Happy chicken eggs, a sweet little bunch of violets my girls brought in for me from the yard, and a peppermint plant from my dear friend Annie.
Archive for the ‘Muriel’ Category
Posted in Muriel, Sometimes I Wish I Was Astonished At My Own Ignorance, spirituality, tagged abortion, blood transfusion, cyst, dermoid, dilaudid, ectopic, emergency, god, miscarriage, morphine, ouch, percocet, pregnancy, pregnant, surgery, tubal, vicodin, why on May 12, 2013 | 7 Comments »
It’s been exactly two months since I last posted. In that time, we took a family road trip to Disneyland in Anaheim, California. In our trusty Honda Pilot, we traveled 4,400 miles round-trip. We followed Route 66 on the way out. We touched 200 million year old trees turned to rock in the Petrified Forest National Park; we gazed down into the Grand Canyon; our bare feet splashed in the Pacific ocean for the first time. We were awed into silence by the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, and bored into tears driving through Nebraska. When we got back in early April, I started editing and putting together the hours of video, and sifting through the hundreds of pictures we collectively took. I went back to work, and life clicked right along for two more weeks.
On Wednesday, April 24th, I woke up, kissed Richard good morning, and brushed my teeth. I gave good morning hugs to my girls, took a shower, and got ready for the day. Jess caught her school bus. Just before getting into my car to go to work, I had what seemed to be some sharp gas pains. I went back into the house and into the bathroom, and then slow, hot pain blossomed in my right lower abdomen. I sat down on the toilet lid and tried to figure out what was happening. I was dizzy and starting to see stars, and the pain was pulsing with my heartbeat. I’d been in the bathroom about ten minutes, and as Richard was passing by, he tapped on the door and jokingly asked if everything was ok. I said I wasn’t sure. I heard him freeze and backtrack, and he asked more urgently, Are you ok? I came out and very slowly walked to the living room. The pain was settling into a large, hot mass inside my belly. I sat down on the couch and Richard asked what was wrong, and I couldn’t explain. My mind was scattered, distracted. He asked me if he should take me to the ER. I thought about it a few seconds, and then answered that I wasn’t sure, that the pain seemed to be ebbing a bit. He said, No, if you couldn’t say no right away, we’re going now. He got Abby dressed in about a minute flat, and we all went to the ER, about five minutes away.
I couldn’t breathe very deeply at all, just shallow little breaths. He dropped me off at the doors and raced to park the car. I limped into the empty waiting room at a crawling pace, and gave the receptionist my name and my symptoms, and told her I had to sit down and my husband would give her anything else she needed. Richard and Abby came in then, and a nurse took us back to an exam room. Pain level? Eight, maybe nine. Hard to breathe, hard to move. My belly felt large and painful. They pressed all over it, and asked me questions. They wanted to get me in for an X-ray but took a urine sample first. I almost fainted on the way back from the bathroom; thank goodness for large strong male nurses to lean on. Richard had left to take Abby to school. He got back, and they put an IV in my right arm and gave me a dose of morphine. Another nurse came in shortly after that with the results from the urine screening. She had a small, gleeful smile on her face.
She said, Mrs. Taft, you’re pregnant.
What? I looked over at Richard, at my other side. He was as flabbergasted as I was. I’ve never been pregnant. I’d been having regular cycles, right up to two weeks previous, when I had my last one. I said to Richard, If I’m pregnant, something is very, very wrong. The nurse’s smile faded. She said, Well, this changes things. We’ll be taking you for an ultrasound instead of an X-ray.
They wheeled my bed to another room with an ultrasound technician. The pain as she pressed the transducer against my swollen belly was excruciating, but there was no way around it. She kept apologizing. I felt bad for making her feel bad. She kept looking for the fetus, and it was nowhere to be found. My blood pressure was dropping slowly and steadily. The female nurse came in to tell me the Ob/Gyn had been paged and was on her way. Another nurse was trying to get an IV into my left arm for saline, with success on the third try. The sonographer tech was still trying to see what was going on inside me. I heard her breath change, and then she quietly told the doctor next to her, I found it. I craned my neck to see the screen. There was the little heartbeat, strong and steady. I glanced at Richard, who was staring at the screen. I heard the sonographer say quietly, yes, eight weeks.
