made apple butter in the past and to be honest, I'm not over the moon about it. I guess I prefer berry-centric fruit spreads. Another favorite use for apples that are just about to turn is Magnolia Bakery's Apple Pecan Quick Bread.

May your baskets overflowth with apples this fall and may your home smell of cinnamon.

Travel Thursdays: Where Would You Go?

2011-10-06T08:12:00.001-05:00

Almost exactly four years ago, I was sitting in Chicago's O'Hare airport, waiting for my Aer Lingus flight to London, England, via Dublin, Ireland. I was participating in BUNAC's "Work Abroad" program, which provided me with a U.K. student work visa for six months. I'd booked a week in a downtown London hostel and I had a single job lead, but for the most part, I was heading off, all by my lonesome, to foreign shores, assuming everything would work out fabulously. (I think I was a lot braver back then.)

If you've been hanging around my blog for a while, you know everything did work out fabulously. Despite an unexpected return home at Christmas and more shuffling around through temp jobs than I really cared for, it was a wonderful six months of making new friends, sightseeing and life lessons.

But here's the rub: after wrapping up the adventure with a whirlwind tour through Ireland and returning home, I have yet to see foreign shores again. Various circumstances -- being a 20-something in a less than great economy, not exactly having a backpacker's mentality -- have kept me stateside since April 2008. Sure there have been other travels, but I haven't left the contiguous United States in 3.5 years!

The other night, as we sat around a campfire, my brother asked where I'd go if I could go anywhere in the world. He wasn't terribly impressed with my list (I've always been a rather elitist traveler) but here's my top 5 "to-see" list du jour.

5) Antarctica

I've been fascinated by Antarctica ever since reading the Shackleton/Endurance story in middle school. And also, who doesn't love penguins?

4) Alaska

I think I'm drawn by the sheer magnitude and majesty of the place. I am admittedly, a little nervous about the grizzly bears.

3) Australia

While both Alaska and Antarctica serve up plenty of snow and cold (which I'm all too familiar with), I've always wanted to see Australia because it seems like such a drastic departure from everything I know both from a climatic and cultural point of view.

2) Prince Edward Island, Canada

When I first read the Anne of Green Gables books, I knew I need to go. What's not to love: beaches, countryside, wildflowers, Lucy Maud Montgomery. Sounds like just the sort of place to let your imagination run wild.

1) Copenhagen, Denmark

Copenhagen's been at the top of my "to see" list for quite some time. I'm not really sure why. Despite the pickpockets and repeated vandalism of the Little Mermaid statute, I think it sounds quite lovely. I'd hate to say The Prince and Me had some influence in this matter, but perhaps on some unconscious level, it has.

If you were sitting in an airport today with the ability to go anywhere in the world, where you go?!

Wordless Wednesday: Bear 1; Ada 2

2011-10-05T10:52:00.000-05:00

Remember me moaning when a bear took off with our compost bucket back in August? We found it! A little bitten, but still functional.

The Garden: One Last Post

2011-10-04T09:25:00.000-05:00

After a couple hard frosts in mid-September, I assumed our gardening days were behind us. And looking at the current state of the raised bed, I think it was a fair assumption. Not that our veggie gardens this year ever looked particularly manicured, but they've definitely looked better than this: way better.

But although the raised bed may look like a wild beast trampled through it multiple times (always a possibility, although I think its bedraggled look is completely compliments of frost damage), I was surprised to find plenty of things still growing. The mammoth sunflowers are still hail and hardy, although they're too top heavy to show their pretty faces.

A couple days back, I picked over a pound of green beans and just yesterday, I discovered this growing among the trampled squash vines:

Yes, my friends, it's the zucchini plant that refuses to say die. I picked two more zucchinis off the plant last week and it looks like we'll have at least two more. After that, it's so long zucchinis because I'm pulling these suckers up either today or tomorrow. Sometimes there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.

We've had Swiss Chard growing in the shady, windy, lakeside terrace gardens all season. They've never gotten bigger than seedling size. After three years of trying to coax things to grow in these gardens, I think it's time to throw the towel in. Nothing will ever thrive in this rocky soil. So this fall, we're giving the terrace gardens a perennial makeover and we're moving the soil from the roadside raised bed (which has also never thrived) over to a sunnier part of the yard and building a couple new raised beds for next year. While I may have given up on the terrace gardens, I have not given up on the Swiss Chard. I moved it to an inside pot a couple weeks back and the plants have already doubled in size. Who knows how it'll do as a houseplant, but with any luck, we'll be eating chard around (American) Thanksgiving time.

Although our tomato plants are now dead, brown skeletons of themselves, we still have plenty of backyard tomatoes to enjoy. All the green ones we saved before the frost have been steadily ripening on the kitchen table. Andy and I made up a big batch of "end of the season" chili last week, using our own tomatoes, tomatillos, and jalapenos. While I feel like we had a motherload of tomatoes this year, now that we're transitioning into winter menus (aka, chilis, lasagnas, etc.), I'm reminded of just how many canned tomatoes we go through each winter. I'm tempted to plant twice as many tomatoes next year. So much for giving up on gardening, eh. ;)

I'm hoping we'll spend a good portion of these next couple days off pulling up dead plants, creating a second compost pile and maybe building those new raised beds. A gardener's work is never done.

