Southeastern Ohio may not be big sky country. It may not be the Black Hills, the rolling plains of Oklahoma's panhandle, or even close to being hundreds of thousands of lush green mountains, littered with geysers and the playground of thundering herds of bison or wild horses. What it is, or rather, what I have learned it to be after moving out of the Athens bubble and into the Appalachian foothills, is the home of some of the most dedicated farmers I know.
These are men and women who have had their hands on the rough hair of a warm, heavy breathing, soon-to-be mother as they anxiously await the arrival of a spring calf in the bitter strain of frozen beginnings, with March roaring in the distance. Most of them have told stories of heaving calves, year in and year out, over their shoulders, and like dedicated comrades, carrying the helpless newborns out of the icy muck and mud, to the warmth and safety of a bed laden with hay, and many nights spent sleeping in the arms of and under the watchful eye of a farmer. I know for a fact that most of the cattle owners, the beef and dairy farmers I now call my friends and loved ones, have more personal, intimate, familial relationships with their animals, their herds, than any John Wayne or legend of lore of the old West. These are real cowpeople--cowboys and cowgirls. Last Wednesday night I had the great pleasure of being welcomed to the table of the Downs family. While this may not seem like anything different or out of the ordinary, as I spend many minutes, hours, days and nights with the Downs family, you will learn that if you pay particular attention to the ordinary, you find the extraordinary. As I sat around a wooden, oval table under the glow of the yellow hew of lamps on a hanging fixture, I found myself noticing the treasures, the valuable moments that lie in the everyday comings and goings of an abundantly loving, hard-working, tightly knit family.
There were four generations around this table, something which I will likely never experience in my own family. There is no hierarchy in this family, as I was reminded that the teasing and harassment is equal opportunity. However, Elma Downs knows her family like a map she's honed in her mind, like directions to a destination she's followed so many times, she can see the handwriting as she makes the next turn. I think we often overlook the people in our lives who create our every day, our ordinary, the continuity we come to take for granted. Elma is one of those people. Planning meals, cleaning house, packing lunches, knowing when to buy new rugs, when to buy new socks for her husband, when to pick the green beans, how to pack the tomatoes, where to store the potatoes, how to crochet the blankets her children and grandchildren will throw over their laps mindlessly for years to come, Elma is the keeper of the pace of life in the Downs family. My maternal grandmother was the same for her family. I'd have given anything to have known Erma Turrin, and I see the stories of her reflected in so many ways in Elma Downs. Being able to know Elma has been one of the most healing experiences of my life.
Elma's granddaughters Tiffany and Heather are modern day Annie Oakleys. They keep alive a work ethic, and an attitude of hospitable confidence that is unmatched by their suburban and urban counterparts. Humble but proud, outspoken but quiet, Heather embodies the long line of hard working mothers from which she descended. As she carefully balanced outbursts of laughter with her cousin Tiffany while carefully blowing on small spoonfuls of spaghetti to feed the hungry toddler that happily bounced in her high chair between them, Heather emanated the living, breathing energy that warmed the room where her family gathers to share meals every night. Her daughter Haylee is the fourth generation. At seventeen months old she knows how to say "cow," and has a spitfire personality inherited undoubtedly from the bright, often fiercely loyal, but playfully loving and deeply devoted family into which she is being raised.
And if you don't already know how I feel about Tiffany Downs, then perhaps you don't know me very well. Not too long ago she expressed to me that she has been missing her "country," side. She spends most nights with me in town, most days at college, and the in between time she spends in the car driving between those two places and her job. She doesn't often go home, slip on her boots, and head out to the woods, or through the fields and trails of her family's 300 acre farm, followed only by three faithful dogs and the silence of her own thoughts. And she definitely doesn't often get to set out hay bales, or tend cows, or just tool around in the garage with her Dad and his collection of Chevrolet's. I love her country side, and she may not know it, but she'll never lose it. She may feel like it's somewhere else, like it has faded to a flickering dim, but it will never go away. I hear that genuine hospitality every time she speaks to someone she's never met. It's embedded within her and perhaps, much like my fly or my city swagger, it just needs to be channeled. She's been sporting a new pair of Wranglers lately, and plaid shirts and a sliver studded belt. Perhaps now her outside matches the inside, which she'll never lose.
I love spending nights around the dinner table with the Downs family, and I love spending my days and nights and hours and minutes, my short conversations and my laughs, my struggles and my accomplishments with Tiffany. They may have taught me a lot about country, but more than anything they've reinforced my belief in the goodness of humanity, our universal understanding of love and the strength of our families, no matter who sits at our dining tables. When I think of cowgirls, and cowboys, I'll always think of them first.
In my feeble attempt to help Tiffany feel as country as she knows she is, I made Gingerbread Cowgirls. In my feeble attempt at making cookies healthy, I spiffed them up Queen Honeybea style. They're full of whole grains, rich local honey, and homey winter spices. They made my entire house smell like Christmas, and they've lasted for days. I frosted them with a simple mixture of confectioners sugar, lemon extract and enough Snowville Half & Half to reach the consistency I wanted for piping. I hope you enjoy this recipe, and always remember to buy local and eat well.
Queen Honeybea's
Whole Grain Gingerbread Cowgirls
(makes 3 dozen or so medium sized cookies)
1/2 cup of organic butter, softened
1/2 cup of raw sugar
1/4 cup blackstrap molasses
1/4 cup local honey
1 tsp. vanilla
1 local, free-range egg
2 1/4 cups organic whole-wheat flour
3/4 cup of organic buckwheat flour
2 TBS. oat bran
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. sea salt
2 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. ground cloves
1. Either lightly grease, or cover a large cookie sheet with parchment paper and set aside.
2. In the bowl of a stand mixer, or in a large bowl with a hand held mixer, beat together the butter and raw sugar until soft and incorporated. Beat in the molasses, honey, and vanilla until combined. Beat in the egg.
3. In a separate bowl, combine the whole-wheat flour, buckwheat flour, oat bran, baking powder, sea salt, ginger, cinnamon and cloves. Gradually add this to the wet mixture, beating on low until all of the dry mixture is worked in and a cohesive dough is formed. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least 1 hour.
4. Pre-heat your oven to 375 degrees. On a lightly floured surface, roll the chilled dough out to 1/4 inch thickness. Cut into shapes with cookie cutters of your choice and place on greased or parchment lined baking sheets. Bake for 8-10 minutes, until edges just begin to brown. Cool for a minute on the pan, then remove to a wire rack to cool completely. Repeat this procedure until you've used all of the dough.
5. Once the cookies are completely cooled, you can eat them as they are, or frost them with a mixture like what I described above, or other cookie frosting that you enjoy.