Things got a little scattered for me at that point. I don’t know the sequence of events. My blood pressure was 80-something over 40-something, and dropping. The Ob/Gyn arrived and told me that the baby was a tubal pregnancy, and I said, Ectopic? Yes, Mrs. Taft. The baby is in your right fallopian tube, and the tube has ruptured, and you’re bleeding internally. We need to get you into surgery immediately to get the bleeding stopped. Stupidly, I asked, can the baby be moved, or…? She said gently, no, the pregnancy’s not viable. Oh, ok. Richard kissed me and said he’d be waiting for me when I got out. They wheeled me down halls as the anesthesiologist explained what they were going to do, cheerfully and clearly. I thought of the scenes in TV shows and movies, where they show the patient’s view of endless lights blipping past overhead. I took the opportunity to appreciate my role as Patient. I looked up at the masked faces of the people pushing me, with their kind eyes and baby blue hairnets. I breathed, and blinked, and felt my body wobble over the slight bumps my bed rolled over. I had the sensation of floating along on the shoulders of a mighty river, sure and wide and deep.
We arrived in the operating room. It was full of people, all certain of their roles and performing their duties briskly. Just another Wednesday morning. Everybody was cheerful. That’s a good vibe to come into as a patient. As they prepared the mask to put on my face for the anesthesia, the lady standing next to me held my hand and rubbed her thumb soothingly in my palm. I could tell she was smiling encouragingly behind her mask as she looked down at me, then returned her gaze to the anesthesiologist. What a kind action, I thought. Nobody has to stand there and hold your hand in an OR when you’re going to be put out in a few seconds. They put the mask over my face, and told me to take deep breaths. I had some really strange dreams while I was under.
When they woke me up, I was being wheeled into the room I’d be in until Friday evening. I was presented with the facts of what they’d found:
- They performed open surgery on me, via a seven-inch incision on my lower abdomen.
- They removed two liters of blood from my abdomen. I was bleeding out.
- I had a very large dermoid cyst surrounding my left ovary, to the extent that there was no ovary tissue left, so it was removed. My left fallopian tube was left intact.
- There was another dermoid cyst on my right ovary, but they were able to cut it off cleanly, leaving my right ovary intact.
- The baby and my right fallopian tube, damaged beyond repair by the rupture, were removed.
I was given a transfusion of two units of blood. I had many kind nurses. I ate many cups of Jello and chocolate pudding, at all times of day and night. My inner eight year old was in heaven. In the next few days, I figured out how to turn off the beeping alarm that meant I’d moved my arm the wrong way, so nurses didn’t have to run in to do it. I watched some TV, but I mostly just sat and thought, and waited for my pain medication button to light up on my Jeopardy buzzer so I could push it again. Richard brought me chocolate and an overnight bag, and visited me several times a day. He brought my mom and the girls on the second night.
While in the hospital, anybody who asked, How are you doing? got the same answers, the same backstory. We weren’t trying to get pregnant. I didn’t know I was pregnant. We adopted two girls several years ago, and now they’re four and ten years old, and they keep us very busy. It’s ok, we weren’t looking to have more children. God takes care of us and we don’t always know why He does what He does, but it’s all ok.
Whoever had asked always seemed relieved that I wasn’t falling apart, and surprised that I was taking it so well. Who could blame them? I was surprised myself. However, I also knew that every time I prodded my heart for an answer, the prod met no resistance; it just dissipated, like throwing a tennis ball into a mist. That’s how I knew I was full of shit. I just didn’t know what the actual answer was. How WAS I doing? No idea. Throw another tennis ball, watch it disappear, and make cheerful small talk to reassure someone that I wasn’t going to go all weepy on them. I was released to go home on Friday afternoon, April 26th.
I’ve been on leave from work for two weeks, and have another four to go. I’m healing. The last two weeks have been chasing tennis balls; just giving my heart and mind the space to catch up with what’s happened. This is my new milestone. Everything in my life is currently measured against, was I pregnant then? How old was the baby when we were digging our toes in the sand in the Pacific? Did I know, somewhere inside me, that I wasn’t alone in my body?
This story doesn’t have an end yet, because I’m still right in the middle of it. I haven’t been brave enough to Google what a fetus looks like at eight weeks. Every night at about eleven o’clock, after everyone else is asleep, the grief comes. The pain wraps around me and squeezes, and I remind myself to breathe, breathe. Richard’s and my baby wasn’t meant to be, and I don’t know why this happened, and it’s too big for me. When I start going under, I send up a simple prayer; Please, help. And it does, a little.