The Cyclical Nature of Seasonal Employment

2011-10-03T07:35:00.007-05:00

If you're lucky enough to be employed in this part of the world, chances are, you have some sort of season work. A few resorts, like the one Andy works for, have year round business, although he'll be the first to tell you, they're all shocked if someone books a cabin in April and November. And of course there are certain year-round positions that must exist in any small community: grocery story owners, doctors, the mail lady, gas station employees, etc.

But I have always seemed to end up with the seasonal job: the one that goes from May through September, or at the very latest, into October. Although my job now is full time and pays quite well, it only lasts for just over 5 months of every year. Not only does seasonal work make for ~~interesting~~, creative finances, it also perpetuates the feeling that you should head off to school -- or some place new -- every autumn.

In fact, there's a certain cycle, a certain rhythm to each season. It begins with shock, horror, and more horror . . . oh wait, I made a graphic to explain it all better:

You're welcome.

So, as I was saying, there's a cycle to this seasonal employment thing. The cycle repeats its twice a year: once during the "on-season", again in the off.

It begins with shock. This settles in around the end of April. The inner monologue goes something like this: "Nearly time to go back to work again. Crikey where did that come from? Wasn't it just October?"

The shock is quickly replaced by horror. "I have to back to work?! What about baking bread, knitting sweaters, listening to NPR, and counting "not going broke" as one of my highest accomplishments? I was just getting settled in. You honestly don't expect me to go deal with real problems and real people, do you?"

But once you get back in the swing of things, say, after a couple weeks or so, some excitement builds up. It's going to be a great year. There's so much possibility, so much to do and conquer. At long last, out of the stuffy old cabin.

Unfortunately, the excitement is tarnished by terrible realizations. Realizations such as: you don't like people, you have no idea how to coordinate volunteers, despite your 26 years of life, you remain deathly afraid of the telephone. Expect these realizations to start trickling in around the Fourth of July.

As those realizations stop trickling and start gushing, you enter a state of blase. Blame your piss-poor attitude on Mercury Retrograde. That's what I do.

But those grey skies can't stay grey forever and blahs are eventually pushed aside for a long, calm period of acceptance. It is what it is. It's a job. It pays. And there are way more good days then there are bad. It's a pretty sweet gig after all.

Which brings us back to shock. The state in which I currently rest. Somehow September got gobbled on down and now we're in October, less than two weeks away from the season's close. How did that happen? Wasn't it just May? I'm not ready for this. I can't handle it. Oh, the horror. The horror!

Travel Thursdays: The Food Poisoning Edition

2011-09-29T07:26:00.000-05:00

I spend a fair amount of time here at Of Woods and Words dreaming about travel. While I was quite a globe-trotter back in my early 20s, now having reached the ripe old age of 26, my travels have taken on a shorter, more localized flavor. After spending a good portion of my day off yesterday playing in QuickBooks, it's become apparent that unless I give up on, say, health insurance, that trip to Antarctica is still a good five years off.

But when Mama Kat posted a writing prompt on food poisoning, I knew it was time to introduce "Travel Thursdays," a weekly feature on Of Woods and Words devoted to travel tales, tips and "to-see" lists. I can think of no better excuse to share my food poisoning story and start talking travel on a regular basis.

I've spent nearly seven years trying to reclaim Paris. I've watched nearly every Parisian flick Netflix has ever recommended. I've purchased Paris wall calendars. Last Christmas, I sent out Madeleine cards. But, although I'd once planned to minor in French, to this day, when I think of Paris, I feel tired and slightly nauseous.

During my semester in Ireland, I was part of a group of six girls who decided to spend a long weekend in Paris. As a 19-year-old whose only prior travel-abroad experience had been spending 12 days in London, England, the thought of jetting off to the most romantic city in the world for a weekend seemed positively surreal. The Eiffel Tower, boulevards, croissants, the Seine; it was enough to make me squeal and want to don a beret and jaunty striped shirt. But my stereotypical daydreams of sipping coffees outside a cafe or strolling through the flower garden behind Notre Dame while nibbling a crepe were by far the most romantic aspects of the entire trip.

Too poor to afford a night in the hostel, we spent the night before our flights sleeping in the Dublin airport. It wasn't until we arrived in Paris the next afternoon that we realized not one of the six girls on the trip had thought to throw in a map. Cue sleep deprived wandering through the streets searching for our hostel. As we became increasingly frustrated with Parisian street signage, it started to snow.

By the time we'd found the hostel, we were tired, cold, cranky and hungry. One of the other girls, Melissa, and I ran to the bakery across the street to pick up a late lunch. As I munched down on my baguette sandwich, I thought the mayonnaise perhaps tasted a little extra tangy. Never mind that, I thought, that was probably what Parisian mayonnaise tasted like. I ate the whole thing.

We spent a lovely evening in the Montmartre section, climbing the gazillion steps to the Sacre Couer, visiting the windmills, and taking in stunning nighttime views of Paris's lights. Under the glowing streetlights, we nibbled Nutella crepes and threw spare Euros into the street musicians' open cases.

But I woke with a start in the middle of the night. I didn't feel so good. A vicious growl from my stomach got me out of bed and as I knelt in front of the room's toilet, it became clear that I really, really didn't feel so good.

