grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

don’t make me run!

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I don’t run.  I hate to run.  Running hurts my boobs. My best friend, Becky, lovelovesloves to run. She cranks up Keith Urban on her iPod, sucks down a tube of espresso love energy gel and jogs off in her cute little running skort looking so toned and in her zone. It’s the combination of Keith and espresso love that gives her that extra sparkle.  

Last year, Becky ran her first half marathon in Dallas – what an awesome accomplishment. I was so proud and excited for her! Judy (my other BFF) and I watched her cross the line, snapping pictures and screaming like we were at a Donny Osmond concert in 1972. Yay Becky! Good for her!
See Becky Run!
I wouldn’t run a half marathon if Keith Urban was standing at the finish line naked, waiting to sing a brand new song he had written and recorded especially for me. I just wouldn’t. Not for Keith or anyone else. Ok, well, except maybe for Coach Graham.  There was actually a time I ran for Coach Graham. He was the Keiser Jr. High girl’s basketball and track coach. All the silly, giggly, goofball teenage girls in Keiser were C-RAZY about him. He was our Keith Urban. He motivated us to run even as he tortured us daily! But, we didn’t care. We would have jumped off the Keiser water tower for Coach Graham. And still would.
As part of our basketball practice, we “jumped benches” – hard, wooden benches – with both feet, at the same time. If you mis-jumped, you dragged your tired butt home with a purple goose egg on your shin. (I can no longer jump benches. I am certain of this, because I tried during bootcamp last year. I even envisioned Coach standing there, swinging that whistle like always he did, but I still could not get both feet to work together.  One jumped and the other lagged behind like a delayed reaction.) We also ran suicides and bleacher laps and held the chair pose against the gym wall until our thighs screamed for mercy. Then, at the very end of practice, as we were sweating out Coca-cola (we didn’t know about GU gel) and very near tears, Coach made us run from the school gym to the Keiser Experiment Station (pronounced “spearmint” station for you non-townspeople).

Keiser, Arkansas is a small town – there were only about 600 residents when I was in junior high and probably about the same now.  It’s surrounded by soybean and cotton fields, right between Sandy Bayou and Hall Town. The Keiser Experiment Station was a big deal I guess, like something from the Dharma Initiative. As a kid I wondered, “Just what exactly were they experimenting on at the edge of town?” It was somewhat of a cool mystery, intriguing but not enough so to quiz my mother on it, just something to ponder now and then. Were there dead bodies there? Dead chickens? In junior high, I came to understand “they” were performing research for the University of Arkansas – research on crop production and pesticides. (woo pig sooie!) Although I was a farmer’s daughter, and those crops put cornbread in my mouth, I didn’t think that was all too interesting. For me, the experiment station meant one thing – the absolute worst part of my teenage day.
Even though the road was flat and it probably wasn’t a mile round trip, it was exta-long with Coach tailing behind us, very slowing, in his truck. He always had his window rolled down to shout out words of “motivation”. Why didn’t he get out of that truck and run with us? That was one of the biggest debates in 7th grade. By the time I passed by Mrs. Mills’ house, I had painful stitches in my side. I could hide behind Mrs. Mills’ house, catch my breath, and fall back in line when my girlfriends came running back from the spearmint station. But NO, helicopter Coach was on to me, back there following with his trust issues. By the time I made it to the big tree where we looped back, I was seriously considering hiding out behind the cotton trailers at the spearmint station – I would stay there until high school. I didn’t care what the hell kind of odd things they were doing. I would volunteer to be experimented on, if it meant not having to run back to school. It wasn’t until we were a bit older that we learned, not only was crop research happening there, but at night, when it was dark, especially on the weekends, the experiment station was the place teenagers made out – a whole different sort of spearminting.
Becky never ran to the Experiment Station. She didn’t play basketball or run track. I have no idea how she weaseled out of it, but obviously that strategy boosted her long-term running career while mine was completely stunted. When Becky planned to run her half, Judy and I reluctantly decided to participate in the 5-K. Best friends since elementary school, we did want to be supportive of Becky. We wanted to be there cheering her on when she crossed that finish line, just not sweaty. Plus we really wanted one of those cute Big D Marathon t-shirts.
The night before the big event, Becky educated us on proper running attire. Judy and I were none too happy to discover that you NEVER wear your new shirt for the actual event referenced on the shirt. It’s too new and not broken in yet, and people who do that are total novices. She said we couldn’t wear it until the next event, or maybe the Big D run the following year.  What? Judy and I looked at each other but did not speak. There was going to be a next event? 
On the day of the run, the serious marathoners started first. And they were an intimidating bunch sporting state of the art, water-wicking, coconut-infused, anti-chafing, UVA-protecting technological running gear with tubes of gel and energy packs wrapped around their waist like gun holsters. Heck, even I might be able to run if I had all that groovy crap! Suddenly I was very self-conscious of the getup I was wearing: hand-me-down gray sweat pants from the floor of my son’s closet and my faded yellow “Life Is Good” t-shirt. And Becky was so right – thank God she saved us! No one except a family of dorks wore those cute baby blue Big D Marathon t-shirts we received in the registration packets.  How uncool were they? Ha!
Judy and I totally missed Becky out of the gate.  We were standing in line at the nasty port-a-potties.  But finally, it was our turn. Our crowd was pretty respectable as well. We politely cued up in the very, very back of the crowd, certainly not wanting to slow down anyone. Plus part of my strategy was to draft off some over-achieving quick chick who should have been running with Becky, instead of us. (I learned about drafting running to the spearmint station behind Carrie Jones.) I was carrying both a water bottle and my iPhone, so clearly this was not an activity in which I anticipated breaking a sweat, but more of a social event for Judy and me – time to catch up while we walked. The announcer was speaking over the loudspeaker, but we couldn’t hear him very well – they had a poor sound system. I took a picture of Judy, and she took one of me. How fun! Evidence for Facebook:) The announcer continued to babble on like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Suddenly, and without warning, the entire crowd of runners, except us, turned 180 degrees around to face the opposite direction, and Judy and I were in the very front of the crowd! OMG-OMG-OMG. Apparently our route was different from the marathoners, and we were soon to be trampled to death, never getting to wear our cute new t-shirts… Quickly, we scurried to the sideline so the true runners would not have to hurtle over us as we lay dying on the asphalt. I reminded myself, I would never see these people again.
Coach Graham. He’s still got it!
Once the crowd began to thin a bit, we disappeared into a group of Asians jogging in jeans.  Ok, seriously? Jeans? We could not let these people in JEANS cross the finish line before us. Really? Did they just suddenly decide to register for the run on their Sunday morning field trip to the Science Place across the way? Sensing Coach Graham in his truck behind us, we picked up the pace.  He would be so proud.

