....I’ve never been the queen of anything before, but I’ve always said that if there was a competition for the Queen of Laundry, I might have a shot at winning.

Laundry is a constant in my life and has been for the entire 38 and one-half years of our marriage. This job is as much a part of my routine as getting up each morning and brushing my teeth. Some days there are three or four loads and some days fewer, but it is the rare day, indeed, when there is not at least one load of laundry that must be washed in our home.

Of course, living on a farm is a big part of why I do laundry. When we undress at the end of the day, there is simply not the option of hanging our clothes back up for another day’s wear. No way. Too much dirt.

Ah, dirt... such a mild, benign-sounding little four-letter word. How misleading!And though there is a certain amount of good, old-fashioned dirt involved in the challenges of my laundry basket, the word doesn’t even begin to touch upon the myriad of contaminants, impurities and just plain filth that a farmer can wear by the end of the day.

Crawling on the ground under a clogged-up baler in the hayfield does provide the opportunity for some soil to be ground into a sweat-soaked shirt. That shirt I can get clean, because it will respond to old-fashioned soap and water. It’s the one that he wears when he’s crawling around on the shop floor, under the tractor with the stopped-up fuel filter that presents a few problems. This shirt, with its gobs of grease, dousing of diesel fuel and mud brought in on the tractor tires, mixed all together, is the one that gives me a headache.

For years, I’ve begged my husband to be extra careful handling diesel fuel. Even a slight spill on a garment, when thrown into a washer full of other dirty jeans and work shirts, will contaminate the whole load, and if one then throws the works into the dryer, the heat makes it all stink to high heaven. The only real remedy I’ve found for diesel fuel smell is pure sunshine and fresh air. Enough time hanging outside will eventually rid garments of that lingering aroma, if one is patient. One day is not enough, and winter can be a particularly difficult time.

Mechanical issues are just the tip of the difficult-laundry iceberg. From equipment, let’s move our discussion to livestock and the laundry issues they create. Anyone who has been around cattle knows they have a propensity to excrete, defecate and urinate when in close contact with humans. *IT* happens. Unfortunately, I have been the victim of this sort of close encounter, and I keep a watchful eye at all times on any animals around which I am working. I’ve gotten quite adept at dodging, jumping or, at the very least, turning my back. It just isn’t pleasant to be splattered with poop and etc.

But my husband doesn’t seem to have the same aversion to wearing animal waste. Perhaps it is because he is required to have more physical contact with the animals and simply cannot do his job without the inevitable side effects.

I have learned to make certain secret concoctions of cleaners, pre-treatments, and scrubs that will usually take care of this type of organic stain. But there is one that, like diesel fuel, has been the bane of my laundry-goddess existence. It is the sleeve, and if you have worked around cows you’ll know what I mean.

We have mama cows that must raise babies in order to earn their right to live on our farm, eat our feed and enjoy our protection. If, when checking the cows twice a year, a mama has no calf and is not visibly, unquestionably expecting a calf, she must be checked. I remember the first time I learned what this procedure demanded; I nearly fainted. I was young and innocent. Now, after decades of witnessing first-hand this necessary part of farm life, it has become so commonplace that I don’t even give the preg-checking a second thought...until time to wash the shirt that the preg-checker wears.

I try to meet my husband at the back door and ask him to immediately remove the offensive garment before it enters our home. If it is a nice, warm day, holding the shirt at arm’s length I dash to the nearest outside faucet and give it a high-power wash, getting off all that is loose. Then it gets a presoak in a bucket in the utility sink with some of my secret stuff. Finally, into the laundry for a hot wash, and voila! Only a slight green cast to that sleeve indicates how it was abused.

Now, does anyone remember the good old days before there were disposable diapers? If you are that old, you’ll know how I deal with that shirt in coldest winter, when the outside faucet is not an option. Indoor plumbing is a good thing.

Today, I’ve been working on something that has the Queen stumped. My husband wore his favorite white t-shirt last Saturday. It was a nice, relaxing afternoon, and he was supposed to watch the ballgame, read his book and get some rest. Instead, he slipped outside, wearing this pure, soft white shirt, and decided to work on his old boat. The result is a spot of blackest grease, right in front, that I was not aware of until AFTER it had gone through one wash cycle.

