We have now endured three days of cloudy, rainy weather. Three looooong days. Tomorrow is supposed to be partly sunny, so despite the pitter-patter of rain on the tin roof, I’m doing laundry. I know I can’t make it through another day of no sun. I’ll get SAD. (I’m already going mad.)

The saving grace in all this is that my mother came yesterday morning and stayed through this afternoon. She shot me a note at the beginning of the week saying that she needed to do some rugging, so could she please come see us? My answer was, of course, yes. (I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.)

See, my mother created this little arrangement: she comes to our house to do her rugging. She could do the rugging at her house easily enough, but this way she gets to help me out and spend time with the grandkids and get socialized, something she doesn’t get that much of, squirreled up in her next in the West Virginia woods, perched on the edge of her seat at her desk in the study, writing day in and day out. She needs us, she really does. And we need her.

The maiden voyage of this cohabitation and rugging experiment took place a couple weeks ago. Mom showed up in her little white car (leaving dad to get to work and back via bike), her arms filled with bags and baskets. She had her pillow, a potted plant, a string of red globe lights to warm the room, and a lace cloth to spread over the top of our hideous (and extremely useful) industrial-sized filing cabinet. She brought library books, a tin of sugar cookies and blueberry bars, glass mugs for tea, and a plastic storage container filled with her rugging materials. When she left, after a couple days, the lights, plant, and doily stayed behind.

This week when she comes, there is a basket filled with new library books, really gross donut holes (by mom’s admission), a jug of cider, material scraps for the beginnings of a crazy quilt, a wooden box of homegrown popcorn needing to be shelled, her laptop, and even a framed photo of my dad. Maybe she is afraid she will forget what he looks like in the thirty-odd hours she’ll be at our place?

Our system is simple: Mom stays in her room and works on her rug, and the kids take turns going in to be with her, have their cider and donuts, and work on their sewing. She is instructing the older kids in the art of hand sewing, and the younger two get to poke pins into cloth and help roll up her strips of rugging wool.

It’s really good my mother is teaching my children to sew because I abhor sewing; I always say that it makes me want to curl up in a fetal position and suck my thumb. This is rather sad, considering that my kids desperately want to learn and that they are good with their hands and probably have all the ability necessary to master the skill. Mom is doing her best to see that my kids turn out somewhat well-rounded. (My way of making them well-rounded isn’t quite as noble—I just feed them lots of butter and cream.)

So in this way, the mornings pass, and then the afternoons and evenings (though this time we only had one of those). The days are filled with books and sewing and de-cobbing corn and learning poetry (she taught The Baby Nickel this one: Fishy, fishy in a brook / Papa caught him with a hook / Mama fried him in the pan / Baby ate him like a man) and all is well. My sister-in-law and I get to go on walks (Mom eagerly and graciously welcomes her fifth grandchild into her private quarters and grants us permission to disappear), and I cook and do the homeschooling thing and see that chores get done. It’s a pretty sweet arrangement.

But then my mom does this really mean thing. She leaves.

And then it hits us: It’s Friday afternoon, it’s been raining for three days, we are sick of being cooped up, and we can’t stand the sight of each other.

Almost before my mother’s car disappears down the road, my life falls apart, and by the time Mr. Handsome comes home, I’m screaming and the kids are screaming and there are messes in all corners of the house but the biggest mess, by far, is me. And there is no supper in sight.

There is a salad though, a mixture of cabbage and apples and walnuts that I pieced together in my non-yelling moments. Because I can’t take any more noise or the prospect of making supper, I do the smartest thing one can do in the circumstances—I eat a bowl of the salad.

Then I eat another bowl. And then I eat another bowl. Then, and only then, am I ready to think about feeding anyone else. For them, I pull out leftover green beans, baked squash, and cornmeal whole wheat waffles. I fix a few quesadillas to bulk out the meal, and then we feast on butternut squash pie and whipped cream. Hallelujah and amen.

Mom, can you come back on Monday?

Chinese Cabbage and Apple Salad
Adapted from Deb at Smitten Kitchen

Deb’s recipe calls for savoy cabbage, but Mom brought down one of Dad’s Chinese cabbages, so I used that. It was perfect: crunchy, slightly peppery, and juicy-sweet.

I was doubtful that the dressing would be any good (it seemed like too much olive oil), but it was absolutely fabulous.

I used feta cheese, but I think some matchsticks of sharp white cheddar would be even better.

1 head of Chinese cabbage
2 apples
2 tablespoons cider vinegar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
½ cup olive oil
2 tablespoons sour cream
½ – 1 teaspoon salt
1/8 – 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
½ cup English walnuts
½ cup feta cheese

Separate the stalks of cabbage, wash them and pat dry, and slice them thinly (but roughly). Place cut cabbage in a mixing bowl.