The next morning, it became apparent that Melissa and I were the only ones in our group in this predicament. Achy, retching, dehydrated and shaky, we were also the only baguette eaters in the gang. It seemed that funny tasting mayonnaise was the most likely culprit.

At the Louvre, I wandered aimlessly through the sculptures, feeling as heavy, lifeless and grey as the sculptures themselves. I tried to act disappointed that the bell tower was closed at Notre Dame, but with my shaky legs, I couldn't imagine climbing countless steps just for some vistas and gargoyles. In the Musee D'Orsay, I sprinted up at long escalator to the sixth floor bathroom to attempt to discreetly barf into a toilet.

For the most part I rallied. After sleeping for approximately 16 hours that night, I spent our final day in Paris touring Versailles and the Opera house. But truth be told, I was still feeling pretty dodgy as we sat in the Dublin train station wiating to make our final leg of the journey home. As we waited, I kept making some pretty uncomfortable sprints to the public toilet. And let me tell you, when the public toilet is one of those European numbers with a pay turnstile that you have to insert coins into to access the bathroom, that is not a great situation to be in.

Even my pictures from that weekend are blurry.

Oh Paris. Je t'aime? I think not. Je puke.

The Terrible Tale of Tuesday's Two Flat Tires

2011-09-28T09:20:00.000-05:00

Tongue tied yet? Even if the Ts of the post title didn't trip me up, I'm certainly speechless. I'm still working my brain through the fact that at this time next week, Andy and I will be the proud owners of not one, not two, but eight new tires.

Pourquoi?

Well, yesterday morning, I woke up to the sound of Andy heading off to work in the truck. Only I didn't just hear tires crunching on gravel. I heard: thump, thump, thump.

I may not be a mechanical genius, but even I know something up when your tires make a decided thump: something known as a flat tire. And this was an all or nothing flat tire. It wasn't just low on air, it was out of air. The passenger's side back tire was resting on its rim.

It wasn't a huge surprise.Andy'd spent most of Monday out grouse hunting on the county's back roads and had driven on one road currently under-construction which, in the past week, has gotten a bit of a reputation for causing flat tires. It's gotten such a reputation in fact, that local residents who live along the road are encouraging anyone with a flat tire to contact the construction company. But 6:45 in the morning, is no time for pointing fingers. Andy needed to get to work.

The only issue (other than that I'd be planning to take a vehicle to work myself . . . hello walking!) was that our alternative vehicle, the Subaru, has had a slow leak in its passenger's side back wheel for most of the summer. I'd driven the Suby around last and the tire had a reached a level of lowness where I didn't feel comfortable driving it anymore until it got some air in it. Nevertheless, Andy headed off in it on his 25 mile commute.

When he got to work, Andy called. The Subaru'd had a blow out on the way to work. According to Andy, the tire now "has a hole you could put your fist through." I guess that was one way to fix the slow leak.

By the end of day, the Subaru was rocking a donut, the truck has a spare on, and both vehicles had appointments for new sets of tires.

There are plenty of bright sides to this. For one, we'll now have brand new tires just in time for slippery winter driving months. For another, no one was injured in the tire drama and it's caused only mild inconvenience.

But, let me tell you, this was not on my little Post-It note of planned expenses for the month.

The Home Stretch

2011-09-27T07:52:00.000-05:00

I spent all summer viewing this past weekend's wedding as "the end." At "the end" of summer we had a wedding to go to. It always seemed a long ways off.

When I bought a dress to wear to the event back in May, it seemed absurd to be thinking so far in advance, almost as if the end of September would never roll around.

But it did.

This past weekend we headed down to central Minnesota for the hitchin'. Before we'd really gotten our bearings, the couple was happily married and we were heading home again.

Now, there's absolutely no denying that autumn is here. When I walked home from work last night, I was shocked to discover docks anchored in the middle of our bay. The ice and snow may still be a month or two off, but the summer residents clearly already have their hearts set on warmer locations. Getting the cabin closed up for winter is a task all summer residents face; a task that involves draining pipes, shutting off pumps, and detaching docks from the shore so the ice doesn't destroy them. Soon our cabin will be the only light shining out over the bay each night.

It's not like autumn hasn't given me any warning signs. The tomato plants on the deck have been dead for nearly two weeks now and the woods have been filled with the musty, almost sweet smell of decaying leaves. But it's been such an odd month of strange work schedules and perhaps a few too many commitments, that I hadn't been paying that much attention to the changing world around me. I finally noticed that fleeting autumn light yesterday when Andy and I headed out for an early morning stroll.

It's true we're on the home stretch of the summer season. Soon that nip in the air will be downright cold. The leaves will fall; the snow will come. But until then, I plan to marvel and exclaim over the world's beauty; to take a minute and soak it all in.

Oh Those Wedding Bells

2011-09-22T07:59:00.000-05:00

I finally turned a corner with this whole wedding thing. It's no secret that I've had some anxieties and neuroses to deal with when it comes a dear friend's wedding on Saturday. There's nothing like having both the mandatory strapless bra and Andy's "dress" clothes arrive with plenty of time to spare before the big day (and have them all fit) to really calm you down for someone else's big day.

