Bad, bad, Biscuit.

I have a wonderful homemade biscuit recipe that I adapted from Suzanne McMinn over at Chickens in the Road (The lady is my heroine, seriously, check her out). I make these biscuits for Captain America fairly frequently. He can't get enough of them. They're damn good biscuits.

So, I made them for him Sunday morning before we headed downstairs to work on his basement remodel project. About an hour later there was a very loud THUNK! We looked at each other and nodded briefly. It was like in the movies. That one glance and slight chin tilt held more meaning
than an hour of conversation. I dropped the broom I was holding and made a mad dash for the stairs. I leapt up them two at a time and almost spun out on the laminate floor as I slid towards the kitchen.

There he was, CA's massive black and tan coon hound, Sampson; standing amidst a pile of still warm golden biscuit goodness.

I did what any sane person would do. I ran at him, screaming for him to back away from the biscuits. Believe it or not, he didn't listen and continued to nose around trying to remove the rest of towel that I had covered them with. I made it to him and started trying to drag him away from the pan before all of the biscuits were ruined by his doggie drool to no avail. He wasn't even sorry, or scared, or really wanting to move at all.


I picked up a biscuit that had rolled across the kitchen and threw it at him. It exploded in a golden shower of crumbs that spread all over the floor. The bits of yellow and white made a fine
counterpoint to the golden oak finish. I picked up another handful of bread heaven and started shoving it in his face. In my head it was like rubbing a puppy's nose in the mess he made.


Unfortunately, rubbing biscuit crumbs all over his face did not seem to punish him much. He
still was not apologetic or ready to flee the crazy biscuit flinging lady. So I reached around him, resorting to dragging him away from the pan manually. He is not a little dog, and while he was being removed from his prize he growled and snapped at me.

Growing up in a dog sanctuary, and watching a lot of The Dog Whisperer has taught me that there is one thing to do when a dog begins to be aggressive towards you. Roll them on their back and show them who is the alpha of the pack. I am always reminded of Cartman from Southpark, you WILL respect my authority!

Anyway, so CA comes upstairs to find a biscuit pan on the floor, the kitchen COVERED in crumbs (imagine a biscuit bomb going off mid air. . . it was even in the shelving), and me sprawled out on top of the dog holding him on his back with one arm and rubbing his stomach with the other; muttering something about him being a "bad, bad Biscuit" all the while. Sampson was staring at me like I had lost my mind. He looked up at CA and whined something that I have to interpret as: "Save me daddy! I was just eating some good food I found, when this crazy lady came up and attacked me! I didn't do anything wrong. She came out of nowhere!"

What did CA do? He laughed his butt off. That's what. Great co-parent he is going to be!

Now every time that dog is bad we call him Biscuit. I'm not sure he was smart enough to know what his name was in the first place. That poor thing is going to have a complex.

Awkward

I am a socially awkward dater.

I don’t go on many first dates because when I do I wind up talking about things like animal spines and deer skulls. I don’t know why. First dates turn me into some sort of sociopath. I panic when faced with a new person that I don’t know, and resort to discussing things I do know, like random dead things in the yard and dehydrated opossum carcasses in the barn. Sexy right? God. No wonder I can’t beat them off with a stick. <-sarcasm

I have found that in addition to the regular things that most girls look for in a guy I also have a weird ranking system that most other women do not have.

Normal                                                   Me

Buys flowers                                         Has hand raised baby (raccoon/opossum/cow/deer/etc.)

Respectful                                             Can fix farm equipment (bonus points if with bare hands)

Romantic                                               Finds hay stacking/cow checking/fourwheeling romantic

Good conversationalist                     Can use chainsaw and gun, preferably not at the same time

In good shape                                       How high can he throw hay

Cares about appearance                    Smells like: coal smoke, diesel fuel, hydraulic fluid

Takes me to nice/cool places            Has sexy farm animals/tractors

Etc.                                                          Etc.

 

Needless to say I was devastated when Boyfriend and I broke up a few months ago. I felt a crushing sense of depression. I have so many weird little ticks and idiosyncrasies that I really felt like I would be doomed to be alone forever. The echoing moos across the hills would be my only music. Horse hugs would be the extent of my comfort. In short, since I was so dedicated to my farm lifestyle it was a choice between being alone and doing what I love, or being in love and doing what made me miserable. I chose to stick to my guns with my lifestyle choice, and lead the life of a hermit if need be. I pictured the ends of my days driving a tractor across a barren landscape hopping off to cut bale strings to the agitated bawling of newborn calves, and I was strangely okay with it. After all, I’m tweaked a little differently. I don’t particularly want a life of leisure, and if a guy can’t appreciate my work ethic and lifestyle choices I would probably make him miserable in the long run. I wouldn’t want to do that to someone I cared for.

So what is a girl with horrible dating skills to do? Use redneck pick up lines?

“You can come drive your t-posts at my place anytime.” Suggestive wink…

“You’re right. I don’t need vinyl fence boards. I need wood. Badly.” Come hither look…

“Would you like to follow me home and plow my field?” Hint of a suggestive chin tilt…

Somehow I really don’t see those working out for me. I mean. They’d work on me, but it would take a special someone for me to use them on. But then again, maybe when I find a guy that I can share a glass of wine and swap “things the dogs drug into the yard” stories with maybe he will appreciate those too.

Because I giggle like a moron every time I read them.

Maybe I should just become a nun…