Peel and core the apples, and cut them into matchsticks. (Put apple halves on a cutting board, cut side down, and slice thinly. Then slice thinly in the other direction. Voila, you have matchsticks.) Add the apples to the cabbage.

Toast the walnuts in a 350 degree oven for about ten minutes, stirring frequently, or until golden brown. Chop and set aside.

To make the dressing: measure the vinegar, lemon, salt, and pepper into a blender and give it a whirl. Add the olive oil, a little at a time, blending after each addition. Add the sour cream and blend briefly. Taste and adjust seasonings.

Pour the dressing over the cabbage and apples and toss to coat. Add more salt if needed.

Sprinkle the salad with the feta and walnuts, and grind some more black pepper over top. Serve immediately.

About One Year Ago: Why I Homeschool.

Our neighbor Karen and her husband Gale have a lot of horses, like about ten. Okay, so it’s not as many as Pioneer Woman (I don’t even need to link to her—you all know who she is and that her cookbook is number one on the New York Bestsellers list, right?), but it’s still a lot, especially considering that they don’t have any cattle which would require horses for herding (that sentence does not make much sense, but I trust you’re smart enough to figure it out). And they used to have more like sixteen horses.

Their rented pasture borders our (unused) pasture, and the kids like to chat with the horses over the barbed wire fence. They also pick grass for them and shyly pat their noses.

As for me, I pretty much ignore them, except for when I happen to glance out the kitchen window and catch sight of three or four of the magnificent creatures thundering across the meadow. Then I am forced to pause in my little race from fridge to stove to sink and stare at them as they whirl and kick up their heels. They’re practically in my backyard, and once in a while they get in my backyard and then we close the gate so they don’t hightail it down the road and make the requisite phone calls and watch to make sure they don’t take a fancy to our peach trees.

Last week Karen stopped by with a stack of farm magazines for us to read and/or cut up and with an invitation for the kids to come over and ride horses. I readily accepted, and when I went back into the house and reported our conversation to the kids, you could have heard them hollering the whole way over in China.

That was on Friday; we were scheduled to ride on Sunday afternoon. This was to be the first time that the kids had ever ridden a horse (except for Sweetsie who got to ride a horse at a friend’s birthday party), and they became obsessed: with the weather forecast (Yo-Yo), with how many “sleeps” remained (Sweetsie), and with appropriate riding attire (Miss Beccaboo). The big day finally arrived, and each minute was impatiently endured, and then, suddenly, it was 2:55 and could begin the walk over to the riding ring.

The horses were big, but they became huge when I helped to hoist my three year old up into the saddle.

Apparently, Nickel thought they were huge too, because he immediately slumped over and laid as low as possible.

I called to him, urging him to sit up, which he did…

But only for a moment.

Karen volunteers at a camp for mentally and physically handicapped children where she assists with the equine therapy, and she did some of the same camp activities with my kids—balancing exercises and jousting games (foam swords).

She and Gale taught the older two how to stop and start and turn and back up and then let go of the lead rope and let the kids ride by themselves, though they always walked alongside.

See that halo above Karen’s head? That’s what you get when you give up a couple hours of your gorgeous Sunday afternoon to take four little kids on horse rides.

Mr. Handsome and I hung around the fence, only coming into the riding ring to help the kids mount and dismount or do whatever it was that Karen needed doing. Mostly I just stood there and grinned like a fool, so happy to see my kids riding a horse and loving every minute of it.

I’m a little scared of horses because I got thrown from one when I was fifteen. My girlfriend Beth and I were riding horses through their fields when the horses spooked and veered, smoothly depositing us on the ground. I hit my head, the lights went out, and when I woke up, Beth was crying and her forearm was all wavy like in a cartoon. We got an ambulance ride (going up and down over West Virginia back roads, laying down backwards and with a concussion is not a particularly pleasant experience). I spent the night in the hospital for observation purposes, but in the end, all that ailed me was a stiff back. And a nervous fear of horses.

I don’t want my kids to grow up like me, edgy and uptight around horses—it’s just not cool. I doubt they’ll ever be like PW’s kids (it’s not like we live on a ranch and they have the same opportunities), but still, I want them to be knowledgeable about the graceful giants and to feel at home around them. Sunday was a good first step.

Here’s Mr. Handsome, probably dreaming about getting our upper pasture properly fenced off and a barn built so that we can one day have a horse of our own.

Or maybe he’s dreaming about swinging up into the saddle and galloping off into the sunset in a cloud of dust.

Oops, he’s spied me. And look at that expression; I do believe he feels sheepish! Which means he was dreaming the latter dream. Obviously.

