Spring is Coming, Eventually

I got my first seed catalog for Spring 2009 in the mail today. Which is hilarious, frankly. Somewhere out there, in a magical land with robins and daffodils and people wearing shorts in March, someone thinks it's almost time to plant things.

Up here? We won’t even see dirt until late April—maybe May if winter decides to throw a tantrum on the way out. Right now the garden is under three feet of snow, two layers of ice, and one slightly bitter sense of humor. I've got shovels older than some of these seed catalog models, and right now they’re buried in the shed under three broken rakes, a suspicious pile of twine, and what I think might be a hibernating raccoon with squatters’ rights.

To help you visualize where "up here" is, there’s a sign just 15 minutes north of me that proudly proclaims the 45th parallel. That’s right—smack dab halfway between the equator and the North Pole. I live in the “don’t even bother with a groundhog” zone. We just assume six more weeks of winter and keep feeding the wood stove like it's a bottomless pit.

So, while the seed companies try to tempt me with glossy pictures of tomatoes, zucchinis, and flowers that have never even heard of snow, I’ll be over here ice-chipping my barn door open and trying to remember what grass feels like.

Still, I’ll hang on to the catalog. Because one day—one day—the snow will melt, the mud will rise, and I’ll remember why I bother with this whole “growing food” thing in the first place.

Of course, if winter drags on much longer, the catalog may end up in the wood stove after all. It’s got nice, glossy pages—burns hot and fast. So I guess I’ll either dream of spring or stay warm. One or the other. Can't have it both ways in the north country.

How I Served a Turkey That Weighed More Than My Dog

(a true tale of triumph, trauma, and temporary herniation)

So, there we were—me, Jim, and The Bird That Time Forgot. This wasn’t a turkey anymore. This was a monument. A protein-based landmark. If you stood real still, you could hear it humming with latent holiday energy.

We’d already roasted the 20-pounder for Thanksgiving, and he was big enough to require a minor pulley system and a kitchen cleared of all breakables. But now it was time for the Christmas turkey. Time to face the beast. The 39-pounder.

Step one was figuring out how to defrost something that could double as a footstool. We put it in the fridge. It laughed at us. Three days later, it was still solid enough to stop a truck. I started to Google "how to safely thaw a turkey using only passive aggression and warm thoughts."

Eventually, we just hauled it into the tub like we were giving Shamu a spa day. Five hours and fifteen gallons of water later, it was thawed—ish. Close enough. I wasn’t about to wait for spring.

Now for the oven.

After some deliberation and the threat of power tools, I realized that roasting this turkey whole was a dream best left to people with commercial kitchen-grade equipment or a live-in team of engineers. So, we spatchcocked it. (Yes, that’s a real word. No, I didn’t make it up, look it up. Yes, I laughed every time I said it.)

Jim got out the garden loppers—I wish I were kidding—and after a few heave-ho! moments that probably violated some sort of turkey Geneva Convention, we flattened it like a Sunday newspaper.

Roasting it still required rotating it halfway through with the teamwork and precision of a NASA launch. Basting involved a mop. And when it was done? Oh baby. It was glorious. Golden. Juicy. Impossibly large. Like carving a mythical beast with a bad attitude.

We fed 14 people, sent leftovers home in gallon bags, and still had enough turkey left to start a soup kitchen. We’ve had turkey sandwiches, turkey stew, turkey pot pie, turkey omelets, turkey quesadillas, turkey smoothies (okay, that one was an accident), and I still hear gobbling in my sleep.

So the next time someone says, “Oh, a turkey that size must be such a blessing!” you can tell them this: Blessings don’t come with tendons like piano wire and their own gravitational pull.

Happy Holidays, friends. And remember—just because you can grow a turkey that big… doesn’t mean you should.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Merry Christmas!

I love to wish everyone Merry Christmas and I’ve yet to have anyone be offended. I’m not offended when someone might reply “Happy Hanukkah” or “Happy Kwanzaa”. But the thought of “happy holidays” really bugs me. So here’s a new holiday I think just might be a hit, at least at my house.

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited their doctor's office more than my doctor, sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find anymore free time in the next 18 years.

Here are my Christmas wishes:

I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze; but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store. I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy. If you're hauling big ticket items this year I'd like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, "Yes, Mommy" to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools. I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting "Don't eat in the living room" and "Take your hands off your brother," because my voice seems to be just out of my children's hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

If you don't mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back. Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don't catch cold. Help yourself to cookies on the table but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always, MOM

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa for many years to come.

The Doghouse!

Found this on another blog I follow and it's just way too funny not to share. Make sure the man in your life sees this before he goes holiday shopping.