Frontier Follies Read online

  The pressure to break character grew as the evening went on. Mid-party, my roommate tracked me down and asked if I’d seen Mikey anywhere, as he hadn’t shown up at the designated spot at the designated time. “Meow, meow,” I shrugged, looking puzzled. “Meow meowmeow-meow meow-meow?” I pointed to the next room, nonverbally intimating that perhaps that’s where he was. She huffed off, unamused. Sometime later she returned, still not having found Mikey, and asked me if I’d seen her car keys, because she couldn’t find them and wanted to leave. “Meow,” I replied, shrugging. “Meow-meow, meow meow meow-meow?” She told me she was serious and to please stop meowing, and I simply exclaimed, “Meow!” then started purring. That was the final straw for my roommate (and, now, former friend), and she got a ride home with an acquaintance. The next morning she told me unequivocally (and understandably) that my refusal to answer her questions the night before really irritated her, and she didn’t want to go to any more parties with me.

  All this to say that given the circumstance, I can fully commit to being completely annoying, even past the point when it affects relationships. Case in point: the Love Robot.

  First, I’ll back up and tell you that as my kids were growing up, I was generally a silly, wannabe comedic mom. Typically, I’d do most of my cutting up in the kitchen, since that’s where I spent most of my time, laying on a thick Italian accent as I was making meat-a-balls (meatballs) or doing an interpretive dance to the tune of “Hotel California” as I seasoned soup. My sole motivation for being kooky was to get laughs from my kids, because they’re tough nuts to crack and I figured if they laughed at me, I must be really funny. So as long as their giggling continued, my goofing off continued. It was a great way to make the years go by faster.

  Over time, I started noticing that for all my dancing and impersonating, nothing caused the kids to laugh harder than the times I made Ladd the subject of my shenanigans. I started out doing the typical things: Ladd would be talking to the kids and I’d park behind him, making funny faces and mimicking his gestures, stopping instantly if he became suspicious and turned around to look. Or I’d steal his toast and hide it right after he spread the butter on, as he turned to get the strawberry preserves out of the fridge. He’d spend a few seconds looking around, completely puzzled, and the kids would laugh so hard they’d cry. Such wonderful memories at Ladd’s expense!

  The Love Robot showed up unexpectedly one dark and stormy night. I’d just finished cooking chili, and Ladd and the kids were filling their bowls at the stove and taking their seats at the island. Just for kicks, I suddenly shouted, “Oh my gosh! Wait!!” I stared at Ladd with huge eyes, my hand over my mouth, as if something dire had just happened. The kids jumped. Ladd, startled, whipped his head around and said, “What’s wrong?!” He almost dropped his chili bowl.

  I relaxed my face and grinned. “You forgot to give me my hug today,” I replied. The kids, realizing nothing was really the matter, roared.

  Ladd shook his head and tried not to laugh, then took his bowl to his seat and sat down . . . without giving me a hug, mind you. This didn’t initially bother me, but then I thought about it and wondered why he hadn’t just played along and given me a hug. I mean, it was no big deal. But it was a big deal. But it wasn’t. But it was. So almost without thinking, I stiffened my body upright, extended my arms in front of me at a ninety-degree angle with my forearms parallel to the floor, and began shuffling toward my husband just as a metal-encased robot would.

  Bryce noticed my change of character right away. “What are you doing, Mama?” he asked in his cute little voice.

  I chose a monotone one-note beep of a voice and held my head absolutely straight: “I am . . . the Love Robot . . .,” I replied. “I . . . must have love . . . I . . . must have . . . hug . . .” When I made it over to Ladd, I continued walking toward him until my legs hit his barstool. My feet still shuffled, as if I were a battery-operated car that got hung up in the corner of the room with the wheels still spinning. Ladd, wanting so badly to enjoy a relaxing dinner, tried to ignore me while spreading honey butter on his corn muffin, hoping to God it would stop. Unfortunately, it only made me dig in. He was by this time completely trapped between my rigid robot arms, so I folded them inward in a repeated motion, just as a robot would give a series of stiff hugs. Ladd, still trying hard to act unfazed and eat his damn chili, was now visibly trying to restrain himself from laughing. He could not under any circumstances give the Love Robot the satisfaction. The kids, on the other hand, were howling.

