T.J. BROWN BLOG

I’ve blogged about Halie before. Sahalie May was named after a waterfall and she was going to be our adventure dog. She was incredibly easy to train, responsive to the point of having some scary intuition and eager to please. A pibble cross, Halie exceeded our expectations as to what a joy a well-trained dog could be. She and my granddaughter became the best of friends. She’s completely in love with a cat. The only fly in the ointment was that she hates the car. Like it gave her such a sad to ride in it that we avoided taking her places, which was fine with her. She loves being in the woods and loves swimming, but getting her there broke our hearts. After a summer of going back and forth to the Powder House, she was better, but still disgruntled about the whole thing. Our lives were full of canine and cats until all of a sudden, I got the puppy bug.

Enter Wyatt Earp.

Wyatt comes from a ranch in Eastern Oregon. I’m a big believer in rescue dogs and Halie came from a shelter as a puppy. But I set eyes on Wyatt and I knew he was supposed to be my dog. We paid the down payment and I impatiently waited until Christmas to pick him up. We left on Christmas day in a rainstorm that soon turned to blizzard conditions in the Columbia River gorge. There wasn’t a lot of traffic but the conditions were treacherous. “We must get the spud!” became our mantra. It took us over six hours to drive 300 miles.

One night in our funny old house on the high desert and Wyatt was ours. Small, fragile, not quite eight weeks. He stole our hearts immediately. But what about our first love? How would she react to a puppy?

I think ambivalent would be the best way to put it. Was it a toy? Prey? A horrible mistake? It couldn’t possibly be a dog, could it? I saw all of these things running through her mind. All the signs of stress were apparent… her expressive eyes were wide, she drooled excessively. By turns she was playful or  terrified.

The next morning was better. She only drooled on occasion and often took the play with me doggy posture—butt up, tail wagging, ears high and alert. Then she’d growl if he came to close to one of her favorite toys. Like a big sister, she was confused, jealous and interested. Here is a picture of my youngest granddaughter meeting her baby brother for the first time. See the look? That’s how Halie looks right now.

Three days in and things are getting better. She wants to play with him, but isn’t sure how. He’s too small and her normal doggy play tactics are far too rough and it’s like she knows it. For his part, Wyatt has no such qualms. He weaves in and out of her legs, nipping at her hocks, leaping for her ears. She is remarkably patient considering.

Training is also going well. I am sleeping with him in the extra bedroom so I can get him up to potty on his pee pad regularly. We are kennel training him, but don’t believe in letting the baby cry it out… we didn’t do that with our children, and don’t do it with dogs. currently, he goes in and out of his kennel at will. We want it to be a safe haven for him and you can’t do that by locking him in. He’s pretty much confined him to the extra bedroom unless I am keeping direct eyes on him. Zac George is one of the best trainers out there and I used his non-dominant methods with Halie. Dogs have been bred for thousands of years to work with humans—it’s just a matter of learning to communicate with them.

I must be doing something right, because Wyatt is well on his way to learning both coming when called and how to fetch. “Look” is going to take more time, but considering that he is just eight weeks old today, I think we are doing very well. Fetch is important because it’s an easy way to wear out the puppy and a tired puppy is a good puppy!

In other news, I managed to get most of Christmas put away—no easy feat with a puppy underfoot. One of the advantages of having a small tree and minimal decorations this year, I suppose. I also cleaned out all the leftovers, made out this week’s menu and grocery list and worked a full eight hours-with a baby cradled in one arm. ! Now if I could just get a shower…

What a lovely week and yet…

The news is still shocking and horrifying on the outside while on the inside we are making merry the best we can under the circumstances. Our family holiday was last Sunday. My son and his family, (who have already had covid) came over and my daughter surprised her nieces and nephew by showing up to partake in the festivities… she works from home so we felt fairly safe in her attendance. But honestly, it was all about the grandbabies whom I haven’t seen in months. My son brought eggnog cream brulee, and we had a Christmas ham. The Grande Marnier chocolate cake turned out lovely as did the cream brulee. Highlight of the day was watching my grown children walk like penguins around the kitchen island with the grandchildren. I have no idea why…

Monday was the Solstice which we celebrated with homemade eggnog and Monte Cristos. Mom retired early and hubby and I spent several hours of quiet time reflecting on the year past and what we wanted for the upcoming year. We answered a series of questions and laughed when we answered the very opened ended questions identically. For fun, we counted all the trips made to the Powder House since we bought it in May. All totaled, we made Twenty-two trips either alone or together. That’s a lot of driving!