Now that I'm a picture of serenity and calm, Andy and I are ready, we are set to head to central Minnesota for the biggest, bestest Lutheran wedding bash of them all. Granted there are few things to worry about. It better be cold, because Andy's wedding appropriate wear consists of khaki pants, a chamois shirt and wool sweater. And I had better start practicing my readings for the wedding or else I'm going to have phrases like "exquisite excitements" twisting my tongue in every which way.

In the last couple days, I've stopped looking at the wedding as obligation and started seeing it as an opportunity. An opportunity to spend some time with some of my favorite people in the world:

Hard to believe we're all old enough to be married, engaged, or otherwise attached, but I think Charlotte from Sex and the City said it best: "Maybe we could be each other’s soul mates. And men could be these great, nice guys to have fun with."

Oh those wedding bells are ringing and Andy and I are on our way to make a toast or two.

What Do You Say to Taking Chances?

2011-09-21T08:28:00.000-05:00

In honor of the new Glee season (just added the final four discs from season 2 to the Netflix queue . . . or should I say *ahem* Qwikster queue), here you go:

So what do I say to taking chances? Well, I'm kind of a risk adverse person. Sure, I've had my share of brave moments, but for the most part the thought of being uncomfortable makes me uncomfortable. Fear of failure tends to debilitate me.

I've spend a good amount of time on this blog talking about freelance writing and the day when I'll be self-employed with my writing. Obviously, I'm not there yet. Although I tell myself I'm being prudent, that I'm taking my time and building up clients and work so when I do go to writing full-time, it won't be so scary, after a certain point, prudence turns into stalling.

And stalling is a way to keep all those little voices in my head at bay. What if there's not enough work? What if there's not enough money? What if I . . . *gulp* fail?

We've reached the point in the season at work where it's time to have "the talk." If you've ever temped or worked seasonally, you know what I'm talking about. "The talk" is that wonderful conversation with your work superiors where you talk about future plans like they're something concrete and you make important and unalterable decisions about contract extensions.

While theoretically, I should have had all summer to think of what I'll say during this talk and whether or not I'll sign on for another year, the truth is, I'm as muddled about how I feel about the whole thing now as I was in May. A big part of me wants to kiss this charade of me pretending to be a museum curator good-bye. The less impulsive side of me tells me I'm not quite ready to be off all by myself in work world yet. Where will the money come from?

"Maybe don't garden next year," my friend Sarah said on Monday as I regaled her once again about my torn feelings about my employment options. "Sign the contract, work at the museum again next year, but spend your spare time focused on getting yourself set up for freelancing."

Don't garden?

It was horrifying thought. You mean, I'd have to give up something I love in order to get where I claim I want to be? How would I make it through the long winter if I didn't have seeds to start at the end of March?

But Sarah, who is by far more career focused and as such, much more successful than I am, had a point. I've been distracting myself with hobbies: canning, gardening, knitting. As much as I love them, as much satisfaction as they give me, I might just be using them as crutches. I could keep complaining about not having enough time to have it all, or I could . . . alter how I use my time. I'll repeat: it was a horrifying . . . horrifying thought. She'd just pointed out that I was the stick in the mud who created the situations I like to complain about.

So, what do I say to taking chances?

I'm not quite sure yet. Change is as scary as chances. But sometimes they're both necessary.

Women Who Don't Drive

2011-09-20T13:07:00.000-05:00

Women who don't drive kind of fascinate me. Maybe because not so very long ago, I was one. Ever a reluctant driver, I didn't bother to get my license until age 21. Sometimes I wonder why I bothered then.

I know exactly two women who don't drive at all. One is my aunt. She used to drive back in the day, but my now she gets around courtesy of my uncle, grandfather, and coworkers. The other, the manager at the restaurant where I worked the winter before last. Thanks to friends and her life partner, she manages to live in the middle of nowhere sans car. I don't blame them at all. Honestly, driving makes me feel like this:

You might remember back in May, the newly deceased Corolla (RIP) was replaced by the sporty Subaru Baja. The Subaru Baja with a manual transmission. The manual transmission that I had a very limited idea of how to operate.

Over the summer, thanks to various independent berry picking voyages, I've gotten really good at driving Andy's schmancy truck, but driving what is technically my car still fills me with dread. All summer, I've basically been a woman who doesn't drive. Why fight with the sticky clutch and risk my life when I could just have Andy chauffeur me around my errands?

But there come a time when the codependency has to end. When the grocery store is an hour away and your and your significant other haven't had a shared day off in, oh, I don't know, a month, and since things like eggs and milk are nice to have on hand, there sometimes comes a time when a solo trip to town is necessary.

Today I drove to town. There was a commentary to record, some groceries to get and the car needed gas. The drive wasn't pretty and it wasn't flawless, but I made it and once again, I've joined the ranks of women who do drive.

On Why I've Made No Plans for the Winter

2011-09-17T08:18:00.001-05:00

I've had to cover up the finally fruiting green beans up two nights in a row. Last night it dipped down to 22 degrees and steam rises off the lake each morning. But despite the chilly temps, I've spent very little time thinking about the winter months to come.

It's a summer Emily over at the Happy Home and her fiance have labeled "bummer summer." Here at Of Woods and Words? Maybe not a bummer summer, but certainly a static one.

Projects that sat unfinished at the start of the summer remain half done. Gigs I enjoy doing have fallen by the wayside until I finish with the 40 hour work weeks in a month's time. It feels like in this push to make ends meet, by balancing writing and a full-time, seasonal job, everything suffers. My performance at work would be much improved if it was my sole focus. My freelance writing career might not feel so prone to fits and starts if I contributed a consistent amount of attention to it year-round.

