Honor, History and Cake

Ok, so this is going to be a rather trivial, probably childish post. Pretty sure most people would rather read that though, than anything political that I have to say; or even about faith. That is a sad commentary on our society in my view. But let’s get sadder...I am going to share a gripe. And enjoy doing it. :-) But I also think there is a lesson in my gripe about honor.

I hate sharing recipes. I just truly do. Some people think that is selfish and stupid. I don’t really care. Now sometimes, even though I don’t really want to share a favorite, I do anyway. Sometimes, depending on who it is, I am happy to share. Sometimes I just absolutely refuse, and I do not feel one bit guilty about that. It’s like sharing your huckleberry spot or your fishing hole. Just have fun finding your own. This one’s a secret. Lol Generational natives where I live, understand that. Side note: those of you who may think you are transplanting or harvesting huckleberries at a low elevation...those are not a true huckleberry! But I digress.

So. Let me explain my reasons for not always liking to share a favorite, most often, a family recipe. Number one, I don’t know how many times I have shared, or I have known someone to share, and the minute the recipe is tried by the receiver and it didn’t turn out as well as expected, the person who shared is accused of withholding an ingredient...or an important means to success! Come on! We have all heard that, haven’t we? Or had it happen to us? I have sure heard lots of stories like that. Maybe my biggest pet peeve that comes from graciously (or not so graciously) sharing is when it ends with an “attack”, for lack of a better word. Lol Because in reality, the one receiving is questioning the honor or honesty of the giver...whether they realize they are doing that or not! Think about it!

Or sometimes, I have been told “Well that didn’t sound quite right, so I changed this.” Whatever “this” might be. “Ok...I’m sure you know best, but don’t ask me for another recipe,” is how I would like to retort. I try to remain silent. Whatever. Lol Good luck with that.

And finally, there is the one who refuses to acknowledge from where the recipe came and instead claim it as their own. It is silly, that I think about that, I know...and probably childish. But I am all about history, and family traditions, and offering credit where credit is due. The borrower gets to take credit for their baking, canning or cooking skills when they use the recipe. Isn’t that enough? What’s wrong with telling the story behind the recipe? And how you came across it? That should be a fun part of serving.

I have a beautiful begonia that my aunt recently gave me. It is a start, probably from a start, that was from a plant my grandma had when she was still alive. She died in the 1980’s. Yet her plant is still living! I would never talk about the plant that I have without sharing that story! Isn’t it the same with a recipe? It is nothing I have anything to do with in the way of success or not. It’s just a cool part of the story that shouldn’t go unsaid. It is kind of a cool way to remember the people who have gone before. I once had a direct start from her begonia decades ago, that I kept alive forever! That’s why this one also means so much to me...it’s like I got it back. I like remembering what my grandma did and liked.

Same goes for a recipe, especially if it is one with which I grew up eating. Some of my most cherished recipes are those from my mom. I like to be sure she gets the credit. It’s called honor. And I want to honor my mom, so sometimes I share her pickle recipe and her peaches recipe, because I know she would...but sometimes I get childish and selfish and guard them with my life. Those recipes truly do belong only to her. They require her name in my opinion. Somehow, I want that preserved. (pun unintentional...or maybe not ;-))

We have had one recipe in our family for generations which has an incredible story with it. It is called the “Waldorf Astoria Red Cake”. And trust me there are a lot of red cake recipes making the rounds today, but none of them are like this..from which I believe, all red cake began. IF you aren’t eating red cake from this recipe, you are not eating red cake...kinda like huckleberries. My grandma started making this recipe decades ago, and always made it for my sister’s birthday. Sis picked up and continued the recipe and is the one in our family that most often still makes this cake. I know other family members do every once in a while and I do too. It is so good! No wonder everyone wants the recipe!! But for crying out loud! Can’t we keep the story that goes along with it, intact??? It is part of the story! And a huge part of the cake. That’s part of the fun! It is history! 

I have another recipe, that I have always gladly shared because I know how good it is and how popular it is every time I make it. It was given to me by my aunt over 50 years ago. She created the cutest little recipe box for me when I was just starting my adult life with a recipe from every single family member. It is one of my most treasured gifts. (*Treasured gifts...note to self: that is for another blog post some day.)

