The Business of Lamb Chops

To celebrate Cybershopping Monday, I lent $25 to Casinaldo Torres Moron, a sheep farmer in Peru. He will use the money to improve the quality of feed, which will allow him to produce bigger sheep and sell them more quickly. With more money flowing in faster, hopefully, Moron will increase the size of his backyard flock, put more food on his family's table and repay my loan within a year. I did my little dabble in international banking through Kiva.org. Browsing the website was a bit of brain-power overload with so much to pick from. I could have started with a favorite country, or a gender-specifc request, or a specific type of project. In the end, I clicked on the last page of project requests and there I found Moron's sheep project. Instantly I knew it was the right one for me. I have a weakness for sheep. I spent my summer between high school and college living on my grandmother's farm. My grandfather had died and things were falling apart. My family, moving to the farm, put it back together. Sadly, we arrived too late to fix the small flock of sheep. A dog pack had repeatedly gotten loose in the flock and run the animals. Some died from fright. Others from injury. By the time the dogs were gone, only five sheep remained. The tiny rag-tag flock quickly learned to follow my voice around the yard. I felt like schoolyard Mary. They, no doubt, felt like they might be fed. For them, the terrible time of dog packs was over. And like a sign of faith in a better future, one summer day, a ewe gave birth. Little Jergens joined the flock. I left for college and my parents gave the flock to a neighbor. I like to think that Jergens went on to live a pretty good life for a sheep--one filled with green pastures and protected from dogs. Though, eventually, I am sure he became lamb chops for someone--after all, he was livestock. With my business loan to Casinaldo Moron, I hope his sheep will eat a bit better on their way to being grilled into lamb chops. The Moron family and their sheep both deserve a good life. Check me out on Kiva at kiva.org/lender/florrie1756 That'll link you to any projects I fund, though right now, it's just one.

Gingerbread For A Village

Birdie asked me to bake gingerbread houses for her friends. I forgot Birdie has lots of friends. I'm baking House No. 3. By midweek, I hope to have a village ready to decorate. That's the problem with pretending to listen. Sometimes, I agree to things I have barely heard. Gingerbread houses are fine. I like Birdie's friends almost as much as I like Birdie, and that's quite a lot. I first made a gingerbread house when Birdie and Daisy were little ones. Each decorated half of a house, while eating as much candy as possible. They enjoyed decorating, they enjoyed the candy, but what they liked best happened in mid-January. We took the gingerbread house out to the backyard, placed it on the ground and the girls demolished it with hammers. The process lasted about five minutes, and we all felt very relaxed and satisfied with the results--candy and chunks of stale gingerbread flung everywhere. That's how our gingerbread house tradition began. Birdie has told me about this year's decorating party--it's Saturday. I feel certain she is planning the January demolition party. A lor of candy corn and peppermint will fly across the yard--lucky raccoons--and a bunch of teenage girls will suddenly feel more mellow-lucky parents.

Turk Head Meets Santa Claus

Turk Head

Underwear Location Clarification

Having read through yesterday's blog, I realize that at least one clarification is needed. For a variety of reasons, our Thanksgiving plans have changed. My family of four is not traveling to dine with the greater clan. Typically, we would be at my mom's house. Mom always pulls together a fantastic culinary feast. Mom never starts her meal planning with an edict to make sure the correct undergarments are worn. I, of course, am trying to avoid any possible disaster now that the stay-at-home meal is on me. Six of us will gather at the table--Big Guy, Daisy, Birdie, Big Guy's sis Candy Squared, our good friend Darling Gale, and myself, if I'm not overcome by the wine gravy fumes. Not being at Mom's house, I am google searching how to dislodge a turkey carcass. With the combined persuasive power of Candy Squared and Darling Gale, either Big Guy or Chuck the blind dog may end up dancing on the table with a tight-fitting turkey hat. I am bracing for a feast to remember, probably not one to repeat.

Wear What's Fit For The Occasion

Already the turkey wars have started. Someone in the family, I don't know which someone, got her feathers ruffled. And once one set of feathers is ruffled, everyone's feathers seem to follow. I hope the ruffling calms as this week's Thanksgiving hinges on getting along like pilgrims and Indians. Though I'm guessing the first Thanksgiving feast got a bit dicey. The pilgrims wore itchy, winter, woolen underwear. Hard to imagine sitting through a meal without scratching. While the Indians, perched on a rough hewn bench, picked up wicked splinters from not wearing enough underwear. And a celebratory feast certainly goes better with the right amount of underwear worn--undies not too tight, but sturdy enough not to pop from the expansion of the well-fed. Of course, no one in our family will show up near naked, although that must be what the pilgrims thought the Indians were doing. In fact, the pilgrims probably wasted a lot of time at the table trying not to stare. While the Indians had to sit on their hands to keep from pointing at those scratching, odd-duck foreigners--which led to more splinters for the Indians and additional worries among the pilgrims about where the Indian hands had been. Somehow, through it all, these two very different groups shared a meal, avoided feather-ruffling and walked away from the table as friends, at least for a while. I have high hopes that our Thursday feast will be equally successful. I'm telling everyone now: Wear underwear fit for the occasion.  That's my start to planning the perfect meal.

Look Deep Into My Eyes