The truth is, I've been distracted. By pumpkins, among other things.

To really make summer work and to make the extra money and procure the work necessary to get me through the lean winter months, I really should put in a 10-20 hour work week from my home office each week on top of my 40 hours outside the house. You can probably guess by the dwindling blog posts this summer that that's not be how things are going. Instead, I've spent the summer berrypicking, having cookouts, paddling, hiking, gardening. When given the choice to write some query letters or bake up some pumpkins to mash and freeze, I've inevitably chosen pumpkins.

The other week, my brother asked me what my short-term goals were; where I wanted to be in three years or so. I wasn't really sure how to answer. Lately, I've spent very little time thinking about goals, although I know goals are the stepping stones to get where you want to go. I have a general idea of what I want: more financial security, more independent work, more travel opportunities, maybe some chickens.

And in a slow shuffling way, I feel like I am moving in that direction and I don't want to have a life so career focused that I don't get moments to watch Netflix with Andy, or knit up a pair of socks or can some applesauce. If these sound like excuses, they're really not meant to be. Really, they're realizations; that there are more important things to me than putting my foot on the gas of my career and going full steam ahead. There's a certain level of contentedness I'm not willing to forgo, even if making myself a little more uncomfortable would mean more money and opportunity.

Of course they say, it's about the little things. It's the big picture that's evading me, and maybe that's okay. So no, I haven't made much in the way of winter plans. Instead, I guess I'll "open my heart and come what may."

Smoke Gets in My Eyes

2011-09-13T12:52:00.001-05:00

When I'm at a campfire, it seems like no matter where I sit, I always end up with smoke blowing straight in my face. Sometimes my life feels like that too. There's always smoke in my life, coming from somewhere.

Although we had lovely damp summer which kept wildfire danger at bay, we've now gone for several weeks without any significant rainfall. Recently, the extremely dry weather's been paired with high winds which is bad news Smokey bears for a small wildfire that's been smoldering on the far side of the national forest we live in. The fire that was 11,000 acres yesterday morning is now 60,000+ acres at the very smallest. A mandatory evacuation been instated for residential areas in the fire's path and wilderness crews have spend the last couple days evacuating Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness visitors out of the woods in effected areas.

The fire may be 30 miles off, but depending on how the wind blows, we've been getting pretty smoked out. Yesterday at noon, the smoke masked the sun casting the world in an unnatural hazy orange glow. As the wind howled past the windows, little bits of black ash blew through the window cracks onto the museum exhibits. The fire produced its own severe thunderstorm system yesterday afternoon, creating cloud to ground lightning and a downpour that dropped both raindrops and burnt pine needles in the area where Andy works.

As if that wasn't enough excitement, as I was preparing to leave work last night, Andy called. There was a fire on the south side of our lake likely caused by a powerline downed in the mighty gusts we got yesterday. Andy headed off to respond and as I walked home, I saw a billow of rusty color smoke coming up from across the lake. An ambulance and wildland firefighting brush rig hurtled down the road and a leader plane (which directs the fire suppression aircraft) began circling in the air over the smoke.

Back at the cabin there wasn't much I could do. I thought about firing up our wildland fire sprinkler system, but realized I didn't actually know how to prime the engine. (Oops.) Considering that we were directly north of the fire and the wind was blowing due south (with a good strip of open water between the fire and the cabin even if the winds did shift), I felt pretty calm about the whole thing. I called a friend and then got a lot of knitting done while waiting up for Andy who returned around 11:30.

It was, however, quite the air show.

(These aren't the best pictures. By the time I got my camera battery charged, it was growing dusky and the main plane action was farther away than my camera's zoom cared for.)

The wind seem a bit calmer today and the fire on the south side of the lake, which ended up being about 4-5 acres, is in heavy mop-up mode. (It's no longer a threat, but firefighters are still on the scene to take care of the smoldering bits.) Updates are few and far between for the farther off fire. Because of all wildfires in other parts of the country (ahem, Texas), firefighting resources are stretched rather thin, but hopefully today's cooler temperatures and higher humidity will throw the firefighters a bone.

Think rain!

Where were you?

2011-09-11T07:41:00.049-05:00

One World Trade Center construction (April 2010)

If you're looking for a reprieve from the endless 9/11 remembrances this isn't the place for you. Today I'm posting a piece I wrote in a college writing class about what happened in my life on September 11, 2001. This isn't gripping stuff. I was just a homeschooled jungle freak a thousand miles removed from the events. Like most people shocked and horrified by 9/11, I was a nobody who suffered no personal loss.

But it's funny how we hold onto our memories of that day. In fact, the reason writing about September 11 was even assigned was because it was our only common experience as classmates and Millennials. Reading through the piece below, I'm surprised by how much ~~my writing has improved~~ detail I remembered about the day at one point (this was written in September 2005) that I can't recall now. As we all said in the days immediately following the event: we remember and we will never forget. Where were you for September 11?

The News Everyone Knew

September 11, 2001 was the first time our town’s local community radio station had breaking news to report since last election. As usual, I missed it. In my sixteen-year-old mind, the fact that my parents had been homeschooling me since fourth grade was the root of all my ignorance.

