Arabian Breeders World Cup - Las Vegas 2011

Vegas is...well, it's Vegas. And it's pretty much anything you want it to be depending on who you're with, where you're staying and how you choose to spend your time and your bucks.

Vegas is also only a few hours away from my house, which makes it an accessible weekend getaway spot. I had extra incentive this past weekend when the Arabian Breeders World Cup Show - a relatively new venture in the Arabian show world - was held. I've been wanting to check out this shindig since it first started, and it did not disappoint. I consider this more of a "boutique" show than, say, Scottdale, since it's basically a celebration of halter horses, and the crowd numbered in the hundreds rather than the thousands on Saturday afternoon. It also spans just a few days, rather than a couple of weeks as Scottsdale does.

There sure were some pretty horses, though. Just breathtaking, really.

There was also a nice international look to the spectators, including some truly Sartorialist-worthy fashion.

All in all, it was a lovely way to pass the time, and I plan to return (hopefully) next year.

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feel-good song for a Monday in April

Of course, it's all over the airwaves right now, but who cares? It's a good'un, and with the number of views it's already had, it clearly resonates with people. Follow @nicole_mcinnes

not by a long shot

This is okay:

I mean, cute dog, cute cat... What's not to love, right?

This, however.

This is most definitely NOT okay:

Yes, that's my name on the address label. Not "Dear Neighbor" or "Our Dear Friend at..."

I will say this, though: at least they're offering that puzzles & games booklet to help keep my mind sharp.

Now where did I put those damn dentures?Follow @nicole_mcinnes

iTunes Songs for Japan

What a cool way to add 38 songs to your iTunes library and donate to the earthquake relief at the same time! The ten bucks you pay for this collection goes straight to the Japanese Red Cross.

Good job, iTunes. Mine's downloaded already.

:-)Follow @nicole_mcinnes

not without a fight

Today is the first full day of Spring, and I'd be doing my Snoopy dance at this very moment if I hadn't looked out my window this morning and seen this:

I think Winter has decided it's worth dying on this hill. I know, I know. I need to lighten up, or, Erleichda, as Tom Robbins might advise. And I can always remind myself that at least it's not as cold as it was one morning in the heart of winter, when I woke up before dawn to drive down the road and visit my favorite tree.

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pre-spring free verse-y blog post

Wake up to a quiet house, temporarily kidless, and itching to clean and organize - not unlike pregnancy nesting, but a spring thing this time. Start in the kitchen, then add other rooms until there's a harmony and a rhythm working. But what am I doing, I think. It's gorgeous outside! And so Lizzie the Cowdog and I take the show out there where the horses watch, needing their own spring cleaning (shelter mucked, winter coats stripped, water tank scoured, and on and on). The Pink Trailer calls, and so I answer. Throw open the door and behold an eternity's worth of stuff needing to be dealt with, some of it hard - the rocking pony from daughter's toddler years, boxes of old divorce documents and lots of stuff probably best Goodwilled, but I have a hard time letting go sometimes. (The rocking horse stays. Period.) Hours pass, and they looked like this: me hauling the Rubbermaided (Rubbermaidened?) evidence of years already lived from the trailer to the woodshed; me going through the drawers and cupboards and closet of the trailer, seeing what's there (old coffee perkpot, old laundry clips, old flatware, all of it charming) and dreaming of camping trips at nearby lakes this summer, checking out the tires, eyeballing the ancient suspension, more formless pondering. Scrub the trailer's innards then stand back, pleased. Trees need attention next (from whence this energy?) - the liquidambar and the quaking aspen planted last fall, plus the live spruce from Christmas, still babies all. Settle the spruce into its new hole (chicken wire-lined against our looky-loo prairie dog neighbors). The hose is dragged out next so all can get a deep, late-winter watering, even though it doesn't feel like winter anymore the way I'm sweating. Aiming the hose at new roots I look up startled by sound of an eagle's cry overhead. Turns out there are two of them - adult bald eagles - swooping and swirling in the sky above my house, either courting or battling in a falling spiral, but whatever it is it's extraordinary, an extraordinary gift. Even Lizzie the Cowdog stares up at them, head cocked, ears up. We're frozen at the sight, and as I stand there with sweat on my back and my hands covered in water and dirt I realize that a) we're done for the day, and b) we're just getting started.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

for girls only

So, a girlfriend and I were talking about That Time of the Month Which Shall Remain Nameless (TTOTMWSRN) and how we know every month, without fail, when it's approaching.

Is it when we offer to remove the grocery store bagger's face for putting the bananas in the same bag as the paper towels?

Is it when the sight of an empty email inbox makes us go back to bed and weep for an hour straight?

