When We Visited Missourah

Last weekend, the city's biggest musical festival rolled into town. Booze, rock and roll, and frenzied partying engulfed the city. And were where we? Why, in the the most rootin', tootin' place known to man: Mansfield, Missouri.

If regular updates on cat vomit and chicken poop haven't reeled you in yet, I'm positive an entire post about Mansfield, Missouri (population 1,296) will leave you on the edge of your seat, frothing for more Winiferd in the Burbs.

As a child, I adored the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I still do, in fact.

I pick them up every few years or so and delve into sensual descriptions of Almanzo Wilder's family dinners. It's complete food porn. You haven't fully considered the beauty of buttered toast until you hear Laura Ingalls Wilder describe it in intricate detail.

Then there's the fact that the Ingalls family is always inches away from blizzards, wolf attacks, panther attacks, Scarlett Fever, and starvation.

Don't look away; the entire family might die at any moment. The books are often desolate and depressing. So you can imagine how much I love them.

Ian and I headed up to Mansfield to see the Laura Ingalls Wilder farm house and the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum.

I saw it once before as a teenager, but you can never see enough of the Wilder museum. (I was a very cool teenager).

At Rocky Ridge farm, home of Laura Ingalls Wilder

Yep. Still got it.

More excited about the foliage

Whatever. Let's continue freaking out over the house. I want to live in the house.

I thought Ian was mildly bored by the Wilder museum which was full of patch-work quilts and rag dolls, so I tried to point out things of interest.

Laura: "That's Carrie Ingalls. She looked like the Wicked Witch of the West."

Ian: "Wow. She did."

Laura: "Poor thing. She was sickly in the books. And she kinda got hit with the ugly stick."

Ian: "Who's that?!"

Laura: "That's Pa Ingalls. Isn't he terrifying? He had light blue eyes, so that's probably why he looks like he has no eyeballs."

Ian: "The camera stole Pa's soul."

Then we watched a short video and learned Laura's daughter, Rose, had a donkey named Spookendyke.

Which led to hours of hysterical giggling in the car, as we yelled out "Spookendyke" in horrible Dutch accents.

And, err, yelling about the little Dutch boy who stuck his finger in the dyke... STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.

Laura: "We should get one of those miniature, fuzzy donkeys and name it Spookendyke."

Ian: "No, I'd rather get a goat and name it Spookendyke. I want Spookendyke to make cheese."

Ian and Laura: <Stare at each other>

And then we died. The End.

After geeking out on all things Wilder, Ian and I drove to Baker Creek for the annual spring planting festival. Baker Creek is awesome because it sells heirloom seeds. (Ian wanted me to say that).

Actually, Baker Creek is awesome because it has a pioneer village named Bakersville.

Laura: "It's like an episode of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman!"

Ian: "Is it? I never watched that show."

Laura: "Oh yes. It came on Saturday nights at 7. I watched it compulsively as a child because it was so dumb. I couldn't turn away. It was like Seventh Heaven in that regard."

Ian: "I see."

Laura: "I mean, Dr. Quinn was curing cancer before cancer existed."

I discreetly tried to snap photos of everyone's pets. There were lots of Winnie look-alikes:

A freaked-out cat on a leash:

Laura: "Look, Ian! Those sheep are playing together! They're playing chase."

Ian: "Umm, I don't think they're playing..."

Laura: "Oh. Oh my. This is just how children learned the facts of life in the 1800s. How authentic."

We saw tons of roosters, hens, and baby chicks. The baby chicks were for sale, and Ian had a brief bout of chicken baby fever.

What? Doesn't the pungent odor of chicken feces give you baby fever?

He pondered the possibility of buying a few more chicks, but I squashed that because I'm mean and we have enough pets.

Ye olde porta johns, out on the range

Sun-baked cookies

Our Music Fest

Little Hippie on the Prairie, listening to olde timey music

Finally, did you know there's a skating rink in Mansfield? It was across the street from out hotel.

It was the most red-neck place we'd ever seen, which is saying something. This was the entrance:

We were convinced we had walked into a prostitution sting until we saw three little girls wearing roller blades.

So we skated and it was fun. And it was the best trip ever.

I leave with a picture of the last of the Ingalls blood-line, Rose Wilder Lane, daughter of Laura Ingalls Wilder, with her beloved Maltese dogs. Ian surreptitiously snapped the photo when no one was looking.

I think this proves I'm the heiress of the Wilder legacy. Please send me my royalties. And let me live in the house.

A Day in the Life of Harvard Nathaniel

Laura (In the kitchen): "Harvey's about to throw up."

Ian (In the hall): "I can hear him."

Laura: "Ewww. He barfed. They're all crowded around it."

Ian: "It's a feeding frenzy."

It's like Christmas.

Laura: "THEY'RE ALL INHALING HIS THROW UP. COME LOOK AT THIS."

Ian: "Gross. No."

