Colors of Christmas

“Mommy. Your hair looks so pretty with the red and blue lights in it,” Caroline calmly said from the back seat while she pushed her rose colored glasses back up on her nose.

“You goin’ to jail?” Cyrus asked without regard, more worried about where his lunch might come from if mom was headed to the pen.

According to the state trooper, I was going 63 in a 55, already late for school. He was a kind man and gave me a warning, but not before pointing out my plates were expired.

My mind raced. Expired plates?? There is no way I could have missed this.

Or is there?

I was sure I’d renewed my plates a month ago. I logged into the BMV website and sure enough, the new registration was in my “cart” but never officially purchased. I took care of the registration and drove ten miles per hour under the speed limit for the next week until the proper paperwork and a little magic sticker arrived. I have never been so paranoid in my life.

Talk about a mother running on empty. ‘Tis the season to feel a little overwhelmed.

For more than a week the children begged to put up our Christmas tree. I was ready for it too, although I had no idea where we were going to actually place such an object during a remodel. Much of our house is boxed in plastic totes, shoved against a wall, or outside in our “storage unit” (the unused chicken coop). The home renovation project is floating from room to room, as certain pieces come in while others remain delayed.

We finally fed cattle early one evening then went to cut down a Christmas tree. Talk about an experience. Caroline wanted to bring home every tree to ensure no one was left out and everyone felt special, Cody carried a tape measure and wanted to get the exact measurements of every tree considered to ensure we were maximizing our space, and Cyrus could not care less. Every time we’d stop to evaluate a tree, he’d sit in the grass and fill the bucket of his toy excavator with dirt.

We walked to the farthest corner of the tree lot (more like a 100-acre wood when you’re the one pulling both kids on the tree cart!!) to ensure we did not cut corners and miss the perfect tree. When we finally got to the back corner, it was determined that the white pine would not hold our heavy ornaments, so we retreated back across the tree lot (100-acre wood) to find something more stable.

At this point I would have settled for Charlie’s Brown’s spruce, but I was the only one with that sentiment.

Suddenly, the sun broke through the clouds, the golden rays poured down onto a tree and angels began singing.

Until we got closer.

“This is it!” Cody exclaimed. “Perfect size, perfect shape. What do you think?” he asked Caroline and I. Cyrus was 20 yards away digging a hole.

We studied the tree, seeing that the interior needles were completely orange. The tree appeared to be half-dead.

“Why is it orange?” Caroline asked.

“Because the sun is going down,” Cody quickly remarked, but we weren’t convinced.

“Look at the inside, closest to the trunk. All of those needles are orange,” I directed him.

“No they aren’t.”

“Yes they are.”

“No they aren’t.”

It quickly dawned on me that I was in fact arguing with someone who is red/green color blind.

Caroline quickly chimed in, letting Daddy know the needles were orange and this tree wasn’t the one. We moved on to the next. Aren’t daughters great?

We finally found one, smaller than we’re accustomed to but perfect for this unique year. It was decorated a day later (that’s a column in itself) and the kids have been quite diligent in keeping it, and the carpet, watered.

Though a rare year for our family, I’m certain we’ll look back on this one and smile, especially in the simplicity that a we’re experiencing. I’m slowly learning that the colors of Christmas aren’t supposed to be flashing red and blue (oops), glowing, blinding or distracting. Perhaps the most wonderful colors of Christmas are simply The Light.

Home Renovation II: Party Time

“You hung streamers today?”

Caroline seemed pleasantly confused as she walked in the door from school.

“Are we having a party?!” her eyes danced with excitement. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so I hung up the kids’ tiny coats and gave them both an after-school kiss just beyond the cheekbone. Cyrus proceeded to the living room without a word; rain was forecasted, and he had hours of carpet farming ahead.

But oh, to be five again and view the world in such a way that you believe the multiple strands of fly tape hanging from the kitchen ceiling, bathroom ceiling and living room ceiling is party streamers.

Caroline on the only horse we'll welcome to the farm at this time. 