While my peers sat in home rooms during the second week of school, I spent the grey early morning of September 11 in the cramped family-owned grocery store of Johnson’s Foods, completing the week’s shopping with my mother. My textbooks for my junior year of high school had yet to arrive and until they did, my life was little more than an extended summer vacation. I had decided I was going to win the national Pillsbury Bake-Off that fall and as I picked a package of Pillsbury pie crusts from the orange-paneled dairy case, I pondered how I’d spend the day concocting a prizewinning recipe.

My dreams of winning millions dissipated somewhat as my mother and I hauled our mounded shopping cart into the checkout aisle. The owner of the store muttered something about his wife’s flight home from California where she’d been visiting a new grandbaby being delayed “until they get this all figured out.” The cashier nodded knowingly as she began to pack our sea of produce, canned goods, and dairy into the cloth bags we always brought on these excursions. My mom and I exchanged glances, eyebrows arched.

The radio remained silent as we drove the five minutes home. But as Mom backed the car into the driveway, my father appeared at the doorway, his slippered feet padding across the deck to the still dewy grass. “There was an explosion at the World Trade Center,” he said simply, although his voice held a nervous agitation I’d last heard when he’d had an allergic reaction to a bee sting.

Entering our kitchen was like entering a cavern. My father’s newspaper and breakfast were spread across the kitchen table. In the name of conserving energy, Dad liked to turn off the overhead kitchen light as soon as he got home from his morning run, even though the avocado carpeting and powdery blue vinyl walls my mother so badly wanted replaced, as well as the cloudy weather, stifled any natural light in the room. In the background, the radio lilted, local announcers Nick and Kent murmuring about New York City, the World Trade Center, and airplanes. “It’s just a little car bomb,” my mind canted over and over of the explosion, trying to make the news seem minuscule, almost routine. I pulled the groceries out of their bags, setting the refrigerated items on the floor by the fridge, tucking everything else safely in cupboards.

My household has never contained a television. A local radio station, pulling its headline news from Internet reports, can convey only so much about a situation, especially to the passive teenage listener. But by the time the groceries were finished with, one thing was clear to me. This was no car bomb. This was something horrible.

Upstairs, my younger brother remained fast asleep and outside the sun tried its best to come out, casting hazy shadows across our living room carpet. My parents huddled around the computer, while I sat to the side, rubbing the tummy of our puppy. When the dial-up finally connected, the computer screen showed an image reminiscent of a horror film. The stark greyness of a tower of the World Trade Center stood against a grey cloud sky while a silver plane, dwarfed by the size of the tower, flew straight toward the building. It reminded me of the plane King Kong nabs out of the air when he’s perched atop the Empire State Building. But there was no King Kong to grab this plane out of the air in mid-flight this time. Instead, two jet planes had crashed into the twin towers of the World Trade Center, a third flying into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., and a final one crashing in the fields of Pennsylvania.

I stopped petting my dog. The soft breeze outside that had been rousing the first musty smells and colored leaves of autumn seemed to snuff itself out. I could no longer hear the traffic from the highway that ran just feet away from our living room. My awareness reduced itself to a rushing in my ears and the nauseating thought that all the people on the planes and most of the people in the buildings were dead before I’d even known anything was wrong.

I didn’t know what to do, so I trundled upstairs to my room, my footsteps falling so softly on the stairs, I barely knew I was moving. I buried my face in a pile of clothes and thought the tightness in my chest might mean I needed to cry, but I did not. I flopped onto the bed I’d neatly made earlier in the morning, turned on the radio, and pulled out my journal, a black spiral-bound notebook I’d started only the week before. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” I wrote, knowing it was cliche, but also understanding that the morning’s event would shape much of my life as a young adult.

Through my headphones, the developing news from New York piped in my bedroom. In the kitchen, the radio set on top of the fridge sent the voice of reporter who always had something to say throughout the house to fill the silence of everyone else left speechless. My dad went to work, my mother puttered around in the garden, and my brother eventually woke up. I sat in the kitchen, peeling apples to keep my hands busy, while the news unfolded of towers collapsing, terrorists, and children not knowing where their parents were.

I have only been to New York City for one day of my life. I remember sailing on the Staten Island ferry and turning into the autumn breeze to catch a glimpse of Manhattan’s skyline rising from the island, its reflection held in the rippling water of the Atlantic. The bleating horns of taxi drivers, the scramble of pedestrians that made up the interior of the city disappeared in that tranquil view. In my ten-year-old heart, I thought the sleek silver skyline of New York was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I had always felt a deep connection with the city since that day and as I jumped from radio broadcast to Internet updates, it felt a bit like my heart was on fire. I gnawed on a piece of toast with honey, hoping it would calm my somersaulting stomach. My New York was in ashes, people were in pain, and I could do nothing.

My best friend called when school was out. She wanted to make sure I knew what was going on since my family lacked a television. Oh yes, I knew.

The sun came out in the early afternoon. I had soccer practice in the evening and I pulled on my USA Hockey t-shirt along with my shorts and cleats. I felt it was a sign we were all in this tragedy together, no matter how far away we were. As we stretched on the green grass of the baseball field outfield we practiced on, we exchanged what we knew about the morning’s events. But somehow there were still sprints to be run at practice, scrimmages to be played. I did my best pirouette in front of the goal, just to make everyone laugh. Twelve hours earlier, buildings had been crumbling, but soccer practice reeked of normality.