  “Hug me . . .,” I continued, begging in my robot voice for him to hug me back. “Love Robot . . . need love . . .” I kept my short-circuited robot hugs going until Ladd placated me with a little pat on the arm. “Okay, let’s eat,” he said gently . . . though I noticed his jaw muscle was clenching a little bit. I guess he’d had a hard day on the ranch and just wanted to have a simple meal with his family? So I shuffled backward, turned around 180 degrees, and shuffled over to the stove to serve myself some chili, never for a second breaking character.

  The rest of dinner was awkward but fun. The kids interrogated the Love Robot about where I came from, what my mother’s name was, and how long I was going to stay in the house with them. All the while, I ate chili and cornbread muffins using only up-and-down or side-to-side movements with my head and hands. Consequently, the Love Robot made quite a royal mess, which brought the kids great delight as well. (Have you ever seen a robot try to eat chili? It’s hilarious!) And poor Ladd: Turns out he actually had some things he’d wanted to talk to his wife and kids about over dinner—ranching plans for the week and whatnot—but a robot had possessed his wife’s body and was answering only in one-tone beeps. Oh, was I committed. It was just like the Halloween party in college. (Only with slightly larger jeans.)

  As I normally would, I cleared the table, did the dishes, and wiped the countertops, all the while in full Love Robot character. Interestingly, everyone else trickled out of the kitchen one by one. Once I realized they were gone, I announced, in my own special robotic way, that I was about to run out of power and needed a hug immediately in order to keep my batteries from dying. I even turned off the kitchen lights, tilted forward forty-five degrees, and stayed there, frozen, announcing every thirty seconds or so that the Love Robot was out of power and “must . . . have hugs . . . must . . . have love . . .” in order to come back to life.

  I stayed there a little too long, because I actually strained my lower back from freezing in a bent position, hoping someone would come charge my—I mean the Love Robot’s—batteries by giving me a hug. By this time, though, everyone had settled in to watch TV in the living room for the evening and they sort of left me out to dry. It didn’t really hurt my feelings, since I had started the whole thing in the first place . . . but it took over two weeks for my back to feel normal again.

  The Love Robot has continued to show up at occasional dinners through the years, seeking (demanding) love in the form of hugs to charge its batteries. Ladd hasn’t quite warmed up to the Love Robot yet (he says he has a hard time connecting to it on any sort of human level), but I’m going to give it a little more time. The Love Robot has all the patience in the world.

  Love Robot Chili and Cornbread Muffins

  The Love Robot serves this to her family, and they love it! Season it with dinnertime shenanigans.

  LOVE ROBOT CHILI

  MAKES 8 SERVINGS

  3 pounds ground beef

  3 garlic cloves, minced

  One 8-ounce can tomato sauce

  2 tablespoons tomato paste

  1 tablespoon chili powder

  1 tablespoon ancho chile powder

  2 teaspoons ground cumin

  1 teaspoon ground oregano

  2 teaspoons kosher salt

  ¼ teaspoon cayenne

  ¼ cup masa harina (corn flour)

  One 15-ounce can kidney beans, drained and rinsed

  One 15-ounce can pinto beans, drained and rinsed

  Grated shar
p Cheddar, for serving

  Sour cream, for serving

  Chopped red onion, for serving

  Lime wedges, for serving

  Cornbread, for serving (optional), such as Green Chile and Cheddar Cornbread Muffins

  Place the ground beef in a large saucepan or Dutch oven and throw in the garlic. Cook over medium heat until browned. Drain off the excess fat, then pour in the tomato sauce, tomato paste, chili powders, cumin, oregano, salt, cayenne, and 1½ cups hot water. Stir together well, cover, and reduce the heat to low.

  Simmer for 1 hour, stirring occasionally. If the mixture becomes overly dry, add ½ cup water at a time as needed.

  When the hour is almost up, place the masa harina in a small bowl. Add ½ cup hot water and stir with a fork. Dump the masa mixture into the chili. Stir well, then taste and adjust the seasonings. Add more masa paste and/or water to get the chili to your preferred consistency or to add more corn flavor. Add the beans and simmer for 10 minutes.