Last week was an active week of the home renovation project, though I wouldn’t exactly call it a party. The builders worked on the roof and ordered cabinetry; the HVAC expert came and installed a new furnace; the local, farmer-owned cooperative set a new propane tank, trenched the line, and hooked up the system; and the electrician began marking outlets and asking a lot of questions I don’t know the answers to.

How many outlets does one laundry room need? I have no idea. My current laundry room houses two sump pumps and a tank of bull semen so I don’t believe I can accurately assess how a real laundry room should function.

We only went without heat for 36 hours while the new furnace was installed and the kids loved every bit of our camp-out (more like glamp-out, as we slept in our own beds). They begged for a fire in the fireplace and smores, but it was a Wednesday and I try not to start disasters mid-week. They settled for a Curious George story told by flashlight.

With all those guests over for a “party”, the influx of flies in our farmhouse was natural. Though, that didn’t make it any less annoying. Flies in the shower, flies over the produce, flies swirling around the kitchen sink, flies buzzing around the Halloween candy jar (this was the only time the children even noticed them), flies stuck in the curtains, flies in the hot-wax burner, our coffee, my hair.

So, I asked Cody to pick up a remedy the next time he went to the hardware store.

He returned with eight rolls of fly tape, and you know how I don’t like to let things go to waste. Eight rolls of fly tape can canvas a 1000-square foot home quite thoroughly.

We may not spend our Saturday mornings in a tree stand like avid hunters do this time of year, but Cyrus has really taken to checking the fly tapes every morning when he wakes. They’re high enough that he can’t touch them, but he can count the flies caught. He asked one evening if we could take the flies down so he could haul them in his grain cart to the elevator. I reminded him that he’d get docked for pests and foreign material. He quickly went back to hauling stale Cheerios. I do appreciate his interest in diversifying his farming operation.

I survived a major home renovation in the ‘80s, but I was Caroline’s age, so the mess, displacement and lack of order didn’t phase me. Survived isn’t even the appropriate word; I thrived in it. Every day was an adventure in which I was actively engaged. 

I remember my grandmother coming over periodically to view the progress. She’d walk in (usually through a wall because we didn’t have doors for a long time), look around and mutter about what kind of mess her daughter had gotten herself into. I remember her hands in her pockets. I remember clearly that Grandma rarely sat down, and she never took off her coat.

More than thirty years later, my mother showed up to our farm recently and wanted to walk through our home renovation progress. She walked right into the kitchen, then stopped and put her glasses on. “Do you have fly tape hanging up in your kitchen?” she asked with a teaspoon of judgement.

“Yes. And the bathroom. And the living room,” I revealed without hesitation. If she was going to judge our living arrangement, I might as well air all our dirty – fly specked – laundry now.

The woman didn’t say anything more, she just zipped up her coat.

Home Renovation: Part 1

We’ve begun a small home renovation project.

Long story short, I got tired of wearing mud boots and waders to the farmhouse basement to begin a load of laundry, then praying I didn’t get electrocuted when I pushed the start button. Cody got tired of reading the Angus Journal in his recliner with a February wind blowing through the living room. Caroline got tired of sharing a 7’ x 10’ bedroom with a little brother who has no respect for toy horses. And Cyrus was just ready to see someone else tear the house down and not get reprimanded.

We’re early in the process.

The renovation is taking place feet from the kids’ playset in the backyard. They’ve spent hours swinging and asking questions. If the builder doesn’t finish on time, it won’t be due to delay in supplies or lack of labor; it will be because Cyrus questions their every move and he’s got a bit of a speech barrier. It takes the little guy a full minute to ask the question, three minutes for the workers to translate it, and five minutes for them to explain the work to him. The crew gave him a hat and a foremen’s pencil, so Cyrus is working his way up the management ladder, which is a pretty big deal for a kid who still wears Velcro shoes.

