No matter where we are, Thanksgiving is a very Big Deal. Each year, we name the bird and give it such a fanfare. Friends and family start calling and e-mailing a few days before, eager to hear what our bird's name will be. One year, we switched to Cornish Hens (Gertrude and Heathcliffe) and that didn't go over well at all. Back to our regularly scheduled official turkey. Past favorites have included Valerie Bird-inelli, Engel-bird Humperdinck, Vince Lombirdi and so on. Some years we strive to sound a little sophisticated with names such as Johannes Gutenbird and Alexis de Turk-ville. Yes, indeedy.

Not that we eat much of it on the Big Day, it's just there to look pretty. We save it for later and concentrate on all the side dishes. This year, we got lucky down at the local (where we're held captive because there's no place else within miles) Wal-Mart. They had a special on turkeys at 40 cents a pound. After digging through the bin and straining back muscles tossing aside the bigger birds, we found it - our 10 pounder - our "Four Buck Bird." Perfect.

In honor of the past, here's our 2009 turkey. His carcass has already been reduced to stock and his white parts are in the freezer.

In fond memory of:

Duesen-bird

Even though we moved to a lake in the middle-of-nowhere, we didn't technically become a vacation destination right away. It took some time to "develop a following" so to speak. In fact, the turning point might have been purchasing a pontoon-style fishing barge complete with port-a-potty compartment and sink. Not to mention the fact that it could hold up to 13 people (yet to be determined). We were warned about that.

While you can't get here easily by air and certainly need good directions by vehicle, the past couple of years have picked up as far as relatives, friends, and combinations thereof go. In our big city life, we were always ready to throw a party at the drop of a hat. In fact, all we needed was enough notice to wash our stash of party plates, dessert/appetizer plates and various wine/highball/margarita glasses. Those days intermingled frequently with relocations to faraway destinations where there was no need for - or room for - partyware. Great adventures, all, but, really, there's no place like home.

Cousins, dogs, nieces, nephews, brothers, and all those married to them - all are a true treasure as they pass through our little lake house in the middle of nowhere. Such a treat.

I won't go into the great grammar issues of small town newspapers here. It seems to be so common that one local owner/editor was prompted to say "it gives you grammar folks something to look forward to." How's that for pride? (OK, so here I must insert a comment about one lengthy article that repeatedly wrote about a "house for sell." That was just one of many irritations.)

When we first signed up for the paper, we only wanted it on Sunday. My husband went into town and stopped by the newspaper office. Signed up, wrote a check, and left.

It wasn't until the lady carrier tracked us down a few days later to tell us that if we wanted the Sunday only paper, it would have to be mailed. 'Scuse me? In addition, it was cheaper to just go ahead and order for the entire week. Ahem.

Yes, we must ask: Why didn't they tell us this at the newspaper office? One more thing to ponder about life in the middle-of-nowhere.

Throw a whole cooked pig into the mix and you have a natural guy magnet. That's how I (a cousin) was fortunate enough to head out to a baby shower/family "do" with husband in tow last weekend. Multitudes of plotting to not attend among family members ended with the mention of "pig." It was a grand centerpiece that will long be remembered by many, for sure. That and the Jagermeister machine. We had great fun watching women in their sixties studying that honker machine, debating whether to take a shot - or not.

Adults circled the pig in awe; forget the mother-to-be and the cake. This porker came lovingly attended to by Matt the master butcher. And he came courtesy (well, paid for) of the most appropriately named Hoggs Meat Market in North Little Rock. If you want to "call the Hoggs," their number is 501-758-7700 or drop by their web site at hoggsmeatmarket.com. Somehow, they know just what size pig to pick for a certain number of people. As for diving in, Matt discreetly worked from one side so as not to offend anyone's sensitivities.

Of course, the visiting was great and even some of the more reluctant males wandered in and out for the gift opening. That's probably because there was still a large pan of pig sitting on the counter. Not to mention ice-cold beer and a host of other amenities that make baby showers just that much better for some of us.

The end (how could I resist?)

Check out all our past goings-on through the link "more of our daily adventures" in the upper left box.

We're so spoiled - we leisurely pick out fresh tomatoes at the store and get to sort through the best ones. On the other hand, you can't get them while they're green that way. If you're a fan of fried green tomatoes, you probably get a hankering for finding someone with a garden. And for a real good price, you can head over to the far eastern border of Arkansas and do some picking.

Not in the fields, exactly, although these are fresh off the vine. And it's real handy to have family around those parts, because then you can stay awhile, get great food and talk about what you're going to do with all those tomatoes.

We were not so lucky making our own trip out to the field setup. The good ones are picked off first at the top conveyor level and boxed for shipping. It's hot and laborious work and we won't go into green cards and all that stuff. We get the seconds, and that's not a bad deal - a few blemishes but that's about it. Unless you're behind a couple of hairy-armed guys who are there loading up the back of their trucks. With a helper running back and forth, they were able to grab a good load. Even worse, they had a fondness for the green ones.

