I Hate My Job

I work for a church and, for the most part, it's pretty great. I work with and for wonderful people. I can listen to Pandora or old time radio all day. I can check my facebook, email, twitter, and news feeds anytime I want. But I hate my job when:

Home, Home on the Range

Home is a tricky word. Is it where you were born? Where you grew up? Where you've lived the longest? Where you live now? Home is where your heart is, so your real home's in your chest (Captain Hammer). I think it's easy to accumulate homes but it's hard when your current plot just doesn't make the cut. Despite having lived in the prairies for nearly three years, I find myself referring to Ohio and Southern Indiana as home. I've had a hard time grafting myself into this clay soil. Maybe it's how many times Buddy Holly and I have moved in those short three years. Maybe it's the fact that I never really imagined myself here to begin with. It is taking time but I am coming to call this home. I find myself saying "ya'll," I talk to my house and genuinely miss it when I'm away, and I'm beginning to think only mountains could improve on those sweeping sunsets.

But really, I think it's people that make your home. It's challenging for me to be so far from my natal family and I dearly miss my Belle and Pocahontas. But Buddy Holly, Drake, and Elena are my home. I will follow him, follow him wherever he may go. And I have had so many wonderful individuals make this patch of the Plains more homey. It's hard being a forward-thinking, progressive, bleeding heart liberal in redneck territory and I really don't think I could claim this land as my land without the likes of other like-minded folks. Where would I be without Miss Right? How could I survive mundane Mondays without coffee time with Charlotte and Esmeralda? With whom else can I share elucidating conversations about Mao Zedong, Sarah Palin, Henry VIII, and Downton Abbey - all before ten in the morning? And though she's gone to God's Country (apparently that's in Ioway), my first years in the Plains would have been rough ridin' without Kari.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to get around to is that my mother always told me to bloom where I'm planted. I'm just thankful for the companions that make this garden more lovely.

A hot cuppa

When it comes to cooking, Betty Crocker is my go-to gal. Just this evening she gave me a fantastic recipe for sage potatoes. Many Christmases ago my brother, Snur, and wife gave me the vintage Betty Crocker cookbook, circa 1950. This is the coup of cookbooks, the climax of culinary compendiums! This is the Betty Crocker that provides not only recipes and a guide to setting your table but tips on how to maintain personal outlook  ("While children are napping, do something refreshing. Write, knit, or listen to pleasant music"), how to maintain health and posture during chores ("Alternate sitting down tasks and stranding up tasks. Don't be on your feet too long at one time"), and how to refresh your spirit ("Notice humorous and interesting incidents to relate at dinnertime") (pg. 431). It is only missing a page on how to mix hubby a cocktail before he gets home ("Remember Ladies, no man wants a slothful wife!") (the cookbook doesn't actually say that) (I kind of wish it did). This is my absolute favorite cookbook and I use it any chance I get, simply because it's vintage. I love anything old-fashioned. Buddy Holly would say that I'm actually just a hater, particularly of anything newer than 1965, which is factually incorrect because I love Back to the Future and have a deep affinity for Grooveshark, thank you very much.