talya


Musical Pairings:
Peter Frampton, “Do You Feel Like We Do”


Becky’s Medal

Buttermilk Pie with Raspberries

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“Make You Wanna Slap Yo Momma”
Buttermilk Pie with Raspberries


This is an awesome pie. Adapted from Southern Memories by Nathalie Dupress, it’s an easy pie to bake. It will make you think back to your childhood and wonder why your mother only baked pies at Christmastime. Or Thanksgiving.  And that just might make you want to slap yo momma…

Ingredients
Favorite Pie Crust (homemade or not)
1 stick butter, unsalted, melted, cooled
3 eggs, room temperature
1/4 cup buttermilk
2 T flour, all-purpose
1 3/4 cups sugar
1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt


  • First of all, read this entire recipe before you even think about cooking.  This will eliminate surprises and make sure that you allow enough time to assemble and bake this pie.  It will turn out better. I speak from experience.
  • Secondly, gather all of your ingredients and measure them out beforehand. Yes, you will dirty more measuring cups and bowls, but you will know well in advance that you are out of vanilla or your flour has bugs in it, saving yourself a mad dash to the grocery store during mid-stir. Plus, you will feel like the Barefoot Contessa with all the little bowls sitting around pre-measured.  
  • Be sure to melt your butter and then let it cool to room temperature.  And the eggs need to hang out for a bit as well. While your butter is cooling and your eggs are chillin’, roll out your crust and press it into the pie pan.  Press it into the corners, and try not to stretch the dough. Stretching causes shrinkage while baking. And we all know shrinkage is ugly. Trim the edges and try to make them look somewhat neatly crimped.  But don’t worry too much about this…a rustic-looking pie tastes better and perfection is overrated. (I am assuming you are working with the pre-made Pillsbury pie crusts – the kind that you unroll. If you buy a pie shell, then just unwrap it.)  Once your crust is pressed into the pan and all trimmed, place it in the freezer for 30 minutes before baking. Trust me on this.
  • Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. 
  • In your KitchenAid or in a mixing bowl, mix the butter and eggs together until well combined.  (Did you melt your butter and then let it come to room temperature? If not, guess what? You just made yourself some scrambled eggs. If so, stop right here, make a scrambled egg sandwich for sustenance and start over…) Add the buttermilk and vanilla to the butter/egg mixture and mix well.
  • In a separate bowl, combine the flour, sugar and salt.  Stir this dry mixture into your wet mixture a bit at a time until mixed.  Don’t over mix. At this point you may want to drink it like eggnog.
  • Pour the filling into the crust and bake on the middle rack until set and lightly browned.  About 45 minutes. Cool to room temperature on a rack. Be patient. Raspberries or other tart fruit sprinkled on top will help balance the sweetness. Don’t put your raspberries on when the pie is warm. They will bleed. 
topped w/ pomegranate thingys 
Total shweetness!! Try not to slap yo momma. 