Posted in Main Dishes, Chicken, Healthy Lifestyle, Small Farming, Muriel, Frugality, Paleo-friendly, Real Food, Big Ag Can Suck It, Nutrition, tagged chicken, real food, turkey, fowl, feet, stock, broth, peeling, cleaning, preparing, boiling, salt, pliers, processing, nourishing, bone, minerals, nutrients, joint health, collagen, chondroitin, glucosamine, wellness on February 27, 2013 | 2 Comments »
As I contemplated the Coleman cooler sitting in my kitchen, I felt … intimidated. It wasn’t the two turkeys I’d recently helped butcher, or the bloody gallon-sized Ziploc stuffed full of necks and giblets. It was the 14 gray, disembodied, eerily reptilian turkey feet sitting on top.
I was also giddy with excitement. As most of you know, I’m deeply into the subject of nutrition and am always seeking to know what’s in my food down to the micronutrient level. I love knowing where my food is from, who grew it, how it lived, and how it died. While not “fun” (well, ok, it was so tremendously interesting that it tread awfully close to “fun”), participating in the slaughtering and butchering process of seven turkeys was immensely satisfying. I knew these animals from when they were tiny fuzzballs, and had held and petted them. They had been treated VERY well while they lived. They were killed humanely, with as little fear as is possible to impose on an animal. As they died, I sent up a prayer of gratitude for the lives that were taken in order to nourish my own. I think these moments of gratitude are crucial to being an eater of animal flesh; they are what keep us human, connected both to the mortal life cycle and each other. This connection is what’s missing for the overwhelming majority of the U.S., who have been systematically distanced from their food animals by companies interested only in selling us shiny packaging and sanitized, faceless, bloodless “meat”. I, on the other hand, played a quiet little game in the gut pile of “guess what THIS body part is” with myself. (For the record, esophaguses look and feel like long, rubbery, banded smoothie straws, and the wobbly purse-shaped thing at the end of it is NOT the “gobbler”, as I discovered later when I Googled it. It’s a sphincter, and it serves to keep food and drink down once it’s swallowed. So we have sphincters at both ends to keep the food in. How about that for a Thursday Fun Fact?)
I have lots more to say on this subject, but I digress. Back to those crazy feet.
If you’ve made it this far, you must either know why a person would be playing with turkey feet, or wondering why the hell anybody would be playing with turkey feet. Nutrition, of course!
A summary of the benefits of bone broth:
Promotes healing: Bone broths have been used successfully in treating gastro-intestinal disorders, including hyper-acidity, colitis, Crohn’s disease, and infant diarrhea.
Digestive aid: Aids in the digestibility of grains, beans, legumes, vegetables and meats and is hydrophilic in nature
Macro minerals: Contains highly absorbable forms of the calcium, magnesium, potassium, phosphorus, sulfur and fluoride as well as trace minerals
Gelatin and Collagen: rich in both; promoting bone and joint healing in addition to supporting digestion, particularly broths made from the feet of chickens (and turkeys)
Protein: adds easily digestible protein to your diet
Amino acids: Glycine, proline, hydroxyproline, and lysine are formed, which is important to detoxification and amino acid production in the body
Joint support: Glucosamine, chondroitin sulfate, and hyaluronic acid are produced and present for additional muscle and joint support
Immune system: Promotes the assimilation of vitamins and minerals and thus supports the immune system
Delicious and nutritious: use as soup, cooking liquid, sauce or as a tea.
From Lance Roll, CEC, HLC1, The Flavor Chef
And, according to Jenny, at Nourished Kitchen: ”Chicken feet [and turkey feet] produce a fine golden broth that’s rich in all the obscure nutrients that make a good stock so nourishing: glucosamine chondroitin, collagen and trace minerals. Moreover, a chicken stock is an excellent source of calcium. Understandably, a stock made from chicken feet gels beautifully just as a good stock should.”
So there you have it. Cheap (or in this case, free), bursting with easily absorbed nutrition, and freaky-deaky as HELL. Who could resist, I ask you? Not I!
With the feet of any fowl (and this may already have been done for you if you’re buying them packaged from the market), you need to get the leathery outer layer off. It’s full of stuff that the birds step in all day. Nobody wants THAT soup when it’s done, and who knows if you’d ever get the boiled bird-crap stench out of your curtains?
What you’ll need:
- A large pot with salted water for boiling the feet
- A large bowl filled with ice water
- A small sharp knife
- A large sharp knife
- Cutting board
- Receptacle for discarded skin n’ bits
- Receptacle for cleaned fowl feet
Here’s how I set up my kitchen before I started. (Ignore the scissors; one of the girls left them on the counter and I didn’t see them in time to get them out of the picture.)