Or do we know TTOTMWSRN is imminent when we find ourselves (note how I deftly hide my identity by using the collective "we") standing in front of the microwave with a wooden spoon full of brownie batter in one hand while waiting for our salty, salty microwave popcorn to finish popping?

Men, I tried to warn you.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

absolution

It's what Get Low is about.

And, can I just say, movies like this - stories like this - are the reason I keep writing. They're the reason I still try.

Of course, it never hurts when Robert Duvall is the leading man.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

mixed blessings

The man brought home a big bag of takeout food from Flagstaff’s yummy Pato Thai last night, and that's what I had for breakfast. Seriously, the Tom Ka coconut milk soup is something of a wonder, though I was skeptical the first time I had it.

In other news:

My son’s dog was attacked by two big bully dogs while we were out for a run the other day. Bums me out that the owners a) didn’t even bother to walk three doors down to see how she was doing afterward, and b) don’t bother to address the problem and properly restrain their dogs even after several other incidents involving said dogs in the neighborhood. People suck sometimes. Lizzie’s okay, by the way.

A neighbor came by this weekend with a carton of 18 nummy eggs from her fat hens. Traded 'em for soap. There’s nothing like the taste of farm-fresh eggs, and I’ll use these for everything from breakfast to dessert.

Oh, and even though the pow pow’s extremely cool for skiing and snowboarding, I am officially tired of being cold. So, here’s a special note to Winter: I’m breaking up with you. Everything you own in the box to the left.

And it’s not me – it’s you.

:-p   pttthhhhhtFollow @nicole_mcinnes

Angel Heart Farm

While down at the Scottsdale show, I enjoyed perusing the creations of and buying a few prints from Arabian artist extraordinaire, Shary Akers. We chatted for a bit about her art, our horses and being a vendor at shows (which is something I'm familiar with from years of selling handmade soaps). Our chat turned to artistic inspiration, and, in particular, artistic kids. I told her about my son, who can regularly be found mid-sketch, and Shary graciously autographed a print of "The Black" for my kids.

As we chatted, I noticed a little sign she had by the cash register asking for donations (no amount too small) for something called Angel Heart Farm. I asked her about it, and she told me about a woman she knows in Kentucky who devotes her life to bringing terminally ill children and horses together. If you have nothing better to do for the next five minutes, do yourself and your soul a huge favor and check out the short video on Angel Heart's homepage. I dare you to remain unmoved.

:-)Follow @nicole_mcinnes

scottsdale all-arabian horse show 2011

February usually equals cold, wind and snow here at 7,000 feet, which generally makes it a blissful time to head down to the Valley of the Sun for a little sunny R&R. I've been doing it off and on since the early 90's when I moved to Arizona, but I have to say, this was one of the coldest weekends I've ever spent down there. Still, the reasons to get out of Dodge were numerous, so down we went.

First timers to Westworld, where the show is held every year, can't help but catch their breath a little when they come upon the bronze Arabians at the entrance:

Once inside the entrance tent, you're greeted by wall to wall booths full of amazing art and saddles and bling, and it's almost too much to take in:

Due to the rain and the wind this year, the covered warm-up arena was packed. Halter classes were actually being held in the outdoor warm-up, which makes me think Wendell Arena must have been a mess:

Inside the Equidome, though, it was business as usual. I never got an official entry count, but classes were decent sized, and there were lots of spectators there for the long weekend:

The mare halter classes on Saturday night were awesome. For me, it was all about the greys this year. So many breathtaking beauties:

Before heading back up to the snow and our own fuzzy four-leggeds, we got to see one of the benefits of all that rain:

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item #23 checked off the bucket list

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people stew

It often happens like this: I'm finishing up a manuscript, getting ready to send it out into the big world with it's still-moist wings and focusing on keeping myself hopeful. Meanwhile, there's a crockpot full of other ideas...things strangers are saying, thoughts and memories these strangers are having...simmering in another part of my brain, distracting me a little from the task at hand. But I don't want to unplug the crockpot. I don't want to throw out its contents. Instead, I press the lid down - gently but firmly - hoping nothing escapes for just a little while longer.

I finish releasing the new bird, my most recent baby, and then I turn to back the crockpot, which is by now threatening to boil over. Carefully, carefully I lift the lid and peer inside, giving a little bit more attention to what's being said and who's saying it - what's being thought and who's thinking it. Getting to know the strangers inside.

Sounds a little grotesque, I know. Like, what is she talking about? People in a crockpot? Ew. Such a rash, blatant mixing of metaphors! Birds, horses, boiling people? Gimme a break!