My mom had baked cookies, double-chocolate cherry, my favorite, and they sat on the cooling rack, still warm and perfect when I arrived home from practice. I ate a couple before supper, then a few after, wondering if this qualified as stress eating. Darkness was falling in the bluish way it always does in early September and my mom turned the light on in the kitchen so it glowed in a warm yellow tinge. My family would all be under the same roof that night. My community was safe. But there was a nagging thought that a thousand miles away, on the East Coast of my country, this calmness and security was not shared.

Big news was hard pressed to find a way into my life when I was sixteen. But on September 11, my family’s detachment with the media, which had formed such a successful barrier to reality, no longer existed. The lives of people far, far away from me were shattered and even I could feel their hurt.

A Happy Ending

2011-09-09T08:16:00.000-05:00

Back in early June of this year, I penned a rather tragic post about the fate of the loons' nest at work. Back in May, Andy and another volunteer buoyed an artificial loon nesting platform constructed of PVC pipe, mud, and grass clippings out in the bay in front of the museum. Within days, a loon couple had moved in and laid two egs. But when eagles raided the nest on day 12 of the eggs' incubation (loon eggs are incubated 27-30 days before hatching) and destroyed the eggs, it was just life in the North Woods, I figured.

For a couple weeks, the loon couple made infrequent visits back to the nest. When they visited, they'd both climb onto the nest, cooing softly at each other before slipping off the nest and disappearing up the lake again.

But one morning, I found a loon sitting on the nest and the loon didn't move.

Fast forward 27 days . . .

That's right, not one but two loon chicks hatched as part of the second nesting!The first chick appeared on my brother Peter's birthday, so I named that guy "Peat." When the second little one popped out a day later, it was christened "Repeat."

Because the chicks hatched later in the season, we were a little worried they wouldn't have the time to figure out the big wild world and learn to fly before it was time to head south in the autumn. A massive snapping turtle also lurked in the waters near the nest, not to mention all the large fish in the lake who might be searching for a little loon appetizer. Would both chicks make it?

The answer is a resounding: YES! Both chicks are alive and well and growing fast. They've nearly shed their brown coats (morphing into the immature silver coat that they'll have for an extended period of time) and are probably testing out their flying chops. They still have plenty of difficulties ahead, especially when they head south (most likely to the oily Gulf of Mexico) in the fall, where they'll stay for the next few years. We won't know if our loon twins will ever return, but there's some peace (and a bit of pride) in knowing we helped two loons get their start.

Mother Nature may not always be nice, but she also happens to have a redemptive streak.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

2011-09-07T09:24:00.000-05:00

When Wedding Appeal Meets Wedding Apparel

2011-09-06T12:33:00.002-05:00

I've known we'd have a wedding to attend this September ever since the happy couple got engaged last autumn. Apparently, my friends and I are late bloomers. At the ripe old age of 26 and a half, this is the first wedding of a friend I'll attend and only the second wedding of a close acquaintance that's even occurred.

Now, we all know I have no issues with wedding hoopla and as the bride's personal attendant and a reader in the ceremony, I'm happy, honored, thrilled to be a part of her big day. Besides, it's awesome excuse to nab a new pair of ridiculous heels.

But this morning, I hit a wall with the whole wedding business.

I was sitting on L.L. Bean's website trying to figure out something for Andy to wear to the wedding that he wouldn't feel like a douche bag in but that would be reasonably acceptable to wear to a semi-formal wedding. My brother, also my newly appointed men's wedding wear guru, stated Andy'd have to at least wear a button up shirt and dress pants if he didn't want to feel completely under dressed.

I'd just spent over $50 on a new strapless bra, which for the record, cost more than the shoes above and I was feeling a little cranky about formal wear expenses. But I had no choice. The last time I was in a Victoria's Secret was back in May on Chicago's Magnificent Mile just hours before I bought the strapless dress I'm wearing to the wedding. And with the nearest actual, non-virtual lingerie store is a three-hour drive away and I had to bit the bullet and order the now necessary strapless bra online. (Oh mail-order bras do inspire fear in my little heart.) Granted I could have just returned to Victoria's Secret while I was still in Chicago, but frankly those stores intimidate me and I try to only go inside such places every few years.

Cranky with the whole bra situation and having shelled out the close to $200 necessary to complete my outfit, I had to turn my attention to Andy's apparal. I am not exaggerating when I say Andy has one sweater which might be remotely appropriate to wear to a wedding. This boy's go-to clothing pieces are Polarfleece pullovers and Wild-Ass jeans. Andy's aunt (also our neighbor and a stalwart volunteer at work) literally cackles every time the subject of what in the heehaw Andy's going to wear to this event is approached.

As I poked through the men's chico selection, I felt my irritation growing. Why should my self-proclaimed "jack pine savage" of a boyfriend have to don unnatural and uncomfortable clothing in order to celebrate someone else's life choice?

It's nothing against this particular wedding, but against the entire concept of weddings.

By the time I receive a thank you note for the event, I will have bought two brand new outfits, paid for a portion of a cabin rental and numerous other travel expenses. I have shuffled my non-traditional work week to accommodate the event. I have handcrafted a wedding present. I have felt guilty sending my regrets when the bachelorette party and bridal shower invitations started rolling in. That's a lot of monetary and time obligations and I didn't even have to buy a bridesmaid dress.

