Cabin Mama

Humor and woodsy wisdom by Laura Lollar

Laura's Life

The Engineer’s Wife

I married an engineer.

You’re talking to a woman who doesn’t balance her checkbook, goes by the rule “good enough IS enough” and cooks by the seat of her pants. As my former boss knows all too well, the term “planning” is anathema to me. Risk assessment is a phrase I’ve never much dwelled on. Project management scares me silly and “measure twice, cut once” is a lesson I still haven’t learned.

Enter my wonderful husband, Doug.

He balances his checkbook to the penny, glories in the magic of spreadsheets, color codes his calendar and keeps emails longer than I’ve kept tax records.

I’ve learned a lot in the four short years we’ve been married.

For example: it’s “soil” not dirt; it’s “concrete” not cement; and it’s “fuel” not gas.

I’ve grown used to pillow-talk on Subsurface Utility Engineering, foundation design, reinforced concrete slab, erosion control BMP (best management practices), traffic control device spacing and signal timing.

Oooo, baby! Whisper it to me slowly!

When we read in bed, I’m absorbed in Jerry Jenkins’ Left Behind books. Doug is knee deep in Reinforced Concrete Design.

We have baggies of “soil” all over the house and a jar of dirt and water measuring the separation of clay and sand. The official name is “Sediment Suspension Test” in case you were wondering. The jar sits among other decorative items on our fireplace mantle. While Doug observes sediment layers measured in centimeters, I see an image of snow covered sage bushes.

He’s planning a leach field for our future home and texts me love notes of holes in the ground with protruding measuring implements. Last year for Christmas I got him the Survey Linker Rod he asked for. I call it a BMS – Big Measuring Stick.

Our dinner conversations are all about perc tests and clay deposits.

The garage is now organized with every rake and shovel and broom in their own special spot. A tennis ball hangs to indicate the exact spot to park the car. Tools nest in drawers according to size and function.

When I hang a picture on the wall, it’s a hit or miss process. He’ll measure from stem to stern (he’s a Navy guy) to find the right place for the nail. I marvel at how he only needs one hole to do the job right.

Yet, I’m the fussy one when it comes to loading the dishwasher. I re-arrange to get maximum cleanliness. And God help anyone who puts plates in the wrong spot. I’m sensitive to water flow and soap dispersion, ya know.

Together we make a great pair. We poke fun at our quirks and find plenty to laugh about. I love his wit and sense of humor. He puts up with my penchant to collect books, boxes and old furniture.

I call him “Cookie Monster” ‘cause he sneaks out of bed at night to raid the pantry. He calls me “Blondie” although these days, it’s more a pet name than a fact.

We’re lucky we found each other. And he’s the best this Cabin Mama could have ever hoped for!

Cooking with Pearls

My siblings and I have a talented Mom who turns tuna, noodles and mushroom soup into a feast fit for a king. Our memories are filled with bubbling pots of savory stews, creamy casseroles and mouth-watering desserts. Mom made liver look good. She dedicated her time and creativity to keep six stomachs full while my Dad worked non-stop to feed his happy horde.

My brothers watch the Food Network. For fun. They glory in barbecue, brisket, spices and sauce. If you want their attention, just whisper, “Talk foodie for me.” My sister will whip up a quiche at the drop of a hat and serve countertops full of delectable dishes at each family gathering.

But me? I’m not a cook.

“I read recipes the same way I read science fiction. I get to the end and say to myself, ‘Well, that’s not going to happen!’” — Rita Rudner

You’ll never catch me floating around the house in an apron and pearls looking like June Cleaver or Julia Child. Before the wildfire, I had a few cookbooks and a recipe box I rarely opened. I make a mean banana bread, but will serve up the same simple fare for a long suffering sweetie who loves me for my conversational skills. I’ve been known to scrape and serve burned toast and disguise lumpy gravy with onions.

Of course, baking a birthday cake at 7500 feet can present some problems. But I wanted my son to beam with pride and family to swoon in delight at my scrumptious concoction. I would blush, careful not to steal the limelight, but bask in just enough glory and adulation to be memorable.

“What? Me, another Julia Child? Aw, c’mon , you don’t really mean that! You DO? No, it’s nothing, really. I made it from scratch in my spare time from an old family recipe.”

The beep of a pre-heated oven snapped me back to reality. It was time to get down to business, so I read the high altitude tips on the back of the box. In went the extra flour with water and butter. I prepared the pans, poured in the delectable goo and popped them both through the door. And then I prayed. I prayed to The Pioneer Woman for just a smidge of success, secretly hoping one day I too could make it big from a blog.