A farmer’s wife cannot afford to cower before a challenge. Thus, I’ve Cloroxed, Shouted, Oxy-cleaned, hand-soaped, Fantastic-ed, Cascaded, Gained, and nail-polish-removered, in all sorts of combinations and applied with a brush. I even resorted to mineral spirits...all to no avail. That little spot, the size of the end of a pencil eraser, is still there, slightly faded but still black.

I guess it is time to relinquish my crown.

...we all scream for ice cream!

And in our family, it’s the homemade variety for which everyone screams the loudest. But "scream" is too harsh a word to apply to something as sweet as this, so let’s change that to "beg." And who’s the most insistent beggar of all? That distinction surely goes to my husband, for homemade ice cream has to be his favorite dessert in the whole wide world. Plain vanilla is the ice cream flavor of choice, so long as it is vanilla ice cream that I’ve mixed up by hand and frozen in our own freezer. Forget additions and variations and new recipes; don’t even think about messing with a good thing. Just give him the old standard and he’s happy, all the livelong day.

Ice cream is a long-standing tradition in our family in the summertime. It’s one of my special memories from childhood, to recall how my dad would go into the ice house at the old Standard Station, where big square chunks of ice sat amid sawdust, just waiting to help our cause. Out he would come with a choice block secured in his big ice tongs, and off we’d trot, to Great-Granny Bushong’s house, for she was the one who owned the ice cream freezer. Granny was also the one who owned the chickens that produced the large, fresh eggs, and the milk cow that produced the milk and rich cream, two essential components in the ice cream recipe.

The temperature was always nearing 100 degrees, and our two sets of grandparents were on hand, along with Granny and whoever else happened to be visiting, for this was a special treat reserved for special occasions. The womenfolk hurried to the kitchen to beat the eggs with the rotary beater, measure cream and milk, discuss just the right amount of sugar to add (most of the time it was two cups to the gallon), and add a tablespoon of Watkins vanilla, and then a little more, for good measure. Meanwhile, Dad and both grandads used a sharp ice pick on that block of ice, to chip off a big dish pan full of pieces that would fit into the freezer.

The ice cream was made on the back porch of Granny’s old two-story house, where everyone sat around, the women fanning, in ancient, low-to-the-ground, mule-ear chairs with creaking, woven-hickory bottoms. Background music was provided by the bees buzzing in the nearby grape arbor, and the heavy air was laden with the dank, smoky smell that always emanated from the smoke house out in the side yard.When the churn was filled, the chipped ice and lots of stock salt were layered around it, and cranking began. It was easy at first, and that’s when I would help turn, fast and faster, to make the ice cream ready sooner! But that wasn’t how it worked. Like all good things, it takes time to make good ice cream, and slow and steady wins this race, too. The men were the ones who kept at it, sometimes asking one of my brothers to sit on top to help hold the freezer, until the crank would no longer turn, and by that time they had all worked up a good sweat from their efforts.

But the reward was worth it! No store-bought ice cream could compare with the rich, creamy taste of homemade ice cream, eaten in the shade on a late summer afternoon, with the grownups wondering if we’d be sick after our third bowlful. Not even one melted drop of this goodness went to waste, for it was just as good to drink as it was to eat.

Not much has changed today, except for the fact that our ice is bought in bags full of little cubes, rendering the old ice pick into an antique. And our ice cream freezer now has two options. If there are plenty of hands handy and we want to really do it the old fashioned way and get a good, firm set of the ice cream, we’ll use the hand crank. But if there are no extra turners handy, I let electricity help me out. I simply plug it in, and voila! Fabulous sweetness in 30 minutes, and no hand cranking!

Now, there are two schools of thought when it comes to preparing the ice cream: to cook or not to cook the custard before freezing it. The question involves the safety of consuming raw eggs, and this is a valid consideration. We consider the fact that our eggs come from our chickens, we know exactly their "born-on" date, and we know that enough time never elapses for something bad to happen to our eggs. Thus, we feel safe in continuing the time-honored tradition of not cooking the mixture. I’m not advocating this method, only saying that we’ve never gotten sick, and we prefer the taste of the uncooked custard.