Caroline has shed many tears about this renovation. She doesn’t understand why we would want to make changes to a homestead such as this. She appreciates having carpet so worn out and stained that when she often forgets to take off her chore boots - and tracks (who knows what) across the house - her muddy prints can barely be seen. She loves that she can load her horse trailer in the kitchen and the floors are so uneven that it will roll on its own to the living room. She looks forward to  helping me load the washer in the basement and watch frogs jump across her boots. She adores the fact that when the north winter wind blows in, the windows open on their own and offer her fresh air in her bedroom. She is an eternal optimist who sees the beauty of every situation…except home renovations which threaten familiarity.

County records indicate that our house was built in 1920. Six weeks into the project, a postcard dated 1885 was found in the northeast wall. No wonder the basement floods! This place was built on Miami soil and dinosaur bones. The hand-hewn beams and wooden pegs have withstood many weathering years atop this hill, bearing witness to change, very few family names, and a whole lot of livestock. Today, we’re making a couple improvements to more so enjoy the place we call home.

Thus far we’ve explained in great detail septic tanks, wet t-shirts on grown men (it’s been a warm fall), and when it’s appropriate to hammer through a wall, versus when it is not (CYRUS!!). Caroline is currently in hysterics over the project because she came home to find windows gone and plywood in their place.

“You can’t even look out these new windows! They gave us wood windows!” She is five. I have little hope age fifteen will offer less passion and emotion.

We were so close to getting Cyrus completely potty-trained, then this renovation project began and now he just can’t take care of business while there’s men walking and talking on the roof above the commode.

Can you blame the kid? Stay tuned. We’re just getting started.

The Bike Race

We were vaccinating steers and heifers on Saturday morning when an unfamiliar truck with Ohio plates pulled into the driveway. A couple got out and I suddenly realized it was beef customers from Hamilton, Ohio. They buy freezer beef from us annually and make it a point to drop off the payment in-person. I always enjoy the brief visit; they often have many good questions about farm life. 

They mentioned that there was a bike race going on just down the road and it looked like quite an ordeal. I hadn’t left the farm yet that day, so I didn’t know what they were referencing. I did mention that Highway 35 isn’t necessarily a road bicyclists should be traveling! They went on to say the entire road was blocked off to traffic. 

 

After they left, we finished our vaccination work and turned everything back out to their respective lots. I mentioned the apparent bike race to Cody and we decided to go see what all the commotion is about. We loaded up into the ranger and drove to the intersection of Highway 35 and  State Road 1. 

 

A “bike race” might have been an understatement. 

 

The shoulder was lined with vehicles with out-of-state plates. There were hundreds of bicyclists passing through the intersection as bystanders cheered them on. There were countless American flags and collegiate flags being waved. “The Eye of the Tiger” was blaring from some far-off place and there was a tent with dozens of workers passing out water. 

 

“What in the world is going on here?” I asked as all four of us watched with our mouths open. It was quite the event in northwestern Wayne County!

 

“What are they doing?” Caroline asked. 

 

“I guess they’re racing their bikes,” I responded, though not totally sold on my answer as the bike traffic was moving both directions.

 

“Why dey do dat?” Cyrus asked in his broken speech. 

 

“Because they’re nuts,” I told him. 

 

I got out of the ranger and walked over to a couple sitting in lawn chairs, holding encouragement signsand eating donuts. I asked them about the spectacle. 

 

“Do you know what this is all about?” I asked. “We farm just down the road and we drove down to see what all the excitement was about,” I explained. 

 

The man began, “It’s a triathlon today.”

 

And the lady next to him quickly followed up with more impressive details. “This is the Iron Man!” she exclaimed. “Swim, bike and run all in the same day.”

 

A lady next to her, wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt,finished the details explaining, “They already did a 2.4-mile swim at the reservoir, this is the 112-mile bicycle ride, and they finish with a 26.22-mile run.”

 

I almost passed out this trying to process this information. 

 

I thought we were doing pretty good, having already had breakfast, chored and processed 25 head of cattle in a morning. These hundreds of strangers were pushing their body to the max in the name of personal health and apparent enjoyment of pain. 

 

We sat and watched the event for a long time, in awe of the bikes, attire and cheering clubs. 

