tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65622092252695237732024-02-08T08:11:34.424-08:00krisapolisAlicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08689125464910066410noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-82110390871388954022010-08-25T14:49:00.000-07:002010-08-25T15:08:45.200-07:00Goodbye to Doug<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/THWR1i03cpI/AAAAAAAAAGU/ypg5lhz1Wzs/s1600/dougsptree-1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 157px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/THWR1i03cpI/AAAAAAAAAGU/ypg5lhz1Wzs/s200/dougsptree-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509470068225307282" border="0" /></a>My mom’s husband Doug died last week. The great thing about Doug was how great he thought we were. I’m not sure my family always thinks of themselves as great. Most days I’m happy with normal. And when you see yourself through someone else’s eyes, the picture isn’t always pretty. But our family, all of us, seen through Doug’s eyes, was always great.<br /></div><br />A couple of years ago my sister and I took my mom and Doug out for a Mother’s Day brunch. Some uncomfortable questions came up, and the answers weren’t all that satisfying. There was an awkward silence. And then Doug said, “Your mom and dad sure raised a great family.”<br /><br />There you have it. When Doug showed us to ourselves, we were always great. His view of me made me want to try a little harder at being great. And when normal seems like it’s got to be good enough, or worse yet when normal seems completely out of reach, I’m going to remember how great Doug thought we were.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-30189805454569352962010-04-07T18:31:00.000-07:002010-04-08T07:29:24.318-07:00Itasca State ParkOn Valentine's weekend Scott and I stayed at Grandview Lodge in northern Minnesota, dined on Walleye, then headed west to North Dakota to take my nephew who is studying in Grand Forks to dinner, then on to Fargo for a museum job. On the trip west, because we had a couple of hours to kill, we stopped at Itasca State Park to see the head waters of the Mississippi.<br /><br />Even living in Minnesota my whole life I've never been to the head waters before. But I knew all about them, thanks to William Thoma. William Thoma was in school with me from grades 1-12. That's important, because I went to Catholic school grades 1-6, and then moved to a public junior high and met the public school kids for the first time. The kids who went to the Catholic school with me were special, because we had been together the whole ride, 1-12.<br /><br />William Thoma lived and breathed Itasca State Park from day one. Every report, every science project, every speech, every poster board was always about Itasca State Park. I am not exaggerating about this. At first we didn't notice. Then about third grade, I thought, "Now that's funny, I remember him covering this topic before." By sixth grade, everyone was like, "Really? Another report about Itasca State Park?" By tenth grade, when we had joined the public school kids, we talked about it openly, as in, "Does that kid ever want a date?"<br /><br />But William never wavered. I remember he had a younger brother, and I wondered whether he too was a one note wonder about Itasca State Park. By the time I graduated from high school I considered myself an expert on the park, even thought I'd never been there.<br /><br />All this came rushing back to me as we pulled into the visitor center at the park. The ranger behind the desk (yes, to all those not in Minnesota, our state park visitor centers are staffed in the winter, by hardy rangers ready to hit the cross country ski trails at the drop of a hat), showed us on a map how to hike into the headwaters.<br /><br />"Ever heard of the Thoma family?" I asked her.<br /><br />"Oh yes," she answered. "Mr. Thoma was the Itasca State Park historian. He and his family lived in the park every summer for over forty years."<br /><br />I swear tears sprung to my eyes when she said that. If you've ever had a little wonder turn into a deep and heart-rendering awe in an instant you know how I felt. "Do you ever hear about their kids?" I asked.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/S707wj__84I/AAAAAAAAAF8/Fkbt9PcpBKo/s1600/IMG_0418.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/S707wj__84I/AAAAAAAAAF8/Fkbt9PcpBKo/s320/IMG_0418.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457584028926342018" border="0" /></a><br />"No," she said, "I was more friends with Mrs. Thoma."<br /><br />We hiked to the head waters, and on the way I recognized every word on every interpretive plaque we passed. What a gift I got from William Thoma. And I savored it standing there in the snow at that little creek that further south becomes a mighty river. I'd been shown that spot so many times before, and now I finally knew it.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-53132632031536224822010-03-15T17:40:00.000-07:002010-03-15T18:17:29.188-07:00Goodbye to Kathleen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/S57UhNInDQI/AAAAAAAAAFs/vZBF1eRQ9tU/s1600-h/P1010723.