Back home, we spent days blanching, peeling and freezing tomatoes. At one point, we just washed them and threw them into freezer bags. There is literally no more room at the inn. It'll be nice having homemade spaghetti and hot sauce. They'll go in chili, sloppy joe's and a host of other dishes.

Three dollars for 20-plus pounds of tomatoes is such a good deal, it's easy to get carried away. That's how we ended up coming home with 4400 boxes. Not really, but it smelled that way.

These are surely two things that don't go together - baguettes and bandages. Except when you're cutting into one that's still frozen. And when you use the wrong knife to do it with. Those darn little chunks of delicious bread can turn on you in a hurry. Cooking late on a weeknight, my husband sliced wide and deep into the tip of his left index finger. (As a cousin researched this issue later, we learned that this is also called the "trigger" finger. I guess that depends on which hand you shoot with.)

A bit more blood was flowing than with the fishhook incident. We gave it a good 20 minutes before heading off to emergency. It was all a cheerful ordeal, especially since it followed our daily Happy Hour on the deck. Our terrific emergency folks remembered us from the fish hook/tetanus shot visit. Six stitches and a full hand bandage later, we headed home with the warning to "not use anything sharp." A kindly neighbor suggested that housework would surely cause it to go gangrene.

For the next few days, everyone wanted to know about it. We spent more time explaining what a baguette was than talking about the gore itself. As a last resort, we just started telling folks it was "French bread."

When you're a Wal-Mart captive, with no other recourse, you're bound to run into a few neighbors when you go. If you're lucky, it's in the parking lot - coming or going. Sooner or later, though, you're in for a drive-by among the aisles. Much to our amazement, when this happens, it's also time for an inspection - of our cart's contents. Not just an inspection; a good once-over and then the urge to comment.

"Oh, having a party?"
"Stocking up, huh?"

So, our lesson here is: don't put anything in your cart early on that you don't want the neighbors to see. Being in a dry county, there's no booze to hide. Other unmentionables do come to mind. Rest assured, if it's really a good unmentionable, the neighbors around here will know about it soon.

For a trip through our past, be sure to check the link "more of our daily adventures" in the upper left box.

Yes, that's right - a Starbucks started to rear its familiar building blocks just a few months ago. We shook our heads - who in the heck would put a Starbucks in - in the middle of nowhere. The town they selected couldn't even maintain a Wendy's. The Sizzlin' Sirloin is going strong only because it's an all-you-can-eat sort of place. (We worry a bit about our Chili's, too.)

But, the franchisee (whoever that was) forged ahead. The building was oh-so-pretty, with a reminder of our city days. Mind you, we had never sprung for any of the chi-chi stuff. After all, we were still messing with perfecting the crema on our home espresso machine and buying the perfect grind at our favorite boutique shop.

As anyone in their right mind (non chi-chi coffee fogged brain) might imagine, the day came. After months of construction, the grand opening, and a few weeks in business, there it was. The sign in front: For Sale. Windows were papered over and that was that.

Some things just don't belong in the middle-of-nowhere.

Game ranches are a real "thang" in Texas and I'm not even going to have that discussion. While out in the wild, we could trim back on the deer and boar populations, inside those fences impala and who knows what else are on the other end of a shotgun.

Now, if you're into this stuff and about to find yourself engaged, just head to a game ranch this side of Texarkana. The place has large signs on fences along Interstate 30, so you can't miss it. Hunting, meetings, weddings. I'd share the web site, but since this isn't an advertisement, I don't want to tempt anyone unnecessarily.

So, now some guy has done gone down on his knees and said the magic words. But, what if the bride-to-be's dreamed of wedding date happens to get in the way of a B-I-G hunting trip? Not a problem. Here at our local ranch, you can get hitched and get a hog - and not in that order, if you prefer it the other way around.

You're not limited to hog hunting; there's a list. And you can even get a glimpse of the type of furniture that is perhaps in the honeymoon suite. For some months, a bed made from spiky branches sat on the front porch of the main lodge. Looked like a dangerous proposition from any angle.  

While I've gone along on fishing excursions growing up, I never really "fished." As a child of the city, I let my grandparents have all the fun. When we would visit, they'd take me along to catch a passel of catfish for dinner. Then, all the aunts, uncles and cousins would gather around the table for some - you guessed it - fried catfish and hushpuppies. My grandmother would sit at one end of the table watching each of us with an eagle eye. At the side of her plate, a string tried around a small mashed ball of bread was at the ready. That was in case any of us choked on a fish bone. She was ready to have us swallow the bread and string, then pull it back up to snag the bone that was supposedly caught in our throats - saving us from certain death.

The thought of going through such a life-saving process left us all in fear. To this day, I chew every bit of fish - regardless of what it is or where it comes from - v-e-r-y carefully.

Now that we're part of the lake-living crowd, it's time to pony up and get to some real fishing. I'm proud to announce my first catch - it was a good-sized crappie. The moment I realized there was actually a fish on the line was quite an exciting one. I do believe I paraded around for some time afterward. Here's my trophy.