 

“I think if I was going to swim across a lake and then ride my bike for a hundred miles, the last thing I’d want to see is my family eating a box of donuts in a lawn chair with my face on their sweatshirt,” Cody said, still in disbelief of what we were witnessing. 

 

There was not a single person that appeared to be tired. If I was in the race I’d have to pull over and pretend to check the air pressure in my bike tires every five miles just so I could catch my breath. 

 

And don’t even ask me to swim in a reservoir. I get nervous in the bathtub. 

 

The sun went behind clouds, and it began to get dark. Caroline became instantly worried about the bikers who were about to get rained on. 

 

“Can you even think about riding a bike in the rain?” she asked. 

 

“Sis, I think the rain might feel good on them. They’ve got to be hot doing all of this exercise,” I tried to calm her concern. 

 

“Check the radar,” Cody said as we drove up the hill, heading back home.

 

“Are you worried about the bikers, too, Daddy?” I asked. 

 

“I was more worried about if you and I can still grill out tonight.”

 

Folks, those are words of affirmation. 

Kids Discover Encyclopedias

My parents made a major investment in the education of myself and two older siblings years ago. It wasn’t a trust fund or science camp, but rather a set of World Book encyclopedias. 

I still remember the day they arrived. Dad gave us a 30-minute tutorial on how to properly utilize the green, white, and gold-foiled volumes and Mom gave us a 20-minute tutorial on all the ways she’d kill us if we touched them with dirty hands. 

 

It was an intense short course on academia.

 

We sure got their money’s worth. We leafed through those pre-internet pages to learn about invertebrates, the Kennedy assassination, and the four hemispheres. I still remember sitting on the couch looking at photos of tornado destruction, internal organs, and umbilical cords. Who can forget the countless leaf collection leaves that were pressed between the pages of those books and a sheet of wax paper? We’re still looking for an Acer palmatum (more commonly known as the Japanese maple) which my brother swears he pressed in the letter M.

 

During pre-school our daughter began to identify letters everywhere we went. One afternoon at her grandparent’s house she became curious about the lettered books on the shelf. I was thrilled to explain to her what encyclopedias are, how they’re used and all the things we could learn by flipping through the pages. She’d recently learned about a set of birds, and we quickly read all that we could about the Blue Jay, Cardinal, and Red-winged Blackbird.

 

Sometimes when the kids visit, they just enjoy getting out volume F and looking at the graphic of all the feet. This is how kids should learn, I believe. Not by an iPad or screen, but by exploring until you find something that urges that tiny motivator in the mind to know more. 

 

Encyclopedias were verified, proofread, and authorized. As a parent, I get concerned about the amount of information thrown at early learners that isn’t accurate or even solicited. Heck, I get concerned about the amount of information thrown at educated adults that isn’t accurate or even solicited!

 

Today, we can enter a question or a word into a search bar and get millions of results. How do you quickly verify what is true? Or, we can talk about needing (ha!) new fall boots and minutes later advertisements for fall footwear begin to appear in the margins of our web pages (quite alarming). 

 

What might the younger generation see when they don’t even have the desire to learn more? What might show up that will take them down a long, dark path in just a couple clicks?

 

Goodness, I miss those treasured encyclopedias. 

 

They taught us how to spell, study, research, and learn based on fact, not opinion. 

 

Decades following the arrival of the World Books into our homestead, I’m now a parent myself and completely convinced Mom and Dad made the astronomical investment in order to streamline the number of questions coming into the parental call center:

 

“How are babies born?”

 

“Go look it up in the encyclopedia.”

 

“Why do moles have pig noses?”

 

“Go look it up in the encyclopedia.”

 

“Who shot JR?”

 

“Go look it up in the encyclopedia.”

 

I never could find the answer to that last one. 

Ants Came Marching In

The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah.

The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah.

 

The ants are back. 

 

And not the fun aunts that bring dinner two weeks after you’ve had the baby, fold your underwear without judgment and let you nap for 20 minutes. 

 

I’m talking about the kind of ants which interrupt your weekly viewing of Dateline to show you they can in fact carry a week-old French fry across the coffee table in perfect time. I don’t know if I hate them more for their coordination or their intrusiveness, but I hate ants.