Tuesday was my birthday and it was spent quietly at home and we had a charcutier dinner with a great bottle of wine. Since it was my birthday, I was in charge of the TV and we binged several episodes of  Escape to the Château… I am obsessed with that series. Renovating my 1910 bungalow is nothing compared to renovating a 45 room French Chateau built in 1886!

Last night, I went all out on the food. My daughter and her boyfriend came to celebrate the season… Chris works with the public so om retired to her room to watch movies and we spent most of the time outside at the firepit. I made a coffee/spice rubbed brisket, mashed potatoes and roasted brussels with prosciutto and cranberries.  The brisket, served with pomegranate and parsley was amazing. For desert, we had an olive oil walnut cake with crème fraiche and spiced orange syrup. So good.  It was cold outside but I decorated the picnic table anyway with greenery and candles. It felt festive, if freezing.

The weird thing this year is no cookies… I haven’t made a single batch. I usually give away a bunch, but I didn’t know if people were doing that during a pandemic, so I switched over to Christmas cakes instead, just for the family. It’s been a fun departure for me and the results have been delicious.

So that is pretty much it. The holidays have been orchestrated from my computer and my kitchen this year. And it’s okay. Happy holidays friends! Be safe, be happy.

I’ve blogged about my apathy toward the holidays this year—It’s different. It’s different for all of us. So this weekend I made a concerted effort to do the things that usually encourage the Christmas spirit.

No one can say I’m not trying.

In between regular chores and holiday to do’s, we watched several Christmas movies-Christmas Vacation, Home Alone, Rick Steve’s European Christmas Special, Miracle on 34^th street and Rudolph. Miracle on 34^th Street and Love, Actually are my favorites. I’m saving Love, Actually for Christmas night for when my love and I are alone at the Powder House.

I knew I wanted to get the Christmas decorations out of the attic and put up a tree this weekend, but like everything else in life, certain things had to happen first. In order to put a tree in the back of the truck, we had to go to the yard debris and get the leaves out of the back. But if we were going to do that, we first needed to finish cutting the perennials, pick up the last of the leaves, etc., so we spent two hours doing yard work before heading to the yard debris. We then stopped on the way back to pick up the tree, but the tree lot had no good ones, we only had one mask and the subpar trees were 70.00 bucks. No, thank you.

After a quick lunch, we ran out to the country to find a farm and  discovered one we hadn’t been to before. The trees were fairly unkept, and after much dithering, we found one we both agreed on. Of course, the trunk was buried in mud and in a very Christmas Vacation moment, we borrowed a shovel from the deeply suspicious Christmas tree farmer and dug it out enough so we wouldn’t lose the bottom part of the tree.

We may have scored the tree, but the chores weren’t done because in order to get the decorations down, we had to reorganize the garage. We filled the jeep up with stuff going to the powder house and loaded my car up with stuff earmarked for Goodwill. Only then could we get the Christmas boxes down and since we were doing that, we might as well put the summer stuff away, so up went the fans and the cushions for the patio furniture and various and sundry other items that won’t be used until it’s warm again.

While all this was going on, I cleaned a bunch of veggies and put them out for mom to chop. I was dying to make soup out of the broth I had made. Once everything was down from the attic, I threw the soup together and then helped hubby put the tree up and decorate it. It was enjoyable and sort of sad at the same time. I was very conscious of past Christmases and the people missing from our lives… my dad, both of Alan’s parents, grandparents, etc. I am so honored to have my mom with me still. We put the plastic angel from my childhood on top of the tree, which deeply touched her. I found my children’s Christmas stockings and almost cried because I miss them so much… yes, they’re still alive and well, but I miss the babies they were… we had so much fun with them!

The soup turned out great, but the bone broth wasn’t as deep as I would have liked. I am going to try it again with a slow cooker, so I can leave it in for at least 15 hours.

Sunday was mostly running around. I planned my weekly menu, made my grocery list early and was at the grocery store at 8am to avoid the crush… Crowds during a pandemic seem counterintuitive to me. Then in quick succession, hubby and I finished up the shopping, dropped the stuff off at Goodwill and made a trip to John’s market (a specialty beer and wine shop) to pick up a gift. It was great to see so many people wearing masks and protocols being followed. Made me feel a bit safer, though Oregon’s numbers are still rising.

After returning home, Hubby retired out to organize the garage and I mixed up the dried fruit for the black fruit cake and put them in a jar to soak in rum. I’ll leave them there for a couple of days before mixing the cake later in the week.

