Laura Unearthed

It happened.   Harvest began.   I dreaded it… and, at the same time, I’m more excited than ever as I get to watch it through my daughter’s eyes, this year.   Apparently, Monday was National Eat a Hoagie Day.   According to the radio station I was listening to on my way home (completely credible source, I’m sure), there were industrial workers on Hog Island in Italy. They worked long days and packed huge sandwiches for lunch, aka: the hoggie… or over time: the hoagie.   How appropriate for the BBQ hoagie-style lunch I made my  hoggie hubby on Monday.   (I packed him the equivalent of half a roast and a loaf of French bread.  No surprise for those of you that know him.) Really, this is his favorite.   I love it, too, because it’s easy, makes the house smell delicious, and tastes great.   Plus, I’m always looking for a way to use up my roasts other than with carrots and potatoes, again. I know it looks like a ...

Harvest is fast approaching here.   With a newborn, I’m surprised how calm I am about it.   I think I’ve lost a grasp on how crazy it’s going to be soon.   Not like those of you who are farm wives weren’t aware… but here’s how we know harvest is around the corner…   1)       You washed all of the laundry in one day… because you could.   The laundry room is the calm before the storm, enjoying order before all of the dusty laundry with grain-filled-pockets starts flooding the floor.   Unless you have a newborn, like me: then, it’s more like the storm before the storm. 2)       “It just depends on the weather…” …has become the farm wife’s routine RSVP, again.   3)       We’re digging through all of the children’s clothes. Someday soon, cool weather will pop up unexpectedly.   She needs the right gear for the farm in a size that fits… because she’s going. ...

Browsing Pinterest today, my irritation grew with every article titled “Must-dos Before Baby” or “Baby Gear Must-Haves.”   Outside of your doctors’ directions (by the way, please listen to your doctor) , there is nothing you must do to have a happy, healthy baby.  But I didn’t know that. I’m kind of ashamed of the thinking that devoured my normal senses during my first pregnancy.   More regretful than ashamed, I suppose, for all of the self-imposed stress and worry.   Reading baby product reviews was my new anxiety-inducing addiction.   It was ridiculous.     Our baby showed up a month early, which happened to be a day after this photo. Then, my daughter surprised us by debuting a month early, and I couldn’t complete my pre-babe project check-list.   What happened?   We had a beautiful, feisty baby doll anyway. This second pregnancy is cake compared to number one.   Mostly because number one keeps me way too distracted ...

My, oh my, the muck and the mire.   (Just finished reading Little Blue Truck to the tot before bed.   Who else has that one memorized?) Like much of the Midwest, our Spring has been wet.   In farm world, wet translates to: unhappy farmers who can’t get in the field.   The good news: creative meals delivered to the field haven’t been required lately.   However, blue skies lingered just long enough for the farmer to get in a soybean planting frame of mind today… which means: a field supper.   My farmer would be grateful for a plain ole hamburger or turkey sandwich, but the key to really making his day, is a small twist on a familiar go-to convenience meal. Tonight, I pulled out a new recipe: “ Grilled Chicken Cordon Bleu Wraps ” from the Taste and Tell blog.   Very loooosely chicken cordon bleu.   In fact, in my efforts to simplify the recipe, I looked up “cordon bleu” to make sure I didn’t compromise the essence of the “cor...

Cooking, cleaning, wiping bottoms… no doubt, mothers deserve a day of honor.   Pitching straw bales, steadying oneself after a spirited cow knocks you around, hauling an assortment of dirty, gross farm items in your car… the list of sacrifice grows deeper for a farm mom.   For those of us growing up on the farm, we often take for granted that our mothers performed at a different pace with unique challenges.   I remember fondly the adventure of running cows back to the barn as my mother and I were on our way to the Easter Sunrise Service in our Sunday best.   I would guess she doesn’t remember it with the same affection.   I know now why she emphatically repeated to me, attempting to engrain on my memory, the best practices for removing caked on, five-day-old manure stains from our good “cattle show” jeans.   (Lay pants out on basement floor, douse with stain pre-treat, wait, soak in wash sink with detergent, wait... again, get new water with detergent ...