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 168px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/S57UhNInDQI/AAAAAAAAAFs/vZBF1eRQ9tU/s320/P1010723.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449026266091425026" border="0" /></a><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/S57UhNInDQI/AAAAAAAAAFs/vZBF1eRQ9tU/s1600-h/P1010723.JPG"></a></p> I grew up in Willmar, MN but when my dad died and my mom moved to Minneapolis, I didn’t think I would ever get back to Willmar. No friends or family there anymore. Not that I was sad about it. Small town Willmar wasn’t always a happy place for me. I did go back for the funeral of my brother-in-law’s mother.<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Me in front of the Willmar house I grew up in.</span><br /></div><br />And then last Sunday, the mother of my best Willmar school friend died. As I got ready to head back to Willmar for her funeral, it hit me. I will get back to Willmar, probably more and more now, for the funerals.<br /><br />About my best Willmar school friend. She lived two blocks from me, and we spent so much time together that her family became my family and my family became hers. We really grew up together, and had the kind of relationship where I never knocked at her door and she never knocked at mine. We just walked in.<br /><br />I had a dream the other night that I was in her house. It was exactly as I remembered. In my dream I just walked through, examining all the rooms. There was no one there with me. Even though it wasn’t the house I grew up in, in my dream I felt at home.<br /><br />My friend’s mom Kathleen was a hoot. Mom to seven kids, my friend the youngest, I was in awe of her brood. I was the oldest in my family, so I looked at my friend’s older brothers and sisters as fascinating celebrities from another planet. Kathleen communed among them so easily, playing cards and golf, a cocktail in her hand. Her wit was famous. She had a straight back with an upright lift to her, so her head was always set back on her neck slightly. That ramrod straight posture gave her a regal air, and so she could always catch people off guard with her hilarious sense of humor. Example: I grew up during the red dye no. 2 scare, when it was discovered (rumored?) that red dye no. 2 caused cancer. One afternoon we found Kathleen in her kitchen, decorating sugar cookies with red frosted crosses. “They are my red dye no. 2 cancer causing cookies,” she explained, with a completely straight face.<br /><br />So it’s back to Willmar, and goodbye to Kathleen. I will always remember her as one of the wonderful fixtures presiding over my childhood. And even though it will be a sad day for that family, I’m looking forward to seeing my friend, and being among the fascinating celebrities from another planet again. <!--EndFragment-->Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-75117624896053555002009-01-25T09:11:00.000-08:002009-01-25T09:39:59.872-08:00Gingersnap CookiesWhen Aunt Patty died we thought she had taken the recipe for gingersnaps with her. Cookies were a big deal for Patty. She made them for everyone, the kids especially, but she even made cookies for me, for my horse camping trips. The gingersnaps were special, because they were my dad's (Patty's brother) favorite. Patty and I worked on the perfect gingersnap recipe together, but when she died I realized that I didn't have it, and no one else did either.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SXyezhflQkI/AAAAAAAAAFE/U8swYuEEL_I/s1600-h/GoodPatty.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SXyezhflQkI/AAAAAAAAAFE/U8swYuEEL_I/s320/GoodPatty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295281869882212930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Patty in a beautiful blue dress in 1993.</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I made some cookies for my niece who was spending her first year away at college, and she thanked me by saying they were good, but they were not Patty's gingersnaps. Sigh. And then suddenly my mom came up with a slip of paper in Patty's handwriting at the back of her recipe box.<br /><br />This is it, the lost recipe, the one I worked on with Patty. These are the best gingersnaps ever, and please do think of Patty when you make them. Better yet, please call them Patty's gingersnaps, nothing would make her happier.<br /><br />Patty's Gingersnap Cookies<br /><br />Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.<br />Cream together:<br />1/3 cup vegetable shortening (Crisco)<br />1/3 cup butter<br />1 cup light brown sugar<br /><br />Add and beat until fluffy:<br />1 egg<br />2 teaspoons of baking soda mixed into 1/4 cup molasses<br /><br />Sift together:<br />1/2 teaspoon salt<br />1/2 teaspoon cloves<br />1 teaspoon cinnamon<br />2 teaspoons ginger<br />2 cups flour<br /><br />Add the flour/spice mixture to the butter/sugar mixture and stir until well combined. Roll dough (about a Tablespoon) into small balls, then roll balls in sugar (sanding sugar makes a pretty, sparkly cookie). Space about 2 inches apart on a greased cookie sheet, and bake for 8 - 12 minutes. Let them cool on the cookie sheet for a few minutes before transferring the cookies to a rack to finish cooling.