I am feeling a little mischevious, restless, and confined. It is the laundry (and the weather). The three days I lost in Kingston plus the three days of mud puddle play, overran me.
Today I said it out loud. "I'm going to get every stitch of this laundry done, so I can go play."
I will. I do not have a plan, but one might or might not be in formation. It is all the motivation I need to keep me fluffing and folding.
This is sage scratch. The category in the Dancing Tumbleweed Blog that catches everything. It is the miscellaneous ramblings of a half-raised ranch girl, who is now a ranging 33 year old, mother of two little boys. Kind of like the wildnevadans status posts in FB. OMG the laundry room is gonna blow, take cover...
It is what it isn't. It is not about Sourdough, Pin-stripes (dirt road rambles) or Pictures, or the Jaunt to Journey Campaign. It is definitely not stuff you might find in the Never Never Weirdest Thing Ever File. I guess, it is but a file in the pile of files that are accumulating in the wild place that is my office and/or in my head.
Because I would rather be jaunting around on some journey making Nevada pinstripes and taking pictures, but I'm doing laundry and babysitting nap time, I will throw out another handful of sage scratch for my bloggy blog people. (Ya, that's you.)
Something very exciting is about to happen. Ya. Summer. Do you know why thewildnevadan is happy about that today? Because, the range of my stove shall only be used on the windiest of occasions.
One of the coolest things about this job, this place, this ranch, is we get 1/2 a fresh, Nevada grown, beef. I just have to say it. Yummy Moo. Boy, this is where I hope people are not too sensitive. I do forget, being raised this way, makes it a whole different kind of steak.
The whole point of a ranch is beef. Not cows. Not horses. It all about the consumption of cows. Even the cows that were slaughtered at the feed lot and taken to your local grocery or fast food chain, were once upon a farm or ranch.
Of course, the quality of the meat breaks down quite a bit between ranch and dinner plate for the average American. Probably, it is good, that most cannot recognize that it was once a moo moo.
For me, being from a ranch where the consumption of cows was key, the fact I can recognize my moo moo, even on the dinner plate, satisfies.
I know exactly where it came from. Are you kidding me. I drove past it every time I left the ranch for a couple months while it chomped on alfalfa and grain. I know the cow was not shot full of hormones or confined to a rank pen for weeks or months. I know it was not 20 years old when it was sold to the feed lot. I know the flesh did not hang in a cold room for a two weeks waiting to be trucked, from God knows were, to be handled by way too many people, and processed, packaged, shelved and then frozen.
There was a time when I qualified for the blessed WIC program, and I was eating the poorest quality of hamburger you could buy at Wal-Mart. You know, the stuff in the tube you better never admit you know about. It was gross. Every time I fed it to my family I felt ripped. It was a crime to call it beef. And, I always wondered what they did to it, to make it turn out so bad.
I really felt bad for the people who never ate a real cow, fed, killed, butchered, packaged and then frozen on site. Today, with a freezer full of fresh Nevada grown beef and summer on the horizon, I still feel bad for those unfortunate souls. Then, there is the part of me that is pretty tickled with myself and the stash of moo. I just might have to do the Hillshire Farm cheer. "Go Meat!"
I guess I will save the story about how it was to be raised this way for another time; how it was to eat Herman and potatoes, after having bottle fed him, and pet him, and called him your own. I do not have time today. I am restless and I have more laundry to get done, so I can play.
Have a good day,
HjB
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