I had just turned the light off in our little monkey’s bedroom, and I slowly crept out and closed the door behind me (so quiet even a ninja would have been impressed), and then I tip-toed down the hallway.
When I reached the kitchen, I was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.
Now… What to do with the rest of my evening?
I was kinda toying with the idea of wrapping up with a warm blanket and a good book; I might even go to bed early — when I heard the rattling clickety-clank of the garage door opening up.
Lindsey was home!
I think I’ve mentioned it before, but she’s one of the leaders in charge of our church’s youth program — and as such, she had been out with the young women most of the evening, enjoying one of their weekly get-togethers.
But now that she was home, I jumped up and literally ran to meet her at the door (because, let’s face it, spending time with my sweetheart is by far the BEST thing I could do with my evening). My excitement was cut short, however, when she glanced up and gave me “the look.”
I HATE that look.
It’s the look that tells you that something is wrong. The basement is flooded. The car isn’t working. An animal is sick. Something.
And it just so happened that it was the plumbing this time.
Remember how I told you about that little red light on our well? The one that tells you that everything is okay?
Yeah, ummm… Lindsey informed me that it wasn’t working — which meant that we had about three and a half toilet-flushes before we were totally out of running water.
And that’s how I found myself all bundled up in a stocking cap and thread-bare Wrangler jacket, multi-meter in hand, troubleshooting electrical problems by the light of my pickup truck’s high-beams.
And did I mention it was snowing like crazy?
Fortunately, it only took a half an hour and 3 trips back to the house (to grab forgotten tools) to fix the problem. Heck, I wasn’t even out there long enough for my fingers to go numb! All in all, I’d call it a “win.”
I was feeling so good, in fact, that when I got back in the house, I decided to start the annual batch of “pheasant broth.”
Y’see, we save all the pheasant carcasses from the hunting season (just throw ’em in a plastic bag and pop it in the freezer). When things finally calm down a bit, we take ’em out and simmer it all into a delicious golden-brown broth, and bottle it — to be used throughout the year.
Sure, 10 o’clock is a little late to be starting a cooking project, but it shouldn’t take too long to just throw a couple dozen carcasses into the stock pot, right?
Of course, I also need to add a few herbs to the stock.
And some vegetables.
And some water.
Maybe a little bit of vinegar.
The further I got into it, the more I realized that starting the pheasant broth wasn’t as simple as I had hoped…
Oh, and what’s this? A package of pheasant feet? Forty of ’em?
And you’re telling me they need to be blanched and skinned before I can throw them into the broth?!
It was nearly midnight by the time I finished.
So much for getting to bed early…
Oh well, it’s just another night at the One Acre Lott — and I wouldn’t trade it for the world!