  Serve with grated Cheddar, sour cream, chopped red onion, and lime wedges. Serve with cornbread if you like!

  GREEN CHILE AND CHEDDAR CORNBREAD MUFFINS

  MAKES 12 MUFFINS

  Cooking spray

  1⅓ cups yellow cornmeal

  ⅔ cup all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon kosher salt

  1 cup buttermilk

  2 large eggs, whisked

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  1½ cups grated Cheddar

  One 4-ounce can chopped green chilies, undrained

  6 tablespoons butter, melted, plus softened butter, for serving

  Preheat the oven to 425°F. Prepare a muffin tin with cooking spray.

  In a large bowl, combine the cornmeal, flour, and salt.

  In a small pitcher, combine the buttermilk, eggs, baking powder, and baking soda. Whisk with a fork to combine.

  Pour the buttermilk mixture into the dry mixture. Stir with a fork until combined. Fold in the cheese, green chilies, and melted butter until just combined.

  Portion the batter into the prepared muffin tin and bake until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean, about 15 minutes.

  Serve warm with softened butter. These go great with chili!

  Devil Woman

  I grew up observing Lent, the forty-day-long Christian season that leads up to Easter. Lent signifies the period of time that Jesus spent fasting (and being tempted by Satan) in the wilderness before his ministry began, and my Episcopalian upbringing taught me that it should be a time of reflection, denial, and sacrifice. I remember as a little girl giving up everything from lemon drops (age seven) to Cheetos (age twelve) to chocolate (ages fifteen, nineteen, twenty-two, twenty-four, and twenty-seven), and now, as an old lady, I still observe Lent by giving up something I really, really like.

  In my layman’s understanding, I have always believed that the whole point of Lent is to choose something to give up that will cause you daily (several times a day) discomfort or pain. It would make no sense, for example, for me to give up bananas for Lent. I loathe and abhor them, and giving them up would require zero sacrifice on my part. What you want to give up is something you reach for, something you rely on, day in and day out, so that you can, by stopping, remind yourself of Jesus’ sacrifice—both in the wilderness and on the cross.

  These days, I almost always give up alcohol for Lent, which I realize makes it sound like I am a heavy drinker, which isn’t exactly the case . . . but I do enjoy a glass of wine here and there (and here and there and here and there). Giving up chocolate has just become too easy; I’ve learned over time to skirt the system and satisfy my sweet tooth with gummy bears or crème brûlée. Sugar is always an option, but it appears in almost every food and is difficult to avoid given my food-centric gigs as a cooking show host and bakery owner. Coffee would be at the top of the list of obvious contenders, but I just flat out don’t want to give up coffee. It is the first thing I reach for the second my feet hit the floor in the morning, I absolutely need it in order to function, and if I didn’t have it, I would be terribly uncomfortable and suffer greatly.

  The coffee scenario I have just laid out is the entire point of Lent, and a complete affirmation that if I really want to show off my Christian vigor, I should, in fact, give up coffee. But again—I don’t want to. Or to put it a better way: I’m too weak to. Caffeine is a legal stimulant, I’m not breaking any laws by ingesting it, and I’m hopelessly addicted. So for the past decade-plus, during the Lenten season, I have become a teetotaler by giving up all things wine, liquor, and White Claw (I have kids in college). Going without booze for forty days is still a stretch for me—but not the impossible stretch giving up coffee would be.

  My husband, unlike me, did not grow up observing Lent. It wasn’t taught or emphasized in his small-town Presbyterian church, so it wasn’t until he saw me observing the tradition that he decided to jump in, too. Just getting his feet wet, he gave up things like sweets and junk food for the first couple of years. And then, in year three, with all of his typical resolve and breakneck speed, he went straight for the jugular and gave up Dr Pepper.