Naturally, I want to celebrate the bride and groom and I want to be there to bless their future together. But we have created a wedding culture that necessitates consumption and conformity. Back when Laura Ingalls Wilder got married, you just headed down to the pastor's house and came back to your house to have one of Ma's homemade meals with your family.

It all recalls this:

We've created one unorganic, inescapable web of social niceties surrounding our friends' life choices. And sometimes, as someone less than a week away from her three year anniversary with no plans of wedding bells in the near future, it's a rather bitter pill to swallow.

The garden: in review

2011-09-02T07:30:00.004-05:00

Sometimes, it's really easy to forget how far you've come. Just a few short months back, I had trays of seedlings in the window. Now looky:

Zinnia

Ripening Thai Peppers

Tomato Escalade

I mean, remember when it looked like this?

Granted, the above picture of the raised bed isn't really the best portrait of how far the little garden has progressed. For one thing, we've picked all the kohlrabi and all but one of the cabbages. Also, all the onions died. I have no idea why.

But just because the onions decided they didn't like the little patch of earth I'd provided for them, that doesn't mean the other seedlings didn't take a liking to our pots and raised beds. Just take a look at these tomatoes.

Your loss, onions, your loss.

Bears . . . and what the heck was up with the pots and pans?

2011-09-01T07:46:00.000-05:00

If you're wondering what was up with my pots and pans comment to Andy in yesterday's post when he was fending off the black bear and I was groggily dispensing advice, let me explain.

We live less than a mile from the border of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. In addition to our general proximity to the Boundary Waters, I also spent three seasons as a federal employee issuing permits to Boundary Waters visitors. Throw in another summer working at a canoe outfitters and basically, I spent four summers of my life listening to the user education video that each Boundary Water party must watch before embarking on an overnight camping trip.

And that sage advice about how to deal with bears, well, you'll have to get to about 7:55 mark into the flick to see where that came from.

In other notes, holy schnikes it's September 1st today! Hard to believe the majority of summer's behind us already, but there's plenty to do before we're ready to hole up for winter around here. There's pie social and sidewalk sale at work on Sunday, a Saturday night cookout and plenty of garden chores to keep me on my toes through Labor Day weekend. Safe travels to anyone taking an extended weekend!

Honey, Come Help With the Bear

2011-08-31T10:07:00.001-05:00

Earlier this summer, I told a concerned visitor at work that I don't worry too much about bears.

The visitor's eyes grew wide. "Why not?" she gasped.

"Well," I said. "I've run into bears when I walk to work before. And really, all you do is make a little noise and they move on."

Really, the only time I feel mildly concerned about my safety during my mile and a half wilderness wander to work is in October, when the moose are in rut.

But my blasé attitude towards Bruno got me in trouble with my beloved earlier this week.

We've had a bear around all summer. It's probably a two-year-old: a small bear, kind of lost without Mom, looking to make his mark on the world. Mostly Mr. Bear likes to leave his mark in the form of big seedy blobs all over the road. He's also fond of getting into our neighbor's bird feeders and he's been known to crash into our compost pile, although he doesn't often find much to his liking in there. Early this spring, when we were putting together the raised bed, he bit into one of our bags of peat moss, rolled it around, and moved on.

But in the last couple days, he's grown nervier. On Sunday, another neighbor's dog came back to the house with a bear bite in the rump. And on Sunday night, the bear decided to pay us a noctornal visit.

It was my fault, really.

We always get fruit flies this time of year. But I just can't bear putting the fresh tomatoes and peaches in the fridge to save us from a fruit-fly-pocolypse because frankly, putting tomatoes and peaches in the fridge makes them taste of cardboard. So in an attempt to rid the small house of fruit flies, I put the compost bucket out on the porch when I got home on Sunday. Then I sat down during the couch and during the 3 hours that is American Gangster, I forgot about the compost bucket.

I forgot about the compost until I woke up in the middle of the night to find Andy peering out the window with the porch light on.

"What are you doing?" I asked, when I padded out to the kitchen.

"There's a bear out there," Andy hissed.

"The compost bucket," I mumbled.

We both looked at the porch railing where I'd left the compost bucket. The rail was empty. The bear however was standing right at the base of the terrace garden, about 12 feet away from our front door.

"Get me something to throw at the bear," Andy whispered.

"Bang some pots and pans," I yawned. Then I went back to bed. Having imparted that stellar advice, I felt my work was done.

Meanwhile Andy stayed up for the next hour. The bear returned after Andy scared him off once. Now there's shotgun sitting by kitchen counter. I guess sometimes you have to do more than just "make a little noise" for the bears to move on.

On Monday morning, both Andy and I searched for the compost bucket. Nothing. No bent branches where the bear took off in the woods, no spilled compost, no nothing. The only thing Andy found was the little filter that sits in the bucket's lid. I suspect the bear had a lovely compost picnic, probably complete with napkins and a tablecloth, somewhere out back.

If you find a green compost bucket out there missing its filter top, please return it. I use that bucket all the time. And after my lackluster assistance with Bruno, getting the bucket back is the least I could do. Seriously, anyone seen that bucket?!