Make sure your salted water is boiling hard.
Drop a bird foot into the boiling water and let it boil for just one minute, no more, no less.
Pluck it out of the water with the tongs and immerse it fully into the ice water, and swish it around for about 10 seconds.
Using the large knife, get any feathers or other undesirables cut off the leg end of the foot.
Switch to the small knife and use it to slit the skin, which helps to get you started on peeling it.
Start peeling the skin off. If you’re doing it wrong, you’ll be peeling up the underlying leg cartilage and it’ll bleed, believe it or not. If you’re doing it right, peeling the outer skin will leave a perfect pink replica of itself underneath. Kinda like a macabre jello mold.
When you get to the spur, use the pliers to firmly grasp the hard nail of the spur and wiggle it. The outer shell should pop right off, leaving the shiny whitish-pink claw exposed.
Keep working your way up the toes. I found that after peeling the skin off the “palm” or “frog” of the foot, I could then put my fingers between the toes and keep pulling the skin sheaths off the toes, like turning gloves inside-out. I read several sources that said to chop off the talons at the first knuckle, but I found that the hard outer shell just came right off with the skin, and there’s no sense in wasting the underlying claws since they have all the same nutrients as the rest of it.
When you get to a claw, use the pliers again to get a firm grasp on it. Wiggle it and pull at the same time. It should pop off, just like the spur did, leaving the shiny pink claw exposed.
When you’re done with skinning it, start the next one. I didn’t overlap this process much because I read that if you boiled it too long, the skin fused to the leg and you couldn’t get it off. The horror.
When you’re done with the feet, you might have a lovely pitcher full, like I did.
And your child may think it’s funny to grab a couple and menace you with them, like mine did. Her little sister thought it was hilarious.
Now, as cool as I think bird feet are, I’m not sure I want to make a giant pot of foot-only broth. I decided that since they were much larger than chicken feet, I’d wrap them individually in waxed paper and place them in a Ziploc bag. That way they can be taken out one at a time and added to a pot of regular bone broth when we make it, for added nutrients and gelling.
This was one of the most awesome kitchen experiments I ever did, and I’ll do it again when we run out of paws. I didn’t need to be so intimidated after all. The smell was interesting. It smelled exactly like boiling wool. I used to boil wool in order to dye it, for spinning, and I also sold the handdyed rovings on Etsy. If you’ve ever exhaled into a pure wool scarf on a cold, biting-wind kind of day, and smelled that woolly smell on the inhale, that’s the smell of boiling wool. And of boiling turkey feet, it turns out.
You know, I never really thought of this as a family blog or a mommy blog. People have referred to it that way, and I totally get why. I post stuff about nutrition, kids, family trips, etc. I started out with this vision of having a blog full of food info, recipes, urban farming, something more intellectual and less fluffy. Alas, it seems fluffy is de rigeur with two little girls running around. But I am not a mommy. In fact, I figured out one day about a month ago (one of the thousands of, “Oh, I should blog about this” moments) that the reason I am a fish out of water in my mommy-oriented community is because I define myself as Muriel: Person with Interests and Passions and Wicked Sharp Humor. Muriel who made an AWESOME choice in husbandly material and is so very happily married to her BFF and playmate. Muriel who has and is working her ass off to live her very most funnest life. (I have shit days but who doesn’t? On the whole, my life is rockin’.) I never get bored because I can always think of something fun to do, and I love being in my own company. Oh, and I adopted two little girls. See? That’s the thing right there. I adopted two girls; it’s something I did, something I chose. It’s not who I aspired to be, or who I became. I’m not trying to sound like an ass, but if I am? Oh the hell well. I have worked HARD to get here, and stay here, and be the person I’m being, every second of every day. And you know what? I think my daughters will be kick-ass people, whether it’s in spite of or because of my self definition.
One of the big box stores had Pink’s CD “Truth About Love” on sale for $5. I bought it. I am not proud of it, but I have been a closet Pink fan for quite a few years. I understand how grossly stupid that is. I have not been duped by the tough-bitch image she’s carefully crafted. I just like the “AHHHHHHH!!” quality of her songs sometimes. Tonight as I was listening to it (while making lunches and yes, I am aware of the crazypants irony of that), I realized the reason it was $5 is because it’s the tame version, without swears. WTF? What is the point? So I can listen with my kids around? So… it’s sanitized for mommies? Just shoot me.