I always thought it was fresh mulch that brought the ants to our farmhouse. This year, they arrived two weeks before we landscaped. Maybe they’re just competing with the cicadas. 

 

I did warn the kids that anything left on the carpet had a very real risk of being carried off by an army of ants and that sure kicked them into gear. They hustled to pick up everything left touching the carpet, though I had to draw the line when they both threw out their backs trying to carry daddy’s recliner to the toy box. 

 

That night, peacekeeper Caroline prayed for Jesus to make the ants “nicer”, and warpath Cyrus prayed that Jesus would kill all the ants take them to the back pasture with the coyotes. We’re raising two very different children.

 

The employees at Nettle Creek Hardware are good about not asking questions. They’ve sold me a plunger, numerous mouse traps of different method (traditional wooden, easy-to-release-while-I’m-gagging-and-crying-plastic, sticky, etc.), a dozen different paint colors for a 1,100 sq. ft. home, masking tape, duct tape and superglue (all three in the same afternoon), and more bargains from the bin than I care to admit. 

 

So when I marched in on a mission to get the intrusive marchers out of our house, not a question was asked. I was prepared to lie and tell them the ant traps were for Cody’s outside office, but they probably already knew they were going straight to the kitchen. 

 

Local hardware stores are intuitive. And invaluable.  

 

We have two boxes of latex gloves leftover from the PICC line antibiotic administration Cyrus required in March, so I got creative. I told the kids that the ant trap instructions required glove use and both children were thrilled to be included in the action. 

 

They followed me around the house, both wearing purple latex gloves that went to their shoulders, instructing on where they thought I should place the ant traps. One went in my aloe plant, the next on top of the commode tank, third under the couch and the fourth trap rests proudly on our mantle. With a light shining upon it.  

 

The next morning the first words out of Cyrus’s mouth: “We get ant, Mom?” 

 

I’m not proud that insects now consume our son’s dreams, but at least it gives him a taste of adulthood. 

 

Just wait until he learns about taxes. 

Bale Net Abode

It was just before dawn, and I was scraping bacon grease out of the iron skillet when something caught my eye. I stood still and studied the familiar but out-of-place colors. Green and white hay bale netting hung from the ancient spruce in our yard, swaying in the early breeze like a ribbon without care.

 

“How did that end up there?” I thought to myself. Then I poured a cup of coffee. 

 

Days later, the netting was gone, and I assumed it had finally blown away. 

 

Then the late April wind came. 

 

Caroline let go of the screen door, and it smacked against the side of the house.

Cyrus’s hat flew across the yard towards the highway, and I scolded him for chasing it. 

Hair was whipping across my face as I tried to take phone calls on the resistant side of the grain bin. No one on the other end could hear me. The wind was terrible atop our hill!

 

The following morning, we suited up for chores and walked outside to find not one but two bird nests laying on the ground beneath the ancient spruce. They were very different. 

 

One was quite large and constructed very loosely, using twigs, grass, stems, and black hair the birds had found chute-side.

 

My jaw dropped as we inspected the second nest because the second nest was a masterpiece. 

 

It was perfectly bowl-shaped, constructed of hay, sticks, hair, mud and green and white hay bale netting and tightly bound, sturdy from the dried mud. The familiar green and white hay bale netting was interwoven throughout the natural resources. 

 

This nest was a work of art!

 

We studied the rural architecture and differences in design. We reviewed materials and procurement, concluding that if to scale to fit our needs, they would have been $200,000 homes in rural Economy, Indiana.  

 

But no longer. 

 

Because on that particular morning after the wind, they were nothing but high-rise houses on the ground. And though I hate to question the strength of others, I doubt a bird was able to swoop down and lift its own home back into the limbs of the spruce. 

 

Caroline carried the sturdy nest all over the farm for two days, hauling it in her jeep, filling it with rocks, and showing the barn cats. As a mother who works to keep our small house in order, I felt compassion for the bird who had built this home, returned to find it blown away, then watched a 4 ½-year-old tote the dwelling all over the farm.