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.



This recipe was adapted from Central Market which adapted it from Southern Memories, by Nathalie Dupree.


But It’s Only Water Weight!

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Today marks the beginning of my 4th month! So far so good. I feel happy and calm and have really begun to enjoy the changes that are developing in my life. I’m taking better care of myself, eating organic and limiting red meat. And I sleep better. My friends have told me I have a glow.  The glow of retirement.  YesPleaseAndThankYou!

I retired from my 25 year banking career at State Bank & Trust on Halloween.  As I enter into my 2nd trimester of retirement, I think I’ve only gained 5 pounds.  But I don’t really know or care. As long as my jeans fit, no worries. The only time I really think about it is when I’m forced to weigh in for my annual physical at the insistence of Jennifer, my cute, tiny, female-DoogieHowser-ish internist. (There is something rather unsettling about explaining hot flashes to Jennifer, obviously born in the 1980s. I feel immediately more vibrant after a visit to Dr. Walter, who was given a proper, doctorly name, when gas cost $0.15 per gallon.) 

My husband, on the other hand, weighs himself at least 2 times a day, and ALWAYS after a big dinner.  This is so baffling to me, but quite entertaining. He steps on the scale, which is not accurate compared to Dr. Jennifer’s scale, and announces the results in summary format, but never stating the actual poundage to me.  “Well, I shouldn’t have had that burger at dinner,” incredibly disappointed in himself, sounding like Eeyore. Or, with a pleasant smile in his voice, “Turkey wrap at lunch” proud that the scale delivered positive news. I do not even say it – I soooo want to say it. I am trying my dead level best to be supportive.  After all, I’m a kept woman now. 

Seriously, does he not know about water retention? That no matter what he eats, foregoes or pukes up that day, he simply will NOT weigh less at night than he did in the morning. It’s a mathematical dieting fact of life.  To see a change, he must make a major lifestyle change, like donating a leg. He’s a very smart man. He structures complicated deals I only pretend to understand. He, of all people, should understand that these small weight fluctuations from morning to night are simple rounding errors! I sweat four days a week for months, eating only gluten-free, dairy-free, taste-free food with no obvious change, yet he hopes and believes in his heart that he can step on the scale after substituting fries for cabbage at dinner one night and truly lose weight? But then again, he is a man. They do have the advantage of somehow dropping 2 pounds after a satisfying bathroom break. And it’s not water…

After only one week of retirement, everyone began to ask me incredulously, “WHAT are you doing with yourself?”, as if I had been confined to complete bed rest and chicken broth. “WHAT on Earth do you do all day?”, blah blah blah. Oh puleeze! {insert eye roll here} Like these people could not entertain themselves for even one measly week? I was already into my 4th month and had not watched a minute of daytime television (except for a couple of episodes of Andy Griffith). But then again, I can entertain myself at Target.  I will admit, now that the tables have turned, I too made those catty comments to my stay-at-home friends, pretending to be so incredibly fulfilled when really, I was totally sleep deprived, envious and bitter. It was just a coping skill. We do what we have to do to get down the road.

I can see this clearly now that I am more rested and less stressed. I no longer track the prime interest rate or worry about the median sales price for Dallas County homes compared to the prior quarter, or whether the price per square foot has fallen in Preston Hollow. I am losing no sleep over the 30 year jumbo mortgage rate products. I have allowed myself to let go of this information, opening up my brain for new creative ideas and boosting my memory. John’s brain is jammed with every number he ever knew – his old phone numbers, apartment numbers, and every golf hole stroke/score. This is why he cannot remember important particulars such as the delicate working of the body as it relates to water weight retention. 

No longer do I have recurring dreams about falling or floating off into the upper atmosphere, or forgetting to go to my college classes an entire semester, or being naked at work.  My dreams are now very different, peaceful and specific – eating a bowl of peaches, swimming in the ocean or watching it snow. I know, I know. In only 90 days, I’ve become one of those people who annoys the hell out of me.  

Twenty-five years is a big chunk of my life.  Half of my life with the same bank owners and co-workers. I was a baby when I started working there – fresh out of Baylor University. There is no way to walk away and not leave a part of myself behind. Now I’m the customer. Tomorrow I need to drop by to do some banking. I know there will be fresh, hot, complementary coffee – with those awesome french vanilla liquid coffee mate singles – and juicy gossip waiting for me. I hope they don’t notice my extra 5 pounds. But really, it’s just water weight.




talya

Musical Pairings:
Uncle Kracker, “Smile”

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!