I don’t have a point to this post. I don’t really care that I don’t have a point. I’m tired of having points. I’m not a point-y person. (Apparently, my id wants to throw a Me Party on my blog. I’m ok with that. Rant away, little id.)
I have not been blogging because I’ve been watching YouTube videos. A lot. I like Jenna Marbles. She’s smart, educated (has a Masters degree), grounded, responsible, cracks me up, and reminds me that it’s ok to lose the Pollyanna and be myself, EVEN in this blog. You should look her up. This video is one of my favorites. Just click on that link, and the rest of your night is planned. YOU’RE WELCOME.
Well, that about wraps it up for me tonight. Have a wonderful tomorrow, and have I mentioned that you look just lovely in that outfit? Really, you do. It’s just crazy cute. Keep rockin’ it.
This year, my department decided to make a slight departure from the traditional witches, pumpkins, and ghosts. We got the unicorn masks from Amazon.com back in July to prank our manager. Then, as Halloween grew nearer, an idea started to take shape. Planning meetings were held. Everybody brainstormed about how we could make it awesome with things we had in our basements, attics, or garages. I found nine colorful sheets at Goodwill for $4 each, and we cut a hole in the middle of each to put our heads through. Chris brought twine in to cut up for our belts, construction paper to make our hooves, and nylon rope to rope off our “stalls”. My good friend Mark is the GM of a Residence Inn, and I asked if we could borrow top sheets to hang from the ceiling and enclose our department. Mitch brought in disco balls. Jason brought in white icicle lights, dowels for the chariot, curling ribbon for our tails, and shredded “hay” for the floor. Patty brought in multicolored light strands and made our awesome Welcome sign. I brought in white twinkle lights, box cutters, fishing line, and a billion white top sheets. Diana brought in twinkle lights and sheets to hang. John went to the party store and bought rainbow streamers to hang from the ceiling. Mary brought in cardboard for the chariot, packing tape, and some colored sheets to hang. Bridget was our photographer/videographer. Nan (our manager and Unicorn Princess) brought in colored sheets to hang, and got a toga from Goodwill to wear. I brought in my wedding tiara and strands of pearls for the Unicorn Princess to wear, as well as a sparkly pink shawl I found at Goodwill. Everybody enthusiastically decorated the department and created the chariot on Thursday afternoon and Friday morning. I brought in speakers to plug my phone into, and stayed up until 12:30 AM on Thursday night putting together the perfect playlist. Check it out:
- Let the Sunshine In (The Fifth Dimension)
- California Dreamin’ (The Mamas and the Papas)
- Spill the Wine (Eric Burdon & War)
- Spirit in the Sky (Norman Greenbaum)
- Time of the Season (The Zombies)
- Dancing in the Street (The Mamas and the Papas)
- Sunshine of Your Love (Cream)
- Fly Like an Eagle (The Steve Miller Band)
Is that not the grooviest playlist you’ve, like, ever seen, man?
Welcome to Unicorn Land. Free your mind.
When the judges came through, we had the music going (Spill the Wine was playing), and love and peace abounded.
The last video is all of us pulling our manager to the lunchroom for the costume judging. The Unicorn Princess waved her wand regally at the crowds from her homemade chariot. (The folks of Oz were not amused that we stole their thunder. Everyone else’s amusement made up for it.)
It’s that time of year again when the leaves are turning and the smell of charred factory-farmed animal carcass wafts in great meaty waves through the Northwoods of Wisconsin. That’s right, Beef-a-Rama 2012. This was its 48th year, and we went again with our friends Steve and Lisa.
I hope you have a wonderful week. Please leave a comment if you can think of anything more interesting/productive to do with 55 non-pie pumpkins other than appearing insane to our neighbors.
OMG, it just occurred to me that we are pumpkin hoarders. Note to self: Don’t take the SUV to $28/carload day at the pumpkin farm. Zee pumpkins, zay are eem-possible to re-seest.
Ideas. Please. Comment.
The past couple of weeks have just flown by, haven’t they? Making lunches in the evening has thrown me off my blogging rhythm and I haven’t posted anything BUT lunches in a few weeks. Even I’m bored with lunch posts. Let’s mix it up a little by showing you what the family and I have been doing with all the OTHER hours in the days.