But anyway, there was a recipe in that box that she labeled with her husband’s name (my uncle) and a story about the recipe. I included it in a family cook book that I once wrote, using many of the recipes she gave me from members of our family. I have made that recipe more than any other from that recipe box, I believe. And I have given out that recipe more than any other one I have. That kind of gift I did want to share with family members. And I have over and over. But along with that, I think every one I shared it with should call it by the name it was given, and know a little bit about the person for whom it was named. So I share that story.

Recently, I was so excited, when a 4^th or 5^th generation family member asked me at a recent gathering where the item was served: “Now who was Uncle F?” she inquired after I mentioned the name of the dish.

Well how cools is that! I like that she cared enough to ask. It warmed my heart to talk about a family member that I remember and loved, with a younger family member that never knew him. That’s called family tradition. It’s history and it is an important way to keep our loved ones alive. It is called honor. So just do it. It’s fun. And we are slowly losing all those things that really matter: tradition, history and honor. Sometimes someone’s reasoning may seem silly or even childish...but ask a question or two. You might find out why...or you may find you even want to do the same.

And for crying out loud. Don’t criticize the recipe, the giver or the method, if you ever want another recipe from me.

She Has a Story

So this pretty girl has a story. She is going on 29 years old, (if she isn't there already.) We bought her for my son when he was still in high school. She is a great horse, but he found another one he wanted at the time that was more suited for him. So I said, "Go ahead and get her, but that means Juliee is mine." He did pay for the other horse himself, but he was still in high school and he and all the horses were in fact still living here, so I felt justified in taking claim to Juliee. 

Juliee was once a 4H/barrel racing horse with her previous owner. She loved to run when she was younger and has always loved rides. She is probably the best horse we have ever had. She loves to ride, she spooks at virtually nothing, balks at nothing and comes when she sees me. She saddles easily and does everything I ask. She has always been an easy keeper. And I think she loves me.

The truth is, she has been a great horse for me as I age, as I don't quite ride like I did when I was young. "We are just two old grey mares," I always say, "so we don't ride aggressively."

I just felt like talking about her, today. This is probably our last season together. She is missing teeth and colics more easily, as is common with horses as they age. She has gone from the "easy keeper" to the most expensive animal or hobby that we have ever owned. But she has been worth every penny. Not sure hubby would agree.

Anyway, she colicked badly this spring, just after she made it through that harsh winter. The vet came and got her through the colic with all the stuff they do. But both the vet and I felt there was something more going on, when the next day she was still not back to normal. Not at all like the other colics we had experienced. So, back to our home the vet came. We did the minimal testing in light of her age and considering if the expense would be worth only a few more years of life. The blood work we *did* do, all came back normal. Vet was stumped and said Juliee would have to go to clinic for more tests to know for sure what was wrong. The vet thought maybe she had a stroke, or a neck injury that could cause stroke like symptoms.(Too complicated for me.) I couldn't justify the expense.

She wasn't really in any pain it seemed, so we opted to watch her a couple days to see if anything changed. In those days, I made a couple calls to the vet and they went above and beyond the call of duty in the amount of time they spent with me and my probably really stupid questions. One call was probably a 45 minute phone call on a Sunday, no less.

I don't remember the exact time frame, but one vet told me, I think it might be time to put her down. I agreed. We just couldn't justify the expense at her age and I didn't want her to suffer. Somewhere in there, the farrier had come to trim her feet and agreed she may have had a stroke.

On the final call I made to the vet to ask them to come put her down, the vet told me I could give her a round of steroids pretty cheaply as a last ditch effort. I said yes, and went out to the clinic to get them.

Long story, not so short. The week of steroids worked! We thought we may have to continue them through the summer, but at least she would have one last season with us after being such a trooper through the long winter. As it turned out she didn't need any further treatment.

But I was convinced I would never ride her again...she was still doing stroke like things periodically, i.e. some stumbling and some confusion. I was happy just to have her. The vet had told me no more hay, as she was missing teeth and not chewing well which was probably what caused the colic. So now she is strictly on only grain and Alfalfa/Timothy pellets. Now that spring and summer are here, she can also graze the shorter grass in the pasture.

This plan was to be just for the summer. "I will put her down in the fall," I told the vet. I didn't want her going through another tough winter... especially without having something to graze and keep her busy through the long snowy days.

So anyway, we watched her carefully through April and May, with this plan in mind. But she was steadily improving and had no need of more steroids. The farrier came again and was amazed at her agility for an arthritic horse of her age. "Do you think I should ride her?" I asked him, feeling he had more knowledge than me.

"You know her best," he replied. "Just watch her and be sensitive to her."