The moment of truth arrived. T’was time to cast my eyes upon the miracle I’d made. Two golden orbs of sweet smelling deliciousness stared up at me. I carefully lifted them up and out of the oven, knowing a tap on the counter would free them from their buttery bonds. I would marvel at my skill as each layer fell gracefully (in slow motion) ever-so-gently onto the plate below.

But something was terribly wrong. The darned things were sticking.

If I wasn’t careful, I would soon have a crumbly mess. Large chunks would rip away, revealing grotesquely gaping holes. No amount of frosting would disguise it. I could see those family faces now – eyes wide in shock, mouths twisted in disgust at the senseless destruction of a perfectly good cake. My son would race from the room, sobbing uncontrollably.

It was time for drastic action. Deftly removing my pearls, I reached for my weapons and slowly walked towards whatever fate would deal me. Cold and unforgiving in my grip, these instruments of force were intricately carved, handed down from my great-grandfather through the generations – only to be used if there was no other choice. My son tried to intervene, but I shook him off, demanding he run for cover. I stopped and planted my feet on the hard, dusty ground.

“This. Ends. Here.” I growled.

With a steady gaze and a lightening fast flip of my spatulas, the uncooperative cakes broke free and landed with a thud, lifeless and beaten. Overhead, turkey buzzards circled in the blinding sunshine and shimmering heat, waiting for a chance to attack their meal.

Oh wait, those were my guests! They came, they sat, they devoured everything in sight. My son looked at me differently that day and forever after. And I, dear reader, now knew how it felt to be tested, revel in the thrill of victory and take my place alongside bakery bastions, heroes and legends!

A Big Beautiful Birthday Surprise

I was beginning to learn that Doug had a great sense of humor and was also good at springing surprises on me when I least expected. My birthday was no exception.

As the date approached, I coyly I let him know I didn’t have any plans for that night. Being the gentleman he was, he said, “Well, of course we’re going to have to celebrate! How about supper out that night?” And I said yes with a smile.

He arrived at the house to pick me up with a long narrow box wrapped in birthday paper and urged me to open it before we went out. What could it be? What could it be? I imagined all kinds of exciting things. I tore open the wrappings and pulled back the tissue paper to find…

…a grill brush!

“You said the wildfire burned your barbecue grill, so I thought I’d get you a brush for when you get a new grill,” he explained. I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Visions of a vacuum cleaner, skillet and stepladder for Christmas danced through my head.

But my momma taught me to be polite. No. Matter. What. So I recovered from my surprise and thanked him profusely. “It’s perfect,” I said. “Just what I’ll be needing!”

Then out we went, down the steps and towards his truck. He opened the door for me as he always did, but stopped me in mid-step.

“Wait just a minute, let me get that out of your way,” he said, referring to a big propane gas bottle on the floorboard in front of my seat. “Let me put it in the back of the truck — along with the REST of your gift.”

He led me around to the bed of the truck where he opened the cab topper to reveal a HUGE box. And inside the box was — you guessed it — a grill! A big, bright, shiny brand new grill!

I couldn’t contain myself! I was so floored by his generosity that I jumped right up and gave him a big old kiss. I almost knocked him over and think I surprised him as much as he had surprised me! My gosh, I would never have expected that kind of a gift. We’d only been dating a month or so.

I was just glowing as we went in for dinner. It was a wonderful evening. We talked, laughed, held hands — the typical lovely dovey stuff you do when you’re dating. (I wasn’t even tempted to nudge his glass away from the edge of the table or urge him to eat his veggies, like I do with my kids!)

Then he looked deep into my eyes and said, “Laurie (my family calls me Laurie), do you think it’s possible for two people to know it’s right so soon in the relationship?” I sucked in my breath and thought “Wow! Did I just hear what I thought I heard?”

But he was sincere. There was no joking around with that question. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard of people who have only known each other a few weeks who felt it was the real thing. And they’ve lasted. I do think it’s possible.” Goosebumps came over me and I thought maybe this IS the real thing!

The moon was out by the time we got back to my place. We sat on the front porch under its light and talked for hours. I decided to share some of my “backstory” so I wouldn’t be wasting my time (or his) should he learn something later that would change his mind. I was nervous as I told him more of my background, health issues and responsibilities, but he pulled my feet up onto his lap, learned forward and said, “Is that all ya got?”

My gosh, this man was a saint. Not that I’m an ax murderer or anything, but we’ve all got baggage. I had decided not to hide anything so if he stuck around, it was because he really loved me, warts and all.

I was getting the sense he really did!

But that wasn’t all. There were more surprises to come!

How I Met the Man of My Dreams

I wasn’t looking. And despite my sister’s encouragement, I wasn’t eager to meet the guy she kept saying was a very nice man. She’d worked with him for decades and had even showed me his Facebook Page. Nice smile. Good looking guy. But I’d gotten used to being on my own lo’ those many years and frankly didn’t want the drama.

