Buttterball Blast

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Not many opportunities to secure a whole turkey here in France.  With special, secret connections, we were pleasantly surprised with a whole turkey for our Thanksgiving dinner.  It came from Rammstein, Germany from an American military base.  Such an amazing gift for our annual T-day event.

I haven’t cooked a whole turkey for years.  Brent was the whole turkey cooker last and he would brine and butterfly.  With a Butterball, it’s all set up for chuck-in-the-oven magic.  So I did.

I like to sous chef Thanksgiving the night before.  Everything ready to cook.  On the day, I can chuck meat in the oven while cracking open the bags of prepared yum to cook.  Sous chef kitchen below.IMG_0175

Minty prepared an American flag in Play-doh.  People ask us “what is this Thanksgiving thing about?”  To which I respond something to the tune of ” A time for family to get together, laugh, chat, giggle and talk about Christmas plans.”  This might not be all that true, but I believe this is what it is today.  The history of Thanksgiving is quite different.  I’ll let you google that.IMG_0172

As we live in France, there are some Brits about.  We invited a few to our humble dinner and one chariot arrived full monty.  Right outside our dining table … as Zelie described it, ” an ‘X’ and a thing like zis and another thing like zis.  I can draw it!!”  IMG_0212

So we retaliated with the only flag we have.  Thankfully large.IMG_0213

The pups were chucked outside because the pups like to eat off the counter top.  A useful skill brought in with older pup Chorale taught to younger pups Jiggy and Lumi.  Once the kitchen was pup proof, they were allowed back in.IMG_0210

A hat on MInty.  Helicopter and gold.IMG_0200

A hat on Zelie, pumpkin and orange.

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To my surprise the bird was not dry and burnt.  The dishes arrived and people seemed fed and happy.  No Black Friday to follow.   We are completely removed from sales during this time of year.   I woke up the next day, cleaned up and took the kids to a Judo match.

Four Years Ago Today, It Was Very Cold

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Today, in a t-shirt and feeling great, I cuddle my four-year-old.  We walked the dogs and she screamed very loud because Mimi and Hello Kitty, her slippers ( left and right respectively ) got wet.  That was 6:45 am.  DSC_9797

Yep, she’s four.  For so many years, I would be running after the next Curtis.  But not now.  She’s the baby of the family.  Just like me.  DSC_4917

She was showered with love and gifts from her sisters, who overtly hate her for her new Littlest Pet Pony fortune.  Bro was chill and gave her some Hello Kitty cups.  Job done, happy b-day little sis.DSC_9770

It was sooooo cold when she was born.  I remember the little pink cheeks of my children and husband coming to visit us in the hospital.  We were warm and they … oh so cold.IMG_0154

And now my bub is four.  DSC_3464

Sassy little thing.
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Full of face and tiaras.

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This Cow Will Not Eat Your Cabbage

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The herd is up by the nieghbors.  They have cabbage.  Though tempting, I’m sure the herd shall behave themselves.

Brent checks out a lucerne paddock that should be done for the year.  Too much warm and sun.  Good.  What you don’t see are his socks and mandals.  whew!IMG_5386

Meat Delivered Succesfully

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Meat day today.  Brent usually does the run to Narbonne and Toulouse.  A bit tough to juggle the cow move and meat box packing and cows, so I popped out this time.  As I drove out of rainbows towards The Med, the weather improved steadily.  I kept adjusting the cabin temperature from keep-me-warm to cool-me-down.

I was to meet a lady by a gate I’ve not met.  She suggested an alternate place as the meat was to be transported elsewhere.  I met her by a white tent and a solar tribute to The Day of The Triffods.IMG_5282

Beef was off quickly after we met, so I headed back to meet another customer in Toulouse.  As I was leaving, music blaring, I didn’t hear “Aussie Ken,” our GPS system, to take the exit.  I read the signs and had to quickly figure out … do I want to follow the yellow tarmac to The Med or back to rainy country Gers.  What would Keanu do? IMG_5296

So hungry, I pulled off at Corbières for a Gourmet Angus burger.  It had Angus, it had bacon, it had sauce, it had NO flavor.  The sauce carried the meal along.  I was so hungry, a cracker would have done.IMG_5292

Paying for the not so free way, this helicopter hovered like this carrying or supporting or I don’t know what to these power lines.IMG_5297

Home at last.  As the veal burger and chop for our taste test were cooking, Champagne man shows up.  A present from Brent to me.  Speechless.  Champagne is very dear to my heart.  With all these babies and giving my body up for other’s lives.  The only thing I missed was Champagne.  I loves me some Champagne.  And Champagne man makes the best bubbly I’ve ever had.  Amazing.  Even better if it’s pink.  And it was.  I can’t wait to try it on Champagne Saturday.   You can’t drink Champagne in farm wear.  You must wear something nice ( read clean ) and put a little effort in.