So I am not gonna lie. I have stewed and wondered; stressed and worried about riding her. I just don't want to hurt her. Or do anything that causes her any harm. But as I've watched her the last couple weeks or so, she honestly looks better and is acting better than she has in probably two years. It is absolutely amazing.

Today I bit the bullet, and decided to take her for a short ride. Yes I was nervous. But when I swung up in that saddle (not at all gracefully, I'm sure ) and I saw she was ready to go with ears forward, I knew I had made the right decision. She wanted to go out the gate instead of staying in pasture. But I didn't want to do that just yet, until I could see how she fared the ride.

Truthfully, I feel like she is a miracle horse... And the words keep coming back to me that I once read somewhere. "God gave you a horse to ride, now ride."

So we did. She seemed to enjoy it. It really isn't about riding for me any more. It's about the feel of the reins, the creek of the saddle and the nostalgia and memories of better rides when I was younger. It's about being in the fresh air and nice weather as my horse and I watch and feel the same things. At my age, it's kinda about knowing we are still able and that she let me and was in it with me...or maybe just *for* me.

We won't ride as much this summer. It'll be on cool mornings, or soft evenings. And it won't be far and it won't be long and it most certainly won't be hard. But the payoff for a horse like this isn't in the rides anyway. It's in the love she gives.

Meanwhile, Back At Mama's

 I absolutely love this song. 

I read somewhere once, that Tim McGraw doesn't write many of his own songs (if any) but that he always chooses a song that means something to him and that he can relate to. I think that is certainly obvious in all of the songs that have made him the star that he is.

He is one of my very favorite artists for just that reason. Out of all the artists that are my favorite, I think his songs hit my heart the most.

Certainly this one does....outside of the cigarettes and beer. lol That was never a part of my childhood home...but I sure like to think of the days back at Mama's. 

I hope my kids do, too.

Enjoy!

The Barefoot Boy

Long time, (from my youth!) favorite poem.

The Barefoot Boy

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Blessings on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

With thy turned-up pantaloons,

And thy merry whistled tunes;

With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill;

With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;

From my heart I give thee joy,—

I was once a barefoot boy!

Prince thou art,—the grown-up man

Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side,

Thou hast more than he can buy

In the reach of ear and eye,—

Outward sunshine, inward joy:

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s painless play,

Sleep that wakes in laughing day,

Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,

Knowledge never learned of schools,

Of the wild bee’s morning chase,

Of the wild-flower’s time and place,

Flight of fowl and habitude

Of the tenants of the wood;

How the tortoise bears his shell,

How the woodchuck digs his cell,

And the ground-mole sinks his well;

How the robin feeds her young,

How the oriole’s nest is hung;

Where the whitest lilies blow,

Where the freshest berries grow,

Where the ground-nut trails its vine,

Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;

Of the black wasp’s cunning way,

Mason of his walls of clay,

And the architectural plans

Of gray hornet artisans!

For, eschewing books and tasks,

Nature answers all he asks;

Hand in hand with her he walks,

Face to face with her he talks,

Part and parcel of her joy,—

Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s time of June,

Crowding years in one brief moon,

When all things I heard or saw,

Me, their master, waited for.

I was rich in flowers and trees,

Humming-birds and honey-bees;

For my sport the squirrel played,

Plied the snouted mole his spade;

For my taste the blackberry cone

Purpled over hedge and stone;

Laughed the brook for my delight

Through the day and through the night,

Whispering at the garden wall,

Talked with me from fall to fall;

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,

Mine the walnut slopes beyond,

Mine, on bending orchard trees,

Apples of Hesperides!

Still as my horizon grew,

Larger grew my riches too;

All the world I saw or knew

Seemed a complex Chinese toy,

Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,

Like my bowl of milk and bread;

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,

On the door-stone, gray and rude!

O’er me, like a regal tent,

Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,

Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,

Looped in many a wind-swung fold;

While for music came the play

Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;

And, to light the noisy choir,

Lit the fly his lamp of fire.

I was monarch: pomp and joy

Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,

Live and laugh, as boyhood can!

Though the flinty slopes be hard,

Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,

Every morn shall lead thee through

Fresh baptisms of the dew;

Every evening from thy feet

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:

All too soon these feet must hide

In the prison cells of pride,

Lose the freedom of the sod,

Like a colt’s for work be shod,

Made to tread the mills of toil,

Up and down in ceaseless moil:

Happy if their track be found

Never on forbidden ground;

Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,

Ere it passes, barefoot boy!