Then I made a walnut olive oil cake…admittedly, my baking skills are a mixed bag (See my post about my disastrous pumpkin bread), but this cake turned out spectacularly. The cake is made from equal parts ground walnuts and flour and the extra virgin olive oil makes it super moist and rich. It’s served with a spicy orange syrup, a dollop of crème fraiche and pomegranate. It turned out so lovely that I immediately ran some over to the neighbors.

A really nice capper to a really busy weekend that was lovely and nostalgic and a bit sad. Things are not the same and I am trying to dig deep to court the meaning of the season without sliding into an abject depression about how different everything is. I remind myself that different isn’t necessarily bad. It’s just different. The pandemic is bad. Our political climate is bad. The holidays are just a blip in the bigger picture and that’s how I have to approach them.

Sometimes running away is the best way to find yourself.

The stress of (gestures wildly) everything has brought me right up to the edge of the abyss. There’s such an onslaught of happenings that I’ve had no time to process any of it—not the good, the bad or the ugly. It’s affecting me physically and my energy is so low that it’s difficult for me to even muster up the motivation to exercise. I’ve been having weird out of body experiences and sometimes my bones feel like they’re melting. Yesterday morning, I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin. Quarantine is hard, yo. When my husband took the puppy out for a walk, I finally texted him with I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE.

So we did.

Saying goodbye to mom, the cats, the dog and the chores, we headed west, first to grab coffee from our favorite coffee shop and then onto the freeway toward the ocean. Once in the coast range, we took the jeep up muddy tracks, down over boulders and through mudpuddles so big they could swallow a house. We weren’t going to grandma’s house; we were running away. We visited a drippy, lonely horse camp, found an epic walking stick at a hidden trail head and went in search of a waterfall that we never found. We checked out fishing holes along the river and my husband told me stories of taking our son to those same holes. We watched a man catch and lose a salmon. We got muddy. We gulped deep breaths of verdant forest air and let the mist settle down around us.

We never made it to the ocean. Instead, we grabbed a huge bag of delicious greasy food that included pork belly sandwiches, cheese curds, soft pretzels and tots, along with a couple of pints of cold IPA’s from Pelican Brewery and tailgated at Memaloose on the Tillamook Bay. We listened to classic rock and talked and talked about our kids, our new puppy and plans for our future. We didn’t talk about covid or politics.

I wish I could say our outing left me peaceful and rested, but that would be stretching it. It was, however, a lovely, much needed respite and I do feel grounded enough to survive the few weeks. Note to self. More of this please.

Remember my lovely weekend last weekend, filled with baking and joy and rest? Remember the birthday cake I made for my son that he stopped by to pick up along with a loaf of bread and his gift? He stayed for an hour and we had a nice cozy chat, the way that moms and sons often do when they don’t get to see each other very often… he stayed for about an hour, got birthday hugs and headed home to his family.

He had Covid.

Sunday, my husband headed off to North Powder to recover from surgery and get some R&R. We got the call Tuesday that fisher son tested positive for Covid and we should probably quarantine. I went and got a test, though in reality that only shows that I didn’t have Covid when I got the test. I’m most worried about my mom, who at 84, has asthma and COPD and therefore high risk. I am also worried about my husband who is still recovering from surgery and I am sick to my stomach worried about my kiddo, ill at home with his wife and my baby grandchildren. No one has any symptoms and its day six sooooo… we wait. Like so many other Americans, we wait.

In other news, I was offered and accepted representation from Laura Bradford from the Bradford Literary agency and got a puppy, so there’s that. Yeah, it’s been a week.

My lovely daughter went out for supplies for us. On the Friday before Thanksgiving week…she definitely gets daughter points. We were running out of groceries. Okay, beer. I was running out of beer. Though I did get into my wine collection, which was a nice change.

I’ve got homemade rolls almost ready to go in the oven, then I’m going to roast a whole chicken so I can make soup over the weekend. I think some chicken soup is in order, yes?

I started cutting back fall perennials and raking leaves this week. The weather has been awful, which makes everything harder. But, it’s lovely to work the earth and get the beds ready for winter in anticipation of spring. The earth doesn’t care who’s president. It only cares that the people working it, respect it. Okay, so maybe it does care who’s president. Ha!

Hubby isn’t showing symptoms and oversaw the installation of new windows at the Powder House. I am wildly jealous. It looks really good from the pictures. He’s on his way home so we can quarantine together.

That’s basically my plan for the weekend. Working in the yard,  writing, cooking and maybe baking an apple pie just because I can.

And waiting.