 

Can you imagine the work that went into building such a treasure, only to have it blown away by spring wind? 

 

I suppose we’ve all felt disappointment as such, whether it be a work project, home investment, relationship, or dear friendship, that we’ve poured our heart and energy into only to watch it fall apart.

 

But remember: 

 

Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? — Matthew 6:26

 

Some birds do little more than cover our cars in white, but God still cares for and values them. Just as your value doesn’t change when disappointment, shame, fear, or regret cover your heart. God loves and values every part of you. 

 

I began writing this early last week and can only finish as time allows. But I wanted to share that as I conclude for deadline, there is again bale netting hanging from the exact same branch in our spruce tree. 

This bird is persistent and hard-working, resourceful and motivating. Reminding us that no matter what life throws at you, there is hope. 

 

There is always hope. 

 

Buyer 178 Strikes Local Gold

“You do not need anything. Anything! What you buy today, your kids will have to sell at an auction in 50 years. This stuff has been in a closet for 40 years. You. Do. Not. Need. Anything. Anything!” 

I gave myself a pep talk on repeat as I walked down the long farm lane, lined with cars and trucks from multiple states. A farm estate auction was taking place today, and there is just something about rummaging through other people’s junk that some people find irresistible. I’m one of those people. 

 

A favorite holiday tradition growing up was when we would drive down this same long farm lane and deliver a fruit basket with a beautiful bow to the three siblings that lived in at the homestead: Susie, Kermit, and Dude. To me, they were ages 145, 185, and 175, respectively, but you would really get them out of their chairs when company arrived. Especially company with fresh fruit. They always ushered us to the living room with great enthusiasm.

 

We’d sit in their dimly lit living room and visit for quite a while. Susie did most of the talking, Dude would chime in every so often, laughing without any teeth and Kermit said maybe 10 words during the duration of the conversation. Kermit was quiet and gentle. Sitting in their living room was like stepping back in time; the décor hadn’t changed in decades and aged family heirlooms hung on the walls. 

 

Over the years I read the obituaries of Susie, Kermit, and Dude, so when I saw their farm auction advertised, I didn’t want to miss the event. 

 

It drew a crowd.

 

Much like the funeral home, farm auctions are a surefire way to see neighbors you haven’t visited in some time, old classmates, and extended family members. At this particular event, I was able to ask a local farmer why I saw smoke at his place recently, visit with several co-op customers and rub elbows with a lot of very ordinary people. 

My kind of people.   

 

I got a bidder number (obviously my repeated self-pep talk didn’t work) and walked around the interior of the home, only curious to see if it was as I remember. Not a thing had changed. The house was cleaned out greatly and every piece of furniture was marked with a lot number, but it still smelled exactly as I recall. Isn’t it amazing how a smell can take you to a place and time? 

 

Countless salt-n-pepper shakers, feed pans, atlases, glassware, quilts, dressers, gas cans…the amount of stuff up for grabs was astonishing. Unless it has a connection to our family or Shorthorn or Angus cattle, I can usually pass over things pretty quickly. 

 

Then I spotted a box labeled “Scrapbooks.” I reached in my back pocket to ensure I still had my bidder number. 

 

There is something about other people’s stories that completely intrigues me. I leafed through a few of the tattered books and knew I’d found a goldmine for historians (or neighborhood snoops). Someone in the family had cut out hundreds of newspaper articles from the 1940s-1960s and carefully mounted them in this pile of books. They’d also kept every birthday/graduation/Christmas card over the years. What a treat for someone who once dreamt of working for Hallmark. 

 

Like any auction enthusiast, I stayed close to the treasure I’d found and patiently waited as they sold dated equipment manuals and jewelry before reaching my find. 

 

I’ll half-embarrassingly admit that I spent $40 on that box of old scrapbooks from Susie, Dude, and Kermit. 

But now I have months’ worth of reading ahead of me, seeking familiar names, old faces and stories left only to be told again if the right person stumbles upon them. 

 

“What that?” Cyrus asked as I carried them in the house the other evening. 