Yesterday we celebrated some July birthdays with a family get-together, so I made a freezer of ice cream before church, then scooped it out into a big bowl to go in the deep freeze to keep until serving time. While I was mixing up the ice cream, I thought of how Dave and Steve Morrison told me about growing up out on Pine Creek. The only time they had ice to make the treat was in winter, when huge icicles would form on the bluffs above their house. Their mother, Miss Earlene, would send some of the brothers to gather big chunks of ice into tow sacks to bring home, while she prepared the ice cream mix. I wondered if Miss Earlene (my beloved third and fourth grade teacher) made it like my family’s recipe.

For our birthday gathering, I served the ice cream atop homemade pound cake and fresh sliced peaches.

Here’s how I made the ice cream yesterday, the same way my mother and grandmothers always did:

6 large, fresh eggs, well-beaten

2 cups sugar

1-2 cups heavy cream (depending on how rich you like it--the richer, the better, as far as we are concerned!)

1-2 tablespoons of vanilla (I use 2)

Enough whole milk to fill up the churn

Beat the sugar, cream and vanilla into the eggs, making sure the sugar is completely dissolved, and pour into the freezer’s container. Add enough milk to bring level with the fill line (mixture expands during freezing, so leave enough space for this) and stir until well blended. Freeze according to ice cream maker’s directions.

Hope you have plenty of sweet opportunities to enjoy this quintessential summer treat!

I love potato chips. There, I admit it. I’ve said it out loud, announced it to all xangaland. I don’t just like them a lot; I have an ardent, flaming, passionate romance with the crispy morsels of yumminess. And like most aholics, I’m not picky. I love plain ones, smooth ones, wavy ones, barbecued, vinegared, cheesy, fried, baked, formed from who-knows-what, cheap, expensive, fresh or stale, imported or exported, New England-style, Southwestern style, any style that can be bought by a woman in need....I love them all!

Like so many adult issues, this unhealthy relationship goes back to my childhood. When my brothers and I were kids, Mom let us eat chips with our bologna sandwiches any old time we wanted to. She neglected to tell us of the facts of life....that there is absolutely no redeeming value to this particular food group and that eating them is quite habit-forming. I’m not blaming my mother, but she really did nothing to stop my growing (no pun intended) problem.

Through the years, there were others, either knowingly or unwittingly--I can’t really say-- who helped perpetuate my addiction. One person, in particular, was a certain baby-sitter who stayed with us from time to time. I won’t name names because it is dangerous to finger-point in a small town (who knows what she’d say about me?), but I’ll just say that this "Pam" taught me a fancy potato-chip trick or two, including the fact that there is more than one way to dip besides the traditional and always delectable sour-cream/onion mixture. A dollop of ketchup works really well in a pinch. Her serving dish of choice? A saucer: fill the circle in the middle with ketchup and then overlap the perfect little circles of salty, oily deliciousness all around the edge. What a pretty picture it made!

When I was about 11 and she was worldly-wise at 14, "Pam" and I sat out on my old front porch one day and talked about the deep meaning of life. Our discussion turned to food. "If you were stranded on a desert island and could have only one single thing to eat, what would you choose?" I asked her.

Without hesitation came "Pam’s" answer: "Potato chips!" And of course, I agreed whole-heartedly. They were already my number one choice of snack food, side dish and midnight treat; who would even think of living on an island without them? And since I idolized "Pam" with a pre-teen’s heroine-worship, in those two succinct words, she sealed my fate. I’d love potato chips forever if "Pam" loved them.

Years went by, and my addiction grew. I became a mother and, alas, failed to teach my own children of the harmful effects of indulging. They all grew up eating potato chips alongside their sandwiches, whatever the filling, and each one has in turn become somewhat of an addict, too. And now that there are grandchildren in the picture, this threatens to become a three-generation problem. When two-year-old Lucy was visiting last week, I could see the signs: she managed to open the pantry door all by herself and, passing over the Oreos, fruit snacks, and cereal bars, picked up the bag and proudly said, "Mimi, I need chips!" I’d forgotten to hide them in my usual secret place.

I’ve tried many times down through the years to give up potato chips. I’ve taken a vow in front of the mirror (after trying to zip up my jeans that suddenly seem to have shrunk), I’ve written in my journal about my determination, I’ve read everything I could find about the ill effects, and I’ve given myself pep talks as I walked down the chip aisle at the grocery store, (I will NOT buy chips today! I will NOT buy chips today!) But my feeble, half-hearted efforts have all been to no avail. So I think it is finally time to say that I cannot do this on my own.

Just where and when does PCEA meet????