O'Meallie Egg Nog

12 large eggs separated
2 cups sugar
1 pint milk
1 pint heavy whipping cream
1 fifth rum
1/2 fifth brandy

Mix egg yolks and sugar until creamy in large bowl. Add milk, blending slowly. Slowly stir in spirits. On one side whip cream to stiff peaks and fold into mixture. On other side, whip egg whites to stiff peaks and then gently fold into mixture. Grate fresh nutmeg over all.

Enjoy with true abandon.

This halves well.

Behave.

A Day to be Thankful

Thanksgiving was beyond lovely at the Ranch.

Kristin & I cooked and baked at a steady but not demanding pace for days before so on the big day all we had to do was the Turkey, the Egg Nog, and the green beans.

Before that we had oodles of turkeys to process for others. We had a crisis of how to clean the gizzards, not usually our job but we found a wonderful web site, not for the queasy. But let's not think of that..back to easy & peaceful.

Our Menu:

Beginnings: O'Meallie Egg Nog - made with our eggs, various cheeses, fruits, and crackers & nuts.

The Meal: our turkey from the Ranch, moist as could be; apple stuffing; stuffed mirlitons, sweet potatoes on pineapple slices; cranberry chutney & green beans buca lapi.

Dessert: Creole cream cheesecake - creole cream cheese made from scratch & chocolate truffle torte. All also made with great quantities of our farm eggs.

Around the Table: Kristin. Jared, Jim, Keith, & myself, and all the animals that were allowed inside.

Perfect.

Funniest moment: seeing all the men try to keep the fluffy clouds of joy from the eggnog off their facial hair.

The Great Hen Escape

Devilish gals, they learned how to open their door and go a wandering. I arrived home to dozens & dozens of hens everywhere. Poor bugs & worms, they stood no chance.

It took two people, two dawgs & one llama to corral the wenches. Good thing it was coming dusk. Or we would have stood no chance.

Ranch Views

I'm amazed at what we see without leaving the porch. I've been sorting photos and these are keepers.

Full moon rising in September over the Gore Range, and swiftly, too.

And we get rainbows. These arrived five days later.

And a Double!

The Wind Turbine Base #1

You don't have to be a little boy to enjoy Big Dirt Moving Equipment. Keith brought his toys out and just happened to be on hand when the permits came through for the Wind Turbine. When you have Machines of Unusual Size, digging a hole for a 14' x14' x 4' base with working space and a walk-in & drain-outs in a mere hour or two.

Keith has his two trusty assistants with him at all times. Look closely in that cab. Who do you think is really operating that Cat?

Look closely. Click on that pic on the left.

So after missing a week of beautiful weather the concrete crew arrive to set forms in a snow flurry. Layers of #7 rebar are woven into the form. Number 7! You don't want to be tapped by #7, much less thwapped.

Positioning the bolts for tower base takes precison and finally a template assured accuracy and the concrete trucks are called. Unfortunately it's Jared's birthday and he's not here as he has to renew his CDL. Three trucks loaded with 28 yards off some very high tech blend come rolling in.

Live Life With Alacrity™ Pom-Toons

AKA Pomegranate Martoonies.

Recipe by popular request.

• 500 ml or 2 cups excellent vodka
• 500ml or 2 cups 100% pomegranate juice
• The juice of one thin skinned lemon strained, preferably a Meyer's
  

Stir. Store extra in freezer.

Shake in ice, and serve in chilled martini glasses.

Notes:

If you serve this as a featured cocktail at a party, pre-mix large batches. Anyone sipping one of these will never conceive that it's not 90% alcohol. Don't let amateurs mix these. Immoderate behavior will result. (Even at the recommended dosage, odd behavoir may result.)

Leftovers freeze well. In the summer you can scoop this out as a frozen drink.

Forget the Cointreau, or any other filler. Stick with the good stuff. Don't mess with perfection.

Isn't it iChronic?

It must be the coming holidays. The phone's been popping with messages, email is full. People are reaching out to find me. I've even received, hold the presses, snail mail, hand written, no less.

What I feel, is, well, missed and beloved. Which is a very wonderful way to feel.