Laura: "SERIOUSLY. THIS IS SO DISGUSTING. LOOK."

Ian: "It'll ruin my appetite."

Laura: "SPOTTSWOOD AND WINNIE ATE ALL OF IT."

Ian: "It's the breakfast of champions."

Laura: "HARVEY'S EATING MORE CAT FOOD. HE'S ALREADY HUNGRY AGAIN."

Ian: "I'll bet he is."

Afterwards: Shame. Disgust. Internal loathing.

Man, did you see that!? That was totally gross!

Spottswood's Close-Up

Spottswood recently informed me that he's been feeling left-out. As one of our more sensitive little buddies, I take pains to listen to him and to acknowledge his feelings.

He's had a rough couple of months. First, Daddy had an affair with a kitten named Solo. Fortunately, Solo grew out of his adorable kitten stage and the affair ended. But not before traumatizing poor Spottswood.

Luckily, Ian and Spottswood have patched up their relationship.

Then we got chickens. I don't know if you've noticed, but every blog post for the past month has concerned the baby chicks.

Winnie and Harvey don't really care. Winnie is extremely affable, wriggling with excitement at something as simple as going to the bathroom or walking down the hall.

And Harvey sleeps so much that he's only dimly aware that he even has a mommy and daddy.

But Spottswood feels jealous over the chicks. I've explained to him that babies need lots of extra attention. Plus, there's about a forty percent chance we're going to eat the chicks anyways.

Nevertheless, Spottswood has been feeling some intense sibling rivalry. To make it up to him, I promised Spottswood I would snap some modeling shots of him and display them on the blog.

Spottswood was ecstatic. He watches America's Next Top Model every week and takes note of the fashion photographers' modeling advice. Tyra Banks is kind of his hero.

Here's our fabulous boy smiling with his eyes:

Fat Larry's Barbeque

My brother writes a blog in which he reviews barbeque and soul food restaurants in the city: http://memphisque.blogspot.com/

On Monday night both Ian and I felt stressed from work, so I insisted we eat barbeque. Because that's what stressed out people should do, apparently.

Here's my own barbecue review (and obviously you should check out my brother's blog for real reviews).

Fat Larry's is a visually terrifying place: very dark and creeping with portraits of Gothic pigs and stuffed boar heads. Some would call it "kitschy." It has all the marks of an authentic barbeque place:

Ian: "I'm scared."

Laura: "Me too."

I'm allergic to pork and eating it makes me violently ill. I dearly miss pulled pork sandwiches, so I try to replicate the barbeque experience by ordering barbeque chicken.

Usually this merely serves to anger me since pulled pork tastes fifty million times better than chicken. Chicken is the blandest, driest, weakest meat in the world. Chicken is sissy food.

Ian ordered fried chicken tenders with french fries. I wouldn't consider that sissy food. Those chicken tenders had "hypertension" written all over them, so you could argue it took some guts to eat them.

As for my food, our waitress plunked down a platter with a small hen basted in a radioactive red sauce. Fat Larry doesn't "do" sissy food. Fat Larry ensures his baked chicken is a manly feast fit for a man.

I didn't like the smell of the radioactive red sauce, let alone the taste. It tasted, well, manly. Ian sniffed the chicken and proclaimed it an ordinary-smelling chicken.

The barbeque beans were delightful. They reminded me of home... Of a time past... Of better days... Then I realized the beans included chunks of pulled pork. I hadn't eaten that magical food in years.

I slurped the beans down, realizing I would suffer later. The slaw seemed good, probably because it was the only foodstuff that wouldn't destroy me.

By the end of the meal, I still had an entire chicken sitting on my plate. I got a to-go box, but here's something else: our refrigerator is currently broken. And when I say currently, I mean permanently.

Laura: "We can't preserve this chicken. I should just throw it away."

Ian: "No, let's take it. I'll eat it in a dark room when you leave to walk the dog. So I can be alone with my shame."

Laura: "No! I won't let you! You already ate four deep-fried chicken tenders and a basket of fries! You'll hurt yourself!"

Ian: "It's for the greater good."

Ian can't stand to waste food. I knew it would be tough to argue him down.

Upon arriving home, I went to the bedroom for a second and then returned to this gruesome sight:

Laura: "Ian! No! It's not worth it! SAVE YOURSELF."

Ian: "You should have thought of this before you dragged us to a place called Fat Larry's."

Ian continued to rip through the chicken, a man determined to press through the pain.

Laura: "Please stop! I CAN'T WATCH ANYMORE."

After Ian ravaged the chicken, he staggered out to the barn, drunk on excessive poultry. He fed our chicks their dinner, with the smell of chicken still on his hands, to "let them know who's boss."

Then he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

Meanwhile I walked the dog, fighting stomach pains and acid reflux caused by the pulled pork I'd consumed.

