Now that we have two sheep—and a few more animal-related ideas brewing—we decided it’s high time we get serious about putting in some fence.

We tend to do things backwards around here. It’s our way. We fixed up our first house before we owned it. We put a bid on another house before I saw it. We started applying for a year abroad without talking to each other about it first. (In the last case, “we” means “I.”) So it makes perfect sense that we got sheep before we had a place to put them.

There’s actually a good reason for doing things this way. See, I can talk to my husband about new project ideas until I’m blue in the face, but nothing rarely happens until the situation reaches crisis levels. I figured getting the sheep before the fence was an appropriate lighting-a-fire-under-his-butt action. However, when I started talking about a milk cow, my son said, “Mom, that’s a blowtorch, not a fire,” so I backed down. (For now.)

Because my daughter is aware that it’s her interests that are the main impetus for this fence project, she is over-the-top excited. Anything she can do to hurry the fence into being, she does. The other children tend to work for a bit and then fade off our radar, but this girl plugs away the entire time. (Confession: the fading away characteristic comes from me. My daughter’s stick-with-it, not-afraid-of-hard-work characteristic comes from my husband. The two of them love working together.)

Aside: It used to be that a project like this meant that I was stuck inside to care for four children while my husband did the work by his lonesome. Now it means that he is outside bossing and directing the children while I do my stuff, which in Saturday’s case involved hosting the Greats, cooking, and taking pictures. I love, love, love this stage of the parenting game. It’s so much more profitable and entertaining than sitting slumped on the couch, surrounded by sippy cups, board books, and drooling, fat-cheeked tots while feeling like I’m going to crawl out of my skin if I don’t get out of the house this minute.

A word about the boots. We got her these cowboy boots as a leaving-Guatemala present. She didn’t wear them much in the beginning, but now she wears them every day, all day. From what I’ve heard, once a person learns to appreciate cowboy boots, it’s all they’ll wear for the rest of their life. Is this true? And where do I go to buy cowboy boots? (“Guatemala” is not a viable answer.)

I think they got 19 posts in on Saturday. Unlike cattle ranchers and big-time farmers, we have no equipment save an iron bar, a post-hole digger (the man-powered kind), shovels, and muscles.

It’s slow going, but that’s okay. The joy is in the toil. Right, honey? 

This same time, years previously: the quotidian (5.6.13), rhubarb smothered chicken and chicken with mushrooms, I have nothing to say, the bike question revisited, and baked macaroni and cheese.

This same time, years previous: creamy avocado mac and cheese, not what we’re used to, the definition of insanity, burning the burn pile, rhubarb daiquiri, my boy, lice, saucy rhubarb, pounding the pulpit, and classy rhubarb pie.

The other Sunday when we had dinner at our friends’ house and I was charged with bringing dessert, I took carrot cake.

I hardly ever make carrot cake. Actually, I hardly ever make lots of desserts. There are so many good desserts that it takes me months, sometimes years, to cycle round and make a repeat visit. This is the problem with variety.

I like to think of myself as consistently making certain desserts. Sweet rolls, for instance. I want my kids to grow up with abundant memories of fresh-from-the-oven sweet rolls. But truth is, I only make them several times a year. It’s kind of sad.

The same is true with pie. I go through dry pie spells, sometimes not making pie for weeks on end. But I wish pie were more of a staple in our home. Pie-filled homes feel so much more wholesome and cozy.

Fact is, one can only eat so many desserts (and some people say its actually healthier to not eat them too often, can you imagine?), and these days, my kitchen time is spent trying to knock out nourishing, well-rounded, tummy-filling meals and all the accoutrements. Out of necessity, pie crusts and glazed, yeasted goodies have taken a backseat.

But I did make carrot cake. Actually, I made two. (And this, after telling you that I don’t make many desserts. I’ll understand if you decide to never believe a word that comes out of my mouth.) I had first tried a new (ie., not my mom’s) recipe to see if there was something better out there, something with less sugar and oil, perhaps, or a maybe a bigger wallop of spice.

The newbie cake was good, but nothing special. So for the dinner we were going to, I reverted back to the good old carrot cake I grew up with. Perfection, it was. I don’t know why I ever strayed.

Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

The only difference I’ve made from my mom’s recipe is that I use currants instead of raisins. I prefer their less obtrusive and evenly dispersed bits of chewy sweetness.

2 cups flour
1 3/4 cups sugar
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons cinnamon
½ scant teaspoon salt
1 cup canola oil
4 eggs
3 cups grated carrots
3/4 cup currants

Mix together the dry ingredients. In a separate bowl, whisk together the oil and eggs. Whisk the egg-oil mixture into the dry ingredients. Stir in the carrots and currants.

Divide the batter between two greased and wax paper-lined 9-inch cake pans. Bake at 325 degrees for 50-55 minutes. Cool for 10 minutes before running a table knife around the edge of the pan and flipping the cakes out onto a cooling rack. Peel off the wax paper. When the cakes are completely cool, ice with cream cheese frosting.

Cream Cheese Frosting
8 ounces cream cheese
2 tablespoons butter
3 ½ cups confectioners’ sugar, sifted
1 teaspoon vanilla

Beat until creamy. Spread on cake.

This same time, years previous: depression chocolate mayonnaise cake, baked-in-a-pot artisan bread, take two, green smoothie, and strawberry cheesecake ice cream.
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