… underneath Mr. Pink, we have some spare veal burgers.  Held back on purpose.  Very happy with these burgers.  Pink Champagne may go well with veal burgers.  I’ll let you know.IMG_5295

The Day That Sluggo Died

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I sat down to work on the computer and was greeted with the head of Sluggo.  Too occupied with beef sales, I didn’t notice the decapitated stuffy.  Reaching over to grab another paper to process, I met with his blue #4 eyes and red thread smirk.  Ah, poor Sluggo.

My sister, Carol, made this doll when I was a pup.  We’ll call it thirty years ago, but it feels like ten.  I’ve carried Sluggo and his faithful friend, Renee around for awhile now.  I think we called him Sluggo after a then popular Mr. Bill serious.  His end was met in the jaws of a golden puppy.  His body is a favorite chew toy in the yard.  I feel bad that he died this way, but it was beyond my control.  Too many kids, too many puppies and you are bound to collect some casualties.  Renee, sadly, was not graced with such a quick end.

The position he was rested on my desk reminded me of the famous head in Paris.  Just need to add the hair.

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Head intact, I might rest him next to Book of Calm and my little Trolli burger.  R.I.P.  Sluggo.

Upping The Pajama Game

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Now that I’ve discovered the internet, I’m taking and posting more photos. So if one farms in his jammies and wife takes daily photos, one becomes more aware of farm fashion.

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Yesterday was gorgeous. So gorgeous the doors were open and Brent’s blue pants flapped in the wind. His week of farming in jammies can come to an end. Back to bleu de travail. Whew!

Today is a totally different day. Rain, thunder, lightening and it’s time to start the fire for reals. Thankfully the axe arrived. Brent’s new axe for splitting wood.  Whenever we refer to it, we call it “My Axe.” A reference to a silly Flight of The Conchords song “Frodo, Don’t Wear The Ring,” which has the line ” .. and MY AXE” that stood out.

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Bruce was fired up to chop the logs.  My Axe was used to split.  A lot of rain today, so the seed that was seeded should get along well.IMG_5031

Funstagram Today

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It is too easy to post our life picture by picture.  But it is so much fun.  Our subjects are ready for the camera.

Gorgeous light while fixing the workshop.

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A princess dead on Grasspunk farm.  She had a good life.IMG_4952

A lovely lunch.  We call it Crocque Mesdames.  Two flutes facing each other, but they are one … sandwich … with two fried eggs and melted crocque cheese.  IMG_4933

Brent tosses a log, modern dance style.  There’s nothing more underrated than tossing a big log.IMG_4965

This is the school bus.  I have family in the school bus bidness in America.  This bus is WAY more fancy than the American equivalent.  They have air conditioning and seat belts!!!IMG_4925

A shower of Golden play.IMG_4976

Our Z likes to climb and jump.  No need for wings with this girl.IMG_4979grasspunk on instagram

Nothing Like A Good Scratch At The Yards

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The herd came up to the yards last Sunday.  Yes, we’re still holding up the wall with the digger.  Why? you ask? Because the giant cement post holding the wall up has lost hold of the earth with all the rain we’ve had in the last two years. No big deal as the cows shouldn’t push the fence much …

unless they do this:

IMG_4830The cows, they like to scratch.  Most paddocks have a cow scratch post.  But it doesn’t matter, when the herd comes to the yards, they are rewarded with the best scratch post in town.  Old telegraph posts, covered in some moss held up by a digger.  Aaaaaaaah.

Cows in the yards.

A video posted by @grasspunk on Nov 11, 2014 at 7:41am PST

We’ll fix that fence soon.  It’s on the list.

Triage done.  Off you go herd.

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Back to grass.

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Accepting Social Media

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I feel the need to post on Instagram. “Mother of four and some cows, shares photos on Instagram … with captions”

So addictive.  http://instagram.com/grasspunk

“look at that!” … says the kiddies

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Brent will need to shelf the farm jammies.  Too many photo opportunities.

Z can continue with her farm panties because for the next few weeks, she is still three.

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When Brent leaves the tractor key in the truck, we can totally Instagram that vid.  Only fifteen seconds, though.

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Like a mix-tape, we can portray what the heck happened on this day in November.

Champagne on Saturday, I’ll sign off and get my heels on.  Never drink Champagne in worker wear.  Take a moment to look perty.  You can shah-zaam in less than five minutes … so long as your three-year-old doesn’t lock down the powder room. Z! It’s time for bed-bed.