Ultimately, our night at Fat Larry's left us feeling ashamed and weirdly drunk. I'm not sure I can recommend this restaurant. I mean, the food is good, but the place itself made us mildly insane.

I suppose it would make for a good restaurant if you were craving a night of feeling disturbed and unsettled. It was like a watching a scary movie, except we were in it.

Tread carefully at Fat Larry's, my darlings.

Our Bouncing Baby Boy

We think we've figured out the sex of the chicks. The suspense grew too great, so we decided to Google male and female chicken traits.

After entering the dubious search words, "sexing chicks" (and dreading the possible obscene porn sites that might pop up) we found a helpful YouTube video.

After watching it, we took a close look at our chicks and discovered we have four girls and one boy.

John Proctor is indeed a John Proctor. These days he spends less time chewing on his sisters and more time protecting them.

He has spurs on his feet and an enormous head. He's fearless and stares at us intently when we hold him.

Our girls shake nervously when held and try to flap away. But John Proctor has a great deal of presence and a decidedly brash nature.

Ian and I have already become attached to him, and we're hoping he keeps the crowing to a minimum since neither of us wants to toss him in the stew pot.

In our neighborhood, the rules about owning a rooster are a bit grey. If he's too noisy, we know we'll have to get rid of him. Ian's trying to remain optimistic.

Ian: "I don't think we'll have have a problem keeping John. Those horrible yippy dogs that live behind us are way more annoying than a rooster."

I nod and put on a brave face, but privately I think, "Every dog is more annoying than a rooster to Ian."

I have to say, I've never heard the horrible yippy dogs crowing at 4:00am. John has remained silent on the matter, which I'm taking as a good sign.

The internet tells me that roosters crow before the age of four months, so we'll soon learn how vocal our son is. We're hoping our boy has inherited our shy and quiet nature.

But then, he's John Proctor. Every day he looks more like a dinosaur. A bold, brazen dinosaur.

Stay tuned to see whether we eat John Proctor casserole or lavish love (and mercy) on our darling pet.

The Chicks and Their Destiny

I've already been asked which chick we plan to eat. We have no idea whether we have boys or girls. We're hoping we have girls, as we merely want their eggs and fertilizer for now.

If we have a gaggle of boys, things will get complicated. What on earth does one do with five roosters? Break up cock fights all day?

I suppose we could make a pretty penny showing chicken fights. We live in the dirty South, after all.

Fortunately, the internet assures me that feed stores only sell female chicks, although there's a possibility of getting one or two males.

Ian wants to cook any roosters we may have received. It's the practical thing to do, I suppose.

However, every time I so much as look at the chicks, I involuntarily squeal, "My babies!"

It must be some sort of maternal instinct. You know, the instinct that prevents mothers from eating their young.

Please don't eat me, mommy.

Ian and I are stunned at how fast they're growing. Every day, we see a remarkable difference in size. They're starting to lose their baby down and to sprout feathers.

Which produces more squealing:

Laura:  "My babies! They're growing up so fast. Soon they'll be off to college..."

Ian: "Uh huh. They're getting big enough to eat."

Laura: "They're bigger than chicken nuggets now. They're more like chicken strips."

Here are our babies. Or rather, my babies!

They enjoy dance parties. They were forming a conga line here.

When We Adopted Six Babies

Guess what we got?

We got adorable, down-covered, freshly-hatched chicks. Last Saturday, Ian and I drove out to a tractor supply store to buy the tiny babies.

We had planned on buying four, but store policy insisted we buy six. So we watched a store employee grab up six squawking chicks and stick them in a box.

The shape of the box spelled out a clear message regarding the chicks' purpose in life:

It's the original Chicken McNugget Happy Meal. It comes with Happy Meal toys: chicken poop for the girls and salmonella for the boys.

As we drove back home, I cradled the box on my lap and opened the top to gaze inside. I watched in horror as one of the chicks snapped onto another's leg and yanked with all his might.

I lowered my head into the box and yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

The chicks erupted into intense, resounding peeps.

The chicks: "PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP."

Ian: "Close the box! They're scared! They're loud! Oh my God, so loud."

Laura: "I'm sorry. I just can't believe the little devil tried to murder his sister. What a bastard."

Ian: "So you think the evil one's a boy?"

Laura: "Oh, I'm sure of it. That one's gotta be a rooster. Which means we get to use our boy name!"

I've spent the past couple of months preparing for the arrival of our chicks by analyzing chicken names. What, did you think I was going to prepare by buying chicken feed and light bulbs? Please.

Here are their names (and the inspiration thereof):

Bernadette

Marjorine

Sal (short for Salmonella)

Hester Prynne

Gertrude (Gertie)

And our bastard boy who likes to chomp legs and peck faces: John Proctor.

Unfortunately, Gertie looked sickly from the beginning. She passed away after her first night.

That leaves us with five.

(Of course, I have no idea whether we have boys or girls. John Proctor may morph into Jane Proctor at some point).