About One Year Ago: Homeschooling angst.

Last week Mr. Handsome finished up a remodeling job over in West Virginia. This is nothing new (though the distance was unusual); he does work like this all the time—roofing, repair work, renovations—but this job stood out above the others because of David and Jody, the homeowners.

David and Jody treated my husband and his co-workers like royalty, visiting with them, feeding them homemade pastries, keeping a pot of coffee always at the ready, and even cooking them the occasional mid-day feast complete with multiple side dishes and a dessert.

Not only did David and Jody think of their workers, they thought about their workers’ families. One day Mr. Handsome came home with a plate of brownies “for the children,” and just this last week there was a half-dozen freshly made lemon-poppy seed muffins. That bottle of homemade elderberry wine that I mentioned? From David and Jody. And on his last day of work there, Mr. Handsome handed me a white business envelope, a check for a generous amount stuck inside, “so you can take your wife out for dinner,” David had explained. It was the second time that Mr. Handsome has been tipped since I’ve known him.

On the days when they got fed a hot lunch, Mr. Handsome came home chattering about what Jody had cooked for them. He actually waxed poetic over some of her dinners, his fingers grasping the air as he tried to conjure up the appropriate description, and he flat-out raved over a chicken chili she made them. I listened politely, not sure if he was thrilled over the chili itself, or if it was just that he was blown away because a customer was thoughtful enough to prepare them a meal (I didn’t care if they fed him scrambled eggs and toast—I was just happy that someone was taking care of my man). But the next day when Mr. Handsome came home and handed me the recipe for the chili, I decided I’d better listen up. Raving about something is one thing; following through and coming home with the recipe is another thing altogether.

I made the soup and it was delicious indeed—rich, creamy, satisfying, and fancy enough to be a company soup. I’ll tell you about it in a minute, but I first want to say a couple other things about these special customers.

Maybe it seems like a normal, common sense thing for homeowners to offer their contractors some hospitality—these men are stomping around your house with nail guns and circular saws after all—but it isn’t. Many places where Mr. Handsome and his co-workers are employed, the homeowners don’t even offer them the use of their bathroom, and in the really bad cases the customers lock the doors to their houses when they leave for work in the morning (in those situations, obviously, the guys are doing roofing work or building outside additions)—if the guys are lucky, there are some trees nearby where they can pee, but sometimes they have to drive to find a public restroom.

Needless to say, David and Jody’s hospitality was refreshing, encouraging, and flattering. Mr. Handsome said that when the remodel was finished, Jody had tears in her eyes, so excited was she over her new sewing room.

Now, for the soup.

Chicken and White Bean Chili
Adapted from Jody’s recipe; she, in turn, got it from Epicurious

The original recipe calls for about five times as much heat as I have in here. Crazy hot, if you ask me. (Which I would probably enjoy, given the opportunity, but I have to think of other people besides myself sometimes.) Play with the spices and chilis and do what works for your family.

This soup doesn’t have much color—it is a “white” soup, after all—but if you want to increase the eye appeal, add some minced green and red pepper when you sauté the onion. Some diced carrot would be nice, too, I think. The original recipe also calls for a green chili (or tomatillo) sauce to be drizzled on top; cilantro (or parsley) pesto might be another option.

1 pound dried small white beans
4 tablespoons butter
2 large onions, diced
1/3 cup flour
4 cups chicken broth
3 cups half and half
4 cups cooked chicken, shredded
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 canned jalapeño, minced
½ teaspoon hot pepper sauce
1 tablespoon cumin
2 teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon white pepper
1 ½ cups grated white cheese such as Monterey Jack or medium cheddar
1 cup sour cream
fresh cilantro, chopped

Soak the beans overnight. The next day, drain them, put them back in the soup pot, cover with water and simmer till almost tender—about an hour. Drain.

Melt the butter in a large kettle. Add the onions and sauté till tender. Add the flour and stir well. Whisk in the chicken broth and half and half and simmer for about ten minutes. Add the beans, chili peppers, chili powder, cumin, hot sauce, salt, and white pepper and simmer for another twenty minutes. Add the chicken, grated cheese and sour cream and heat through, but do not boil. Season to taste.

Ladle the soup into bowls and garnish with cilantro.

Yield: Quite a bit.

Updated November 27, 2010: Made it with less chicken and half-and-half, no peppers, half the sour cream, and a bit of heavy cream. Added chopped spinach, a cube of cilantro (or else a cube of plain, pureed cilantro—not sure which, thanks to unclear labeling), and smoked salt. Served with skillet cornbread. Delicious.

One Year Ago: Peanut Butter Cream Pie.