  For context: Ladd has almost zero vices. He does not drink coffee, he does not use any tobacco products, he very rarely drinks beer (let alone any other alcohol), and he has never tried a recreational drug. He may have a little bit of a propensity toward obsessively bingeing Marvel movies, but other than that, he leads a largely addiction-free, habit-free life . . . with one notable exception: Dr Pepper. It is his early morning coffee, his midmorning juice, his afternoon recharge, his evening enjoyment. It is his north, his south, his east and west, to borrow W. H. Auden’s phrasing, and I purchase it in bulk along with other household necessities such as toilet paper, lightbulbs, and food.

  I actually didn’t know Ladd had given up Dr Pepper until about three days into that spring’s Lent, mostly because he subscribes to the belief that if you give up something in the name of your faith, you shouldn’t call attention to yourself by telling everyone and your neighbor (we don’t have neighbors, but still) that you have made this terribly difficult sacrifice. This is biblical—in the book of Matthew, it is spelled out: “When you fast, do not be somber like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces to show men they are fasting . . . but when you fast, wash your face so that your fasting will not be obvious to men, but only to your Father.” In other words, buck up and put on a happy face, and don’t do what Ree does and complain to everyone who will listen that she can’t have wine because she gave up all alcohol for Lent. She’s a really good Christian girl, after all!

  Except with poor Ladd, it was written all over his face that something was wrong, no matter how much he probably willed himself to smile through the pain. A minimum four-Dr-Pepper-a-day habit (usually more) is a lot of caffeine and sugar, and for a large, strong man to go cold turkey one day (all because of a man-made tradition, mind you—not a rule or regulation) is a huge drop off the cliff in energy, mood, and patience. So after seventy-two hours of witnessing my teddy bear slowly metamorphosing into a grizzly with fangs, I pressed Ladd to tell me what was up.

  “What the heck?” I said.

  He grunted an unintelligible word or two. “Uh buh.”

  “No, seriously,” I continued. “What’s the deal?”

  He repeated his two-word grunt.

  “Honey . . . did someone die? Is the bank taking the ranch?” I asked, just halfway kidding. Only the death of a loved one or the loss of a livelihood could account for such a drastic change of affect and mood. He tried grunting and hissing more vague responses, but finally confided that he’d given up Dr Pepper for Lent and that today, day three, he was struggling.

  I responded as any caring, understanding spouse would respond: “What?!?” I shrieked, incredulous. “Have you completely lost your mind?!?” I was simultaneously relieved that there was an identifiable, objective reason for his rapid spiral downward and irritated that he could be so ir
responsible about his Lenten choice. Dr Pepper? Was he crazy? He couldn’t possibly give that up! How would the kids and I survive? (It was all about us, after all.)

  I took a deep breath and gently suggested that perhaps giving up Dr Pepper for forty days when he hadn’t gone four days without it since he turned eighteen was a little ambitious and that God would surely understand if he decided to pivot to something a little easier. Like oxygen. He grunted again—something along the lines of “Ugguh mu duh duh uck” which loosely translated to “No, I can do this . . . I just need to get over the hump.” Well, said hump took another week to get over, and while he did eventually equalize and do pretty well for the rest of Lent, that week was no picnic. He was draggy, short, listless, sluggish, crabby—and while it required a little marital navigation on my part, mostly I just hated seeing my otherwise energetic, strong, virile, motivated husband go downhill like this. Finally, a few weeks later, Easter morning came, and Ladd celebrated with a chilled can of Dr Pepper, savoring every last drop. I gave thanks to God both for His gift of salvation and for giving me my husband back. I was starting to worry that I’d never see him again.

  In the years since, as we approach Ash Wednesday (the day that marks the start of Lent), I become filled with an uncomfortable dread knowing that Ladd will undoubtedly choose Dr Pepper as his sacrifice. It’s the one thing that hurts him not to have, and that’s all the reason he needs to choose it. Meanwhile I pray in the periphery, not for God to give my husband and me strength to get through it all, but for God to make Ladd give up something else. “Please, God. Let him come to his senses.” I even beg Ladd, point blank, not to give it up. “Please, honey,” I plead. “Please. I will give you one million dollars not to give up Dr Pepper.” He laughs at me as if I’m kidding—and I must be kidding, he probably tells himself, because no self-respecting wife who has her husband’s best interest at heart would allow herself to be such a stumbling block to his faith by begging him not to make the Lenten sacrifice his heart tells him to make.