Cross Country Cake

I've previously blogged about my cake fixation. In sum, there's a particular cake made by a grocery store in Minneapolis that I love, and no other cake will do. This past weekend I attended a wedding back in Minnesota, and I ordered one of those special cakes to bring home on my return flight to California. The Wrangler doubted that TSA would allow my precious carry-on cargo, but I planned ahead. I printed and highlighted the relevant parts of TSA rules stating that cakes are allowed. I scrunched my fancy wedding attire into a ball and jammed it into my backpack along with a pair of jeans and a shirt. So what if my cocktail dress was wrinkly and that I'd be wearing the same jeans and shirt the rest of the weekend? The airline permits only a carry-on bag and one extra item. And that extra item would be a cake, no matter how unkempt I looked.

We picked up the cake at 2PM today, but we still had three hours before our flight. "We best go straight to the airport," I insisted. It was a muggy 86 degrees in Minneapolis, and I didn't want my cake melting in the car while we traversed down memory lane at the Mall of America or arcane places from our yester-years. The Wrangler didn't hide his annoyance. I could tell he couldn't wait for TSA to confiscate my cake and eat it in front of me. He didn't get his wish. The cake sailed through security with no problem and, in fact, received many oohs and ahhs.

When boarding began, I jostled my way to the front of the line to preboard with the "passengers with children and anyone else who needs a little extra time to board." After all, which is more difficult to carry, a kid or a cake? Did I mention that this is a large cake--serves 24? "Here, I'll put the cake in this special cabinet to keep it from sliding," the flight attendant told me, as I boarded the plane. I looked frantically from my cake to the flight attendant to the Wrangler. Did I dare risk leaving my cake in the galley kitchen of the plane with this stranger? I gave in. "I can't believe you let it out of your sight," the Wrangler marveled, after we'd settled in our seats. He scanned the front of the plane. "I think I see the pilot with a big piece of cake."

I made it home with a perfectly intact cake, and I intend to freeze it and eat one piece a day for 24 days. It's going to be a good month.

From Chaps to Chanel

When I arrived at the barn this morning, my instructor had a western saddle on Francie and we had a great lesson! I respect and admire English equitation, but I'm not nearly as nervous in the western saddle. My instructor, who is all too aware of my fear of falling, often gets creative. Today in the western saddle I felt confident enough to ride with my eyes closed and without reins while my instructor led Francie at the trot. The point of the exercise was to learn to feel the horse's strides and movement, and I would have freaked out (FREAKED. OUT.) being led at the trot with eyes shut and no reins in an English saddle.

"I love the English style of riding, but I think I might be a cowgirl after all," I told the Wrangler as we waited for a price check on western riding chinks at the tack store this afternoon. (Chinks are similar to chaps but hit the mid-calf instead of running the whole length of the leg. They fasten behind the leg with a few buckles above the back of the knee, which allows the chinks to move more freely below the knee.) After buying my chinks, which can only be described as effing awesome, we swung by the mall on our way home. As I handed the salesperson my credit card at the Chanel store, I briefly wondered if AmEx would flag my account for unusual activity. Chaps and chinks and Chanel...well, I always said that I was an urban cowgirl.

While my riding chinks would have come in handy last week in Montana (you really can tear your jeans on those mountain trails), I'll admit that they're perhaps not a huge necessity here in the OC. But that didn't stop me from wearing them around the house the rest of the day.

Follow the Herd

This year at the Mountain Sky Ranch a few of us assisted with round-up. Actually, real cowboys don't use the term "round-up" anymore; they call it gathering. Four of us, including a wrangler, rode slowly into a pasture to locate unbranded calves and their moms in a herd of hundreds of cattle. The goal was to move each pair into a separate pasture for vaccinations and branding--without startling the herd. If the cattle are riled up, the entire herd runs to the far end of the pasture. When you ride slowly through the herd, the cattle don't mind you much.

Each cow and calf has a tag in its ear with a number, and the mom's number is the same as her calf's number. We had a list of five numbers to look for. For example, we had to find pair 331. We spotted calf 331 and then searched for its mom. The moms usually aren't too far away from their calves, but they're not always easy to find.

When the four of us sort of circled calf 331 on our horses, the other cattle moved away but the mom bawled for its calf. We allowed the calf to run to its mom, and then we rode in a wide circle around the pair to guide them into the other pasture. The moms always looked for a hole in our circle to escape through and sometimes made mad dashes for freedom. A bit of a scramble would ensue as we tried to cut them off. Other cows followed the action, and we clucked them away. When we had a mom and calf near the gate, the wrangler rode over to open the gate and the mom resigned to her fate. At that point, the cow willingly walked through with her calf in tow.

We identified, separated, and gathered five pairs; one pair at a time. About midway through, a soft rain fell but we paid no mind. It took us a little under two hours, but it seemed like 10 minutes.

Change

Big news: we're officially moving within the next two months! Goodbye Laguna Beach cottage.

I'm just back from another wonderful trip to Montana and the Mountain Sky Ranch. I'm in love with that Ranch. I love it so much that I can never to move to Montana; if I lived there it would be sort of impractical to spend my vacations down the road at Mountain Sky. But my annual tradition is going to become a semi-annual tradition. While May is for us cowgirls only, I'm planning a September trip to the Ranch for the Wrangler and me.

In the mean time, there's a lot to accomplish. We've got to work out the details for the move, plan for the sheep, and make some big decisions. Change is in the air.

Big Sky

I'm off to Montana next week for my annual trip to the Mountain Sky Ranch located 30 minutes south of Livingston. The itinerary includes horseback riding on mountain trails, fly fishing lessons, team penning, a trip to Yellowstone, yoga, massages, and of course some two-stepping. This year's trip catches all of us Six-Button Cowgirls consumed with our day jobs. We'll be frantically drafting briefs, reviewing contracts, attending conference calls, and sending last-minute emails right up until we land at Bozeman airport. None of us has had the time for the usual preparations--the flurry of fun calls, packing lists, shopping trips.

Three years ago the ranch did not have cell phone reception or internet service. Last year, rumor had it that guests with one cell phone provider (not mine) got service in certain locations around the ranch. I'm crossing my fingers that nothing has changed this year. Being forced to unplug from phones and blackberries and TV and internet once a year is good for the soul, and it will be a sad day when a full respite is no longer possible even at the ranch.