<br /><br /></div></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-39250921067282946102008-09-07T11:18:00.000-07:002008-09-07T11:42:29.771-07:00We've Got Chickens!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SMQdb9d5ZgI/AAAAAAAAADM/l3L-RRDcXRI/s1600-h/P1010847.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SMQdb9d5ZgI/AAAAAAAAADM/l3L-RRDcXRI/s400/P1010847.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243348232359732738" border="0" /></a>They are finally here! We got four chickens from the great folks at Anoka Farm and Feed, two Barred Rock hens.<br /><br />Two red Sexlinks (the one below was named Bernie Mac by daughter Alice, and the name has stuck) and two silver laced Wyandottes, whose photos will come later.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SMQdxoFJ2nI/AAAAAAAAADU/htNq8xj3SCs/s1600-h/P1010846.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SMQdxoFJ2nI/AAAAAAAAADU/htNq8xj3SCs/s400/P1010846.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243348604575930994" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And best of all, they came home to a beautiful coop made for me for my birthday by my amazing husband. I wanted a little replica of our garage, since the coop would be positioned against the center of our garage. He did a great job:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SMQewi00BQI/AAAAAAAAADc/Zi1dApDPAsA/s1600-h/P1010854.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SMQewi00BQI/AAAAAAAAADc/Zi1dApDPAsA/s400/P1010854.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243349685496972546" border="0" /></a></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SMQfJ74zkLI/AAAAAAAAADk/DByqlz82hb8/s1600-h/P1010860.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SMQfJ74zkLI/AAAAAAAAADk/DByqlz82hb8/s400/P1010860.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243350121721335986" border="0" /></a><br />The four chickens are about four months old, so won't lay eggs for another couple of months, but we plan to have them laying all winter, so stay tuned for the first egg.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-973949131713165702008-04-20T13:19:00.000-07:002008-04-20T13:32:56.971-07:00Schooled in the Ways of the Barn<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">If you’ve ever been part of a large barn where everyone boards their horses, you know about this topic. Boarders’ barns are like school, where everyone has a reputation that follows them around like white on rice. I’m not talking about people’s reputations here, I’m talking about the reputation of horses. I’ve been a teacher so I know a little about this. When a kid in school gets a reputation with teachers, it follows the kid through all his or her school years. No matter what they tell you, teachers talk about kids, and all it takes is one teacher deciding that a kid is trouble, and no matter what, that kid will be trouble forever in school.<br /><br />Albert the horse got branded as trouble pretty quickly. He started his career at the barn as a “schoolie,” a horse in the teacher’s herd that everyone takes riding lessons on. My husband Scott rode him on a few trail rides when he was a schoolie. It didn’t take long for Albert to diplay his insecurities. It started as a bad attitude and blossomed into bucking children off in lessons. But we saw something different in Albert. It’s a talented horse that can take the stress of different, inexperienced riders day after day. Albert wasn’t one of them. The more riders he had the more insecure he got until finally, he would just explode. So, when he went up for sale, we bought him, thinking that one rider would work for Albert.<br /><br />Albert’s first trip to South Dakota for a week of riding and camping didn’t go so well either. Scott never had trouble riding him, but Albert’s insecurities didn’t go away, they just switched to a new source: other horses. First ride up the trail Albert kicked three or four other horses; one well-placed kick resulted in another horse with a bloody hoof mark on her chest. This wasn’t aggression, it was fear and insecurity. You could see it on Albert’s face. He was so confused and upset about his place in the herd he lashed out. But Scott got pretty good at changing Albert’s mind about kicking other horses. A leather bat that makes a big noise when you use it was applied to Albert’s neck every time he thought about kicking another horse. Albert is smart, it didn’t take him long to understand that thinking about kicking meant the bat. So he stopped thinking about it.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SAulibl_-OI/AAAAAAAAAC0/zDAjr2YnhEo/s1600-h/IMG_1587.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/SAulibl_-OI/AAAAAAAAAC0/zDAjr2YnhEo/s400/IMG_1587.