 

“Mommy storybooks,” I tried to explain by simplifying. 

 

Caroline came over and studied them, opening one to explore. 

 

“They smell dead,” she remarked. 

 

Who is raising these children?

The Lamb Cake

About a month ago, from dear Angus friends in Michigan I was gifted a Griswold Company cast iron lamb cake mold. I love cooking and baking in cast iron, but I’d never seen such a pan. With the months of February and March being such a blur to our family, I was determined to use this unique mold to create a cake that the kids would adore on Easter weekend. A new tradition awaited. 

In my planning, I’d forgotten that the visions I create in my head and what actually comes to fruition very rarely align. 

 

I browsed the internet to find every imaginable recipe and set of instructions for a Griswold cast iron Easter lamb cake. There are some true icing artists out there! What idyllic family stories Americans cherish with these early lamb molds.  

 

I enlisted the kid’s help to season the mold, make the batter, lick the beaters, and set the toothpicks in place to keep the ears intact. We filled the mold, tied it at the neck, put it in the oven and hoped for the best. 

 

 

As though a baby calf was about to be born, every member of this family peaked through the oven window over the next hour to see what was going on. No change was visible. We know a watched pot never boils, but does a watched lamb cake ever bake?

 

Yes. Yes, it does. 

 

Taking it out of the oven with a crowd breathing down my neck was the easy part. 

 

Keeping the thing alive while removing it from the cast iron required real skill that I wasn’t born with, nor have I acquired in my years. 

 

Everyone watched with bated breath while two of the lamb’s four stomachs fell to the side leaving it quite frail. Then the head fell wayside, clipping off an ear. Finally, one of the delicate legs crumbled onto the platter. 

 

“Take the kids outside,” I told my husband. “This is going to get ugly.”

 

“Uglier than that?” he asked. Then he took the kids outside.

 

What happened next can only be described as fraud. 

 

I strategically placed 8 toothpicks throughout the interior of the lamb, securing its head to its neck, neck to its torso, torso to its hip, hip to its tail and well, you get the picture. It was ugly. Ugly and pokey. 

 

Then I took the lazy woman’s way out and opened not one, but two, cans of icing and proceeded to coat the wooden lamb with 4,000 calories of vanilla icing. It acted as a glue, holding all crumbling parts together and covering the many imperfections. Then came the sprinkles, used as more of a decoy than decoration. I placed two raisins where the face might have been and welcomed my family back into the house.

 

“What is that?” Cyrus asked.

 

“Where is our lamb cake?” Caroline asked. 

 

“This is it, kids! You made this!” I tried to blow some enthusiasm and ownership into the room. 

 

“I thought it was supposed to be a lamb,” said Caroline, deflated. “It looks like a sad cat.”

 

“It does look like someone cut back on the feed too early,” said my husband who consistently accesses real life situations with cattle references. 

 

I rolled my eyes then used a plastic straw to point to the anatomy of the lamb, as clearly, they couldn’t even recognize the head from the tail. 

 

At dinner that night Caroline asked if I could move the lamb cake to the other counter because it was looking at her. 

 

At 9:00 that night Cody asked if I could put it in the refrigerator because it was now looking at him. 

 

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked the next morning over breakfast. 

 

“I can’t just throw it away,” I said. ‘I used real butter….and Mexico vanilla your mom gave us….and almond extract. It’s a good cake,” I justified my creation over a bowl of Cheerios. 

 

“But it scares the kids,” said Cody (voice of reason). “You saw the head fell off again over night?”

 

“Yeah, but who eats the head anyway?” I asked. 

 

Three hours later we’d experienced a lovely Easter service at Centerville Christian Church and we pulled into my parent’s driveway to enjoy Easter lunch with them. I carried a teal Fiestaware platter up to the door.

 

“I thought you were bringing salad?” Mom asked as I carried the foil-covered cake into the house. 

 

Before I could explain my dessert addition, our lovely daughter exclaimed “Don’t eat that cake, Grammie! It’s a cat.”

 

Kids these days.