I'm a poor correspondent. I don't call folks. I email when I have a random thought. Okay, I'll even admit I abhor buying gifts at appropriate times; I'd rather give when something or someone moves me. But I wasn't always like this, except for the gift thing.

I've turned into a bit of a hermit since I broke my back, and it's because of pain. Living with chronic pain is an undeclared war as no one wants to talk about it or recognize it. Only the people living closest to you can stage an anti-war rally, and that might just be moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer. Pain is an embarrassment, a weakness. No one wants to sit next to the old man that goes on about his lumbago, his prostate cancer, and his arthritis. Boring! It's not a conversation, it's a death sentence. Argh!

"How ya' doing?" is a loaded question because no wants to really know. "Medium" is usually my lowest answer because if I was worse, you wouldn't have any contact with me. And so I disappear.

And so I'm living a mostly invisible life.

I've got a few hours a day and I use them. If I over-do I pay for it by losing days. My mind is rich with scheming. reading, physical therapy, icing, a little piano, training dawgs, heat packs, dreaming of ways to be finacially safe, dove releases, napping, zoning, more ice packs, couch surfing on the internet, and always, pain medications.

And as my mama taught me, when there is nothing nice to say, don't.

So mostly invisible.

But here online I am very visable, in my best togs. And here is where the best parts of me & my world are on display. But you should see behind the curtain. You should know that this Oz is an illusion made real by hope, and more so by my fellows at the nonprofit & the Ranch. They are my limbs, my friends & family, my support system. Without them I'd be lost. And certainly without clean laundry.

I thank you all.

The WTF

Between the Ranch and Town, we have a mess of refrigerators - 4.5. And we are actively seeking deep freezers. Several, in fact.

The Town fridge is serious, pretentious, spacious stainless so only the sides have magnets, cartoons & such frippery that tell you a bit about the occupants. Strangely enough, it has more attached personality than any other form of cooling about...until lately.

But only one Refrigerator has a name, the WTF - the White Trash Fridge. He adorns the wrap around veranda of the log cabin on the Ranch. But of course, he holds strong beverages, weaker beverages, mixers, and as an oddity to him, but regular occupant, homemade stock.

The WTF longs for but two things.

Most importantly he seeks a mate, an old open-hearted tub wringer-washer to host a wealth of ice and long-necks. If the union is fruitful, a few ginger-ales and Coca-Colas would be a welcome addition. But the Ranch life doesn't make for many introductions, and the Fence Post or other agricultural publications haven't sported many personal advertisements that have led to a successful match.

Secondly, the WTF wants art. Bonifide fridge art, the kind attached with sassy and even utilitarian magnets.

The WTF began life in a fancy condominium in Beaver Creek Resort and became accustomed to the finer things in life. After a remodel, he was downgraded to a barely above a mobile home park condo development called Sunridge II. He languished there for some years, though he lived with a sexy ebony Jenn-Aire range and an avid home chef before they all three upgraded to much superior townhome development. You see the WTF was an Energy Star and he traveled with the home chef just as did the Jenny range. But the WTF was upgraded, and it was a racist decision. He was the wrong color, beige - a near almond. He didn't match the new place. And he landed on the porch of a Ranch because he was an inch to wide to fit inside in the primitive kitchen there. So high, then low, raised again, and then brought lower than a trailer park - a porch! And he lost Jenny in the bargain. "Jeeeeeeennnnny!!!!"

And for two years he has languished. A few deer jokes have been taped on his doors. Something about gas costing more than per gallon than beer, nothing of class. The snowblower has been a mean and fickle in her rounds, so no hint of romance.

Woe.

Without the logs stacked against his side he'd be alone. At least the view is lovely.

Photo by Keith F. Galloway.

The 7 Egg "4 Egg Omelette"

Young hens are a work in progress. Their eggs started small and are gradually increasing in size. Our girls are doing a great job for us. At first the white layers were throwing down the biggest eggs. I can now actually eyeball small, medium, large, and extra large now. Our brown layers are catching up with the added bonus of providing double yolks!

In the Deep South where I grew up, double yolks are traditionally good fortune - how appropriate - our first two egg subscriptions start this week. Big happenings have risen from a little Egg Money.

I still find it a tad silly to use half a carton to make a four egg omelette, but you can't fob the wee small eggs off on your new clientele.