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191425006415902946" border="0" /></a><br /></div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Scott and Albert in South Dakota. Notice the bat in Scott's right hand.<br /><br />I am going to digress into a little horse training talk. I’m a teacher, remember, and anything about learning fascinates me. If Albert got the bat every time he kicked it would be too late. He’d already experienced the insecurity, it escalated into fear, he’s examined his options and KICK! The trick is to catch him as he’s experiencing the insecurity, before he’s started examining his options. Every tap of the bat changes his attention from all the other horses to his rider. The bat isn’t punishment, it realigns his thinking to pay attention to his rider instead of worrying about the other horses. As soon as Scott was able to catch Albert thinking about his insecurity, and change his mind, the kicking stopped. Now Scott rarely has to use the bat - he reconditioned Albert’s mind so Albert no longer worries about other horses.<br /><br />This doesn’t work so well with people. Albert hasn’t kicked another horse for years. He’s never bucked when Scott is riding him. But according to all the people at the barn, Albert is trouble. Last year when we went to South Dakota, someone recommended that we tie a red ribbon on Albert’s tail to warn other riders that he kicks. When one of our friends wants to ride Albert, the teachers at the barn warn them away. We’ve had teachers tell our friends that if they want to learn to ride, they should ride a different horse. It’s like the kid at school who did a couple of dumb things in first grade and now a sixth grader, still hasn’t escaped his reputation. Applying the bat to folks at the barn to change their minds about Albert isn’t an option. So we ignore them. My sister is riding Albert now with great success. Albert is still insecure, but he’s learned to handle it. If only people were so easy.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-85018796990640171352008-01-27T23:12:00.000-08:002008-01-28T20:28:24.392-08:00No Cat Shall Go HungryI am honored by Kris’s invitation to be a guest blogger on Krisapolis, to share one of my more amazing Christmas gifts. Late fall 2007 Kris’s brother Matt (Peick) invited me to join him and some of his buddies on a three-day canoeing adventure in the MN boundary waters. While the trip was an interesting saga in itself, enduring 40 mph winds and the first snow of the season, the many solitary hours of paddling gave Matt and I another opportunity to brainstorm Rube Goldberg engineering solutions to everyday problems. Kris and I had been doing a lot of 2-day business trips and long-weekend camping adventures over the last year and finding an affordable and reliable way to feed our nameless cat (A.K.A. "Slipper", "Whitster", "Steve", "Electron", "Kitty" ...) had become an issue. I was telling Matt there had to be a better option than the professional cat caretaker who forgot to feed our cat for an entire week or the $50 highly unreliable automatic feeder that covers a maximum of 4 meals (two days for our cat).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52GCz0r0dI/AAAAAAAAACs/JEhRzW369gY/s1600-h/IMG_5387.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52GCz0r0dI/AAAAAAAAACs/JEhRzW369gY/s400/IMG_5387.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160428130865500626" border="0" /></a>Matt is a mechanical engineer by profession and has always been a maker of things. In the past he has created some incredible holiday gifts ranging from fully-automatic rubberband machine guns to kid-size iceboats. Two Christmas’s back I bought him a subscription to Make magazine (www.makezine.com), a cross between Popular Mechanics, ReadyMade magazine and Heath Kit ingenuity. Make magazine is all about modifying and building new things from existing components. Getting back to the story, Matt and I both remembered an early issue of Make that contained plans for a cat feeder made out of an old meat grinder. Matt and I discussed ways to improve this design at length eventually discarding the meat grinder, considering the potential advantages of other more accurate mechanisms. The brainstorming ended as we reached our final 270 rod portage to the truck.<br /><br />Months went by and so did many possible design ideas I had while dozing off at night. For some reason I have always found it to be relaxing to dream up creative solutions and art projects as I drift off.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52Drj0r0ZI/AAAAAAAAACM/n9adTFo2h0M/s1600-h/Feline+Feeder+23.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52Drj0r0ZI/AAAAAAAAACM/n9adTFo2h0M/s320/Feline+Feeder+23.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160425532410286482" border="0" /></a>Fast forward to Christmas day at Kris’s sister Katie’s house when Matt announces he has my name (we draw names for gift giving) and has made me something special. We open presents from oldest to youngest, and when my turn comes around, Matt carefully deposits a large 2’x 4’ x 1’ wrapped box in front of me labeled “This side up” and “This side forward”. He asks me if I know what it is and it isn’t until that moment that it comes to me. An automatic cat feeder!