Then she invited me to a Military Appreciation Day concert. Mom, Dad and my sister were planning to go. She added, “Oh and Doug’s coming too.”

Great. Pressure. I said, “Okay, but just don’t make me sit next to him.” I didn’t want a setup. I’d been in the new house just a few years after the wildfire burned my old one down and was happy to have some peace in my life. But just in case, I brought my best friend along too – for protection ya know.

We all met for a bite to eat before the concert and I noticed how nice he was to my Mom. He was great fun to talk with, we had some things in common and I liked the stories he told.

The concert was wonderful. I sat way at the end of the row and he sat way at the other end next to my sister. After it was over, he gave me his business card and I gave him mine.

My sister told me that as they walked out to the car, Doug mentioned he liked our family a lot. “Your Mom and Dad are great. Your sister was nice.” Then he said, “But I REALLY liked your sister Laura.”

The next day, we exchanged a polite, “Nice to meet you” email and then, well, then there was nothing. A month passed, so I went about my business until out of the blue, I got a text. “Would you like to have supper with me sometime?” I said yes and within a minute he extended the invite. “How about this coming Monday?” he asked. The guy didn’t waste much time firming things up.

So we had dinner — once, twice, three times. He came to my house and I went to his. Before we knew it, we were a couple. It was gradual but it was clear there was something there of substance. We got along well. He made me laugh. I shared all my baggage early on, thinking it was best to get it out there so there weren’t any surprises. He did the same. He asked me questions about my likes, dislikes, my life and my driving record. (He’s an engineer, after all.)

There were regular emails with links to romantic songs on YouTube and texts of “sweet nothings” that gave me goosebumps. I loved being pursued and I swear there were days I couldn’t concentrate on work. At. All.

It was wonderful to finally meet someone who seemed to be as enthralled with me as I was with him. Truly, the sun shone brighter and the sky seemed bluer. Life was good!

Then my birthday came around. Wait till you hear what happened next!

A Wild and Crazy Road Trip

Family road trips bring back fond memories, don’t they? Everyone would pile in the car and snuggle up together for hours on end. It was a bonding experience with our sweaty little arms and legs stuck to each other and the vinyl seat covers. Why, when I was a kid, we couldn’t wait for the chance to leave our friends and favorite TV shows for hours of uninterrupted time with our brothers and sisters. Yes, it’s true. I’m not kidding.

So, when we moved from northern California to Upstate New York and I learned I’d have to drive it alone with the kids, I jumped for joy. Why, what better way to solidify that parent/child relationship than four days in a compact car in July with no air conditioning. Yep, keep ‘em cooped up in a car so they have no choice but to listen to you. Nothing but 2600 miles of open road and four days of togetherness!

Somewhere in Utah we ran into road work. Two lanes gradually merged into one, squeezing us into a narrow channel that was blocked on both sides by concrete barriers. It was unsettling. There was nowhere to go except forward. And it went on and on for miles. Thankfully the kids were quiet and calm, so I could focus on keeping us off the walls. Just like a bobsled team, we swiftly sped down and around, leaning into the curves.

All of a sudden, my eldest let out a blood curdling scream and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Mom! Get it off me! Get it OFF me!”

Panicked, I darted my eyes from the chute up ahead to the rear view mirror. What was terrorizing my child? What could I do to make him stop screaming?

But in the reflection, all I could see was a ginormous 18-wheeler. He was right on our tail, bearing down on us. He was close. Scary close. He blasted his horn. And I couldn’t see the driver’s face. For a moment I felt like Dennis Weaver in Steven Spielberg’s movie Duel!

“MOMMMMMY! GETITOFFMEEEE!” My six year old’s lungs were piercing my eardrums. The baby was crying. My middle son was yelling, “Bug Mom. BUG!” (The last time he did that, he was inches from a tarantula.)

There was nothing I could do. (They say the only time a woman feels totally helpless is when her fingernail polish is wet. I beg to differ!)

So there we were with 40 tons of metal cozying up to my back bumper and a car full of screaming kids barreling down a concrete runway with no way out. The bug played a starring role, but like the driver of that truck, I still hadn’t seen its face.

With nerves of steel, I tightened my grip on the wheel and yelled for everyone to calm down. (Yes, you know that worked, right?)

Then the concrete barriers gave way and we made our escape down the exit ramp and only a wide and welcoming shoulder. Not a moment to lose, I threw open the door, sprang from my seat and rushed to the aid of my eldest.

It was about the biggest bug I’d ever seen outside a movie theater! It had a ginormous body with long, waving antennae and at least 18 legs. It had crawled up his shirt and onto his neck. He was paralyzed in fear. Hesitating for only a moment, I did what any brave mother would do.

I asked my four year old to shoo it way.