Jessica’s birthday party was a hoot. We made mini-pizzas, then went to Skateland for a couple of hours, and then came back for presents and a great big non-healthy happy birthday ice cream cake. While the pizza crusts were baking, I stood just outside of Jessica’s door and listened for a minute. Ohhhh, you think grown women gossip? It’s nothing compared to five young ladies who haven’t seen each other much over the summer. And poor Harvey the guinea pig right in the middle of it.
Do you like the cupcakes with the hearts on them? Richard baked those. All organic, right down to the sugar he used to MAKE the fondant. He amazes me with his diversity of interests. I think we could probably be married 100 years and I’d still be in awe of what he can accomplish when he sets his mind to it.
We put up tomatoes – about 40 lbs worth. Vacuum-sealed and frozen, the gift of organic, heirloom, homegrown tomatoes from our friends Dennis and Ann will see us happily through the winter.
My twelve-year-old cats Jezebel and Raina do NOT like to sleep in close proximity to each other very often. I caught them in the act of recharging their solar-powered purrs together.
My BFF Katie and her husband Ron just had their baby boy last weekend. His name is Elijah, and he is full of squirm. Sometimes it was actually hard to hold him because he just wanted to MOVE – at 36 hours old. Oh, Katie is going to have her hands full with him and her 30 month-old!
Richard looks damn good with a baby. I had to excuse myself after I took this picture of him to go to the restroom and have a little cry. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that we were robbed of those months/years with our girls, since we adopted them at 15 months (Abby) and 7 years old (Jessica). 99% of the time I am overwhelmed with gratitude when I think of how our girls came to us. The other 1% just rips my heart in half.
Richard and I went looking for cookie cutters (for lunches, of course) at a Goodwill on Friday night. We found a $5 bee costume in Abby’s size. She was thrilled with it. After yanking on some tights and wiggling into the suit, she ran out, hands flapping, sing-songing “Buzz, buzzzzzz, buzzy, buzzzzy, buzzzz!” as she skipped towards the hives. For the next half hour she WAS a bee – gathering pollen and nectar, flying back to the hive to drop it off, and of course that other very common honey bee activity, swinging.
And finally, my newest haircut. Richard loves me for who I am, warts and all. Or maybe that should be short hair and all. Because deep, deep in his heart, Richard wishes his pretty wife had long pretty hair. I’m sorry, honey, but short hair makes me feel happy and free and energized. I’ve gotta run with that feeling, and squeeze it for all it’s worth. Maybe one day long hair will make me feel that way. Here’s hoping, for your sake.
Posted in Lunch, Muriel, Real Food, tagged celery, garlic, onion, pepper, Quick lunch post, real food, salad, sandwich, sea salt, sprouted seven-grain bread, strawberries, tuna on September 14, 2012 | 2 Comments »
Sprouted seven-grain bread, lettuce, heirloom tomato, and tuna salad for the sandwich. Tuna salad is sustainably-caught tuna, organic Spectrum brand mayo, celery, red onion, sea salt and pepper. String cheese and strawberries on the side. Yum!
Richard and I have been Michael Perry fans for a number of years now, since about 2005, when we first read his book Population: 485. He hails from New Auburn, Wisconsin - up in my old neck of the woods in Chippewa County. I’ve read and enjoyed his books, CD’s (his band is called The Longbeds, how do you like that?), and recorded-live book readings, but have never met him until tonight. It was a hoot. He kept us laughing, clapping, and weeping ever so softly at times. Mike is gently self-deprecating, funny, modest, and a man full of gratitude.
Perhaps not so oddly, considering the geography involved, he also looks like all of my uncles digitally morphed into one.
Mike, thanks for visiting with us and being so absolutely head-over-heels in love with your kids, your wife, and your life. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again in the future!
If you’re looking for a good book to read, I highly recommend any and all of the following:
You can also get the latest news from his book tour and band on his website, http://sneezingcow.com.
Random Sunday with beekeeping, baking, real food school lunch making, and a family field trip to Milwaukee’s Urban Ecology Center.
Posted in Apiary, Beekeeping, Big Ag Can Suck It, Breads, Conscious Eating, Family Fun, Honey Bees, Muriel, Real Food, tagged 6th annual, apprentice, beekeeping, eat local resource fair, family, field, food, freezie pop, hives, ideas, inspecting, kids, lunch box, lunch boxes, milwaukee, molds, muffins, nuc, real food, resource fair, school lunch, silicone, silicone liners, smoothies, trip, urban ecology center on August 27, 2012 | 8 Comments »