<br />He smiles and laughs as I rip it open to reveal the <span style="font-style: italic;">Here Kitty, Kitty Automatic Feline Feeder</span>, a tightly designed and engineered King of cat feeders.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52CMz0r0YI/AAAAAAAAACE/iVb56m5AZOI/s1600-h/Feline+Feeder+1+%281%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52CMz0r0YI/AAAAAAAAACE/iVb56m5AZOI/s320/Feline+Feeder+1+%281%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160423904617681282" border="0" /></a>The thing is beautiful and industrial strength made primarily of finished oak with burgundy sheet metal enclosures. The brains of the unit is stored within an ominous looking, bomb-proof metal cabinet with a green glowing “on” light, an on/off switch and a Jog (manual feed) button. Inside the metal cabinet is a industrial grade microprocessor, a small LCD display, a digital audio chip, a speaker and a USB connection to allow the programs to be uploaded and downloaded from an external PC. When activated, the feeder plays a digital recording of Matt calling our cat “Here Kitty, Kitty” followed by the machine dispensing a predetermined amount of cat vittles. To take it just one step further, he also had our mutual friend Tony Horning design an excellent retro-looking logo which is printed on the feeder as well as a pair of handsome his and her's t-shirts Kris and I were issued.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52ErD0r0bI/AAAAAAAAACc/URnupQLsB9M/s1600-h/Feline+Feeder+28.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52ErD0r0bI/AAAAAAAAACc/URnupQLsB9M/s320/Feline+Feeder+28.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160426623331979698" border="0" /></a>The next day, Matt came over to help me get the feeder up and running. We programmed the unit to feed that cat daily at 7:00am and 5:00pm. We have not manually fed the cat since that day. The feeder is a major convenience and has greatly reduced the cat’s relentless begging.<br /><br />So what does the cat think of it? It’s hard to say… Within the first hour of the feeder’s installation she was on her back with both paws up the delivery shoot trying to figure out how to get the food out. Luckily Matt took cat safety into consideration and there have not been any lost paws. I think the feeder is her new god – the magical thing that produces food. Overall, I’d say she approves of it since it’s more consistent and never forgets like her pet humans sometimes did.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52FYD0r0cI/AAAAAAAAACk/uxlD6j0BvTs/s1600-h/Feline+Feeder+10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R52FYD0r0cI/AAAAAAAAACk/uxlD6j0BvTs/s400/Feline+Feeder+10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160427396426092994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Here Kitty, Kitty!<br /><br />Cheers!<br />ScottKrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-13279122621497700562008-01-13T07:53:00.000-08:002008-01-13T08:27:34.743-08:00Tina the Pig<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R4o3yzgH4_I/AAAAAAAAABU/T0031IhATsI/s1600-h/P1010483.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R4o3yzgH4_I/AAAAAAAAABU/T0031IhATsI/s400/P1010483.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5154994069436883954" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tina arrived right before Christmas, after being lovingly raised all summer by my friend Bev. Actually, half of Tina arrived, and I split her with my sister. Hop on over to <a href="http://glittergoods.blogspot.com/">Glitter Goods</a> to see what my sister is doing with Tina. Bev raises a pack of pigs (herd of pigs? Group of pigs? What do you call a bunch of pigs?) and names them all beginning with the same letter, a different one each year. Last year we had Nathan, and Nathan bacon was the best. This year it’s Tina, who inspired a batch of sausage and clams.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I saw Cat Cora serve this on Iron Chef, and I knew I had to figure out how to make it. I have used Italian sausage too, it’s good with two sweet sausages and two hot. If you use plain sausage add some chili pepper flakes to spice it up. I’ve also made this for four people, go ahead and double the recipe if you need to. Next time I make this I’m going to add fennel cut into large matchsticks and sautéed after the sausage but before deglazing the pan. I’ll let you know how that turns out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tina and Clams</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Serves 2</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">French baguette or country loaf</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">2 cloves garlic, put through a press</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">3 Tablespoons olive oil plus more for browning sausage</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">1 pound pork sausage or Italian sausage out of casings</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">¼ cup white wine</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">½ cup fish stock, clam juice or chicken stock</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">salt and pepper</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">olive oil for drizzling</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">¼ cup finely chopped fresh Italian parsley</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Put 2 large cloves of garlic through a garlic press and add ¼ teaspoon table salt and 3 Tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil. Set this aside while you tear or cut 2 cups of 1-inch white bread cubes (from a baguette or country loaf). They are going to be bigger than usual croutons, that’s what you want. Put the bread cubes on a baking sheet and drizzle the olive oil through fine-mesh strainer evenly onto the bread, tossing to coat all the cubes. Bake until golden, about 30 minutes, stirring and flipping once halfway through. Set the croutons aside.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Brown the sausage over medium high heat in a little olive oil in a skillet with plenty of room. Once all the sausage is browned, deglaze the pan with ¼ cup white wine, then add ½ cup stock and clams. Cover the pan and let simmer about 5 minutes or until all the clams have opened. Taste a little and add salt and pepper if needed. Discard closed clams, and spoon sausage, clams and broth into shallow bowls. Top with croutons and drizzle a little olive oil over the top of each serving, then sprinkle with chopped parsley and dig in!<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R4o6TDgH5BI/AAAAAAAAABk/l3O9mWQR4NE/s1600-h/P1010575.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R4o6TDgH5BI/AAAAAAAAABk/l3O9mWQR4NE/s400/P1010575.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5154996822510920722" border="0" /></a>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-64747461307219903932007-12-09T17:24:00.000-08:002007-12-09T18:23:10.990-08:00Nemo, South DakotaSince it started snowing here in Minnesota, we've been putting the final touches on our annual slide show set to music of the week we spend every August camped just outside of Nemo, South Dakota smack dab in the middle of the Black Hills National Forest, with our horses, riding the amazing trails in that beautiful country. Putting all those pictures to music for the friends who ride with us has brought back some great memories, thought I'd share a few here.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R1yfEI63YxI/AAAAAAAAABA/GLZQdNNGGS0/s1600-h/IMG_5150.JPG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R1yfEI63YxI/AAAAAAAAABA/GLZQdNNGGS0/s400/IMG_5150.JPG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142159768012940050" border="0" /></a>This is me sharing the love with my guy Scout. Didn't know if it would work out at the beginning of our relationship eight years ago, but he has become a great friend and trusted trail companion, going over every bridge, through every river or creek, and all the other things you want a good trail horse to do, and he does it all with an open mind and a willing heart.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R1yaro63YwI/AAAAAAAAAA4/RbG-gnDUi4U/s1600-h/IMG_5241.JPG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R1yaro63YwI/AAAAAAAAAA4/RbG-gnDUi4U/s400/IMG_5241.JPG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142154949059633922" border="0" /></a>Scout and me make our way down into a canyon on the Centennial Trail north of Nemo. The Centennial Trail runs over 100 miles through South Dakota's Black Hills, and the section that we ride, between Sturgis and Nemo, is especially rugged, only suitable for horses, and some of the most spectacular wilderness and scenery around.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R1ygY463YyI/AAAAAAAAABI/j3Igkx1CMBI/s1600-h/Nemo1.2007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R1ygY463YyI/AAAAAAAAABI/j3Igkx1CMBI/s400/Nemo1.2007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142161224006853410" border="0" /></a>My friend Nan and I stop for a picture. We've been to Nemo together for the last five years, had some great rides and campfire sing-alongs and nightcaps by the trailer door. It's fun to reminisce, and think about next year, as the snow blows around outside and I trade my trail riding in for cross country skiing for a few months.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-57556527558835992112007-11-29T13:30:00.001-08:002007-11-29T20:11:03.663-08:00Stick It In Your Eye<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R0-LzBMcAPI/AAAAAAAAAAg/89cd2hKyOUM/s1600-R/horsemask.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/R0-LzBMcAPI/AAAAAAAAAAg/_ECrBpHe2ls/s400/horsemask.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138479408463216882" border="0" /></a>I spent the better part of the days before Thanksgiving teaching my horse Scout to let me poke him in the eye with my finger. It’s always his eyes, for some reason. There was the time he ripped his lower eyelid in two, and had to wear this goofy mask to prevent him from rubbing his stitches out as they healed. (Healing stitches are itchy!) He also had to be in a paddock by himself to prevent his horse friends from pulling his mask off for him.