And yet, I don't know how to explain the process of letting go of one book and starting another any better than that. Not yet anyway

Today's note to self:
Be ridiculously optimistic.
And stand up straight.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

grand

Mic Macs - about a boy who loses his father to a landmine and then grows into a man who's accidentally shot in the head before being adopted by a family of junkyard genius misfits who help him exact revenge - is a cinematic wonder.

Every other frame of the opening sequence is a painting I'd gladly hang on the wall. Plus, the film made me giggle. And I'm all for anything that can do that.

See it.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

on the up side

...there's this.

And it'll be here soon, very soon.

I can't wait.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

down side

At some point during the night last night a neighbor’s yearling filly was mauled by a mountain lion.

At least, we think it was a mountain lion. Walking over there this morning I checked out the tracks, and though I don’t have the most trained eye, it seems pretty clear that’s what they are – big pads, no nail marks, prints disappearing into the forest next to my house. The filly’s going to be put down, and the thought made part of me not even want to go over there to see if the owners needed anything from a fellow horse person. Too many long-buried memories there, memories I didn’t want dredged up. But that’s what you do in our community (in any decent community, I guess). You stop by, and you acknowledge. You ask if there’s anything you can do. I was pretty sure they’d say no (they did), because I’ve been in a very similar situation with a doomed horse, and, really, what the hell can anyone do?

This is the worst – the absolute worst – part of living in the country.

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crepe geek

I've long been under the sort of vague impression that crepes were one of those difficult, diva-like foods that required the proper training - or at least the proper French pedigree to prepare. But it's not true! I was finally convinced of this by The Cook's Book, which I picked up for a song at my most favoritest bookstore of all time (which finally re-opened in December after its roof collapsed under last winter's snow). So, voila! My first batch of practice crepes:

Fetching, aren't they (if I do say so myself)? From there, it was but a short hop, skip and jump to smoked turkey with white cheddar and sage lunch nommables:

And, finally, the pièce de résistance of the afternoon, blueberry crepes!

Truly, these I could eat ALL day. See my previous post re: hiberneating, and you'll understand.

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three things

1) Word of the Day:

Hiberneat verb \ˈhī-bər-ˌneet\
intransitive verb
1: to pass the winter in a torpid state of non-stop nomming

2: to be or become inactive or dormant while simultaneously growing rounder



2) Quote of the Day (uttered while man is hiberneating with a candy cane from Christmas, sharpening the end of the cane to a sharp point and then holding it up proudly for his beloved to see):

"Look, Honey. It's a shiv!" Pauses. "Wait. Or is it a shank?"


3) Blog Reader Activity of the Day:

Finish the following sentence:
One thing I know for sure is...Follow @nicole_mcinnes

January 11, 1986

is the day this boy

was born - which makes him a quarter of a century old today!

Happy 25th, my Once-in-a-Lifetime!Follow @nicole_mcinnes

Julia is not to be trifled with

My mother gave me Mastering the Art of French Cooking as a Christmas gift, and it’s something I plan to treasure and use for years to come before passing it along to my own daughter. I was hoping to end up with Mom’s own, decades-old copy, but it seems to have disappeared somewhere between my childhood and now. I made it a point to make Julia’s famous onion soup first, since it was a staple in our home as I was growing up. And I quickly learned that when Julia admonishes the reader to do something (i.e. watch the onions carefully in the caramelizing stage), she’s not doing so for her own benefit: A mere few minutes distraction and I had eye-watering charcoal in the pan instead of uniformly browned onions as the recipe called for. Not to be put off by this initial mishap (mainly because I’m well aware there will be hundreds more like it in my future as I work my way through Mastering the Art), I tried again. Keeping my focus this time and following Julia’s directions to the letter, I ended up with a dish that not only brought me right back to cozy winter nights with family while the northern California rain beat down on the roof, but that even had my finicky tween son asking for seconds.

Moving on, it was time to tackle Poulet Poele a L’Estragon (many accent marks missing), which is basically Casserole-roasted Chicken with Tarragon. Here it was necessary for me to deviate from Julia’s directions slightly (even though I’d assured myself I’d never do that again after the charcoal onion mishap), mainly because I didn’t have the mattress needle and white string necessary for trussing a chicken. So, I sort of just let my chicken hang loose throughout the process – more of hippy chick(en) than an uptight, French bird. And the fact that I kept thinking things like “Poor little chicken” to myself while preparing the dish is just one of the reasons I would have made a terrible farm kid. Regardless, I was obliged to put the thing through all sorts of humiliations (beheading and plucking aside) in order to end up with yet one more mouth-watering (if I do say so myself) and popular dish:

I'm pretty sure Julia's chickens behaved in a much more professional manner.

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