<br /><br />Then there was the time his eye swelled and started weeping. This happens once in a while, and soaking his eye with cold water usually takes care of it, but on this occasion he continued to hold his eye at half mast even after the swelling went down. The vet found an ulcerated cornea, and Scout spent five days in the hospital having antibiotic cream squirted in his eye every hour to heal it.<br /><br />This time when Scout’s eye didn’t get better with soaking, I was relieved to hear the vet couldn’t find any ulcers, so she prescribed an eye cream containing steroids, applied to Scout’s eyeball once a day for three to five days.<br /><br />I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to apply eye cream to a horse’s eye ball, but let me tell you that Scout can get his head over eight feet in the air and keep it there to avoid cream in his eye. And how do you explain to a horse that a) the application of cream on his eye ball really won’t hurt, despite the alarming prospect of a finger full of cream in the eye, and b) it really will make him feel better in just a few days?<br /><br />Scout knows the head-down cue really well (why he needed to learn to put his head down on command without fail is another story for another day), so we went with that, me putting my cream filled finger over his eye, then asking him to put his head down. As soon as he did, I took my finger away, so that eventually he understood that all he had to do to make the finger go away was hold his head down. Then, when he least expected it, wham! My finger-full-of-cream poked him in the eye. Once this was done, we did more fingers near the eye, head down work so that he got the idea that he wouldn't always get poked, and in the end forgot about the poke all together.<br /><br />This all worked, sort of. Scout’s eye is all better. My right shoulder, (the one I used to keep my fingers on a flailing horse's head, eight feet in the air) is still sore, but I think it will be all right. And I am delighted to be able to look Scout in the eye rather than poke my finger in it.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-17659330482929326472007-11-14T06:55:00.000-08:002007-11-29T13:46:08.767-08:00Thanksgiving TraditionsTis the season for cranberry ice, a combination sherbet/granita that was found at my grandma's Thanksgiving and Christmas table every year since I can remember. The woman was a genius, all the kids couldn't wait to get to the table to slurp this delicious frozen treat, which my grandma served alongside the turkey as a "palate cleanser" instead of the kid-incompatible cranberry relish. She wrote the book on how to give your grandkids plenty of sweet stuff on holidays, disguised as a lesson in sophisticated gastronomic understanding. After my grandparents were gone, my aunt (their daughter) continued to make cranberry ice for fall and winter holidays.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/RzvFdhMcANI/AAAAAAAAAAM/oHAcL9z3INo/s1600-h/Thksgiving.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HjmIsxKJHSo/RzvFdhMcANI/AAAAAAAAAAM/oHAcL9z3INo/s400/Thksgiving.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132913311236227282" border="0" /></a><br />That's me, lower left-hand corner, between my Grandma and my cool, Chesterfield-smoking Dad. Behind my Dad is Aunt Ada, (everyone has one, right?) and across from her, my mom. Aunt Patty, on the right, was responsible for passing on the Cranberry Ice recipe.<br /><br />Cranberry Ice<br />Put 1 pound cranberries and 3 ½ cups water in a saucepan, cook over medium heat until skins are broken. Rub cranberries through a sieve to make a smooth pulp and return to the stove. Add 2 ½ cups sugar, cook over medium heat stirring often until sugar is dissolved. Soak ½ envelope Knox gelatin in ¼ cup cold water till softened, then add to warm cranberry juice and stir. Add 1 cup orange juice and the juice of two lemons. Put in a 9 x 13 pan and freeze. When partly frozen, add two egg whites, stiffly beaten. Stir twice with a fork, breaking up chunks over the next half-hour.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625970554558951298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6562209225269523773.post-31802008573414043682007-10-08T10:12:00.001-07:002007-10-08T10:17:22.974-07:00This Time, Spelled CorrectlyHello! This is my second attempt at starting a blog for my mom, Kris. I tried before to set up an account using her own email account but crazy googleid couldn't stop chasing it's own electronic tail and kept bouncing us around so that we couldn't log in. Mean! Anyway, this is going to be Kris' platform for all her endless opinions, charming witticisms, crafty projects and recipes (mostly the latter, I suspect. Yum!). Without further ado, I hand it over to her. Take it away, Mom!Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08689125464910066410noreply@blogger.com1