Practical Homesteading

Month: June 2025

  • Mixtapes, Meltdowns, and Magic: A Family Road Trip to Remember

    Mixtapes, Meltdowns, and Magic: A Family Road Trip to Remember

    My family recently went on a road trip to a lake cabin in the northern part of the state for a fishing getaway.  Anyone who’s traveled with a five year old boy and a 1.5 year old girl knows the unique blend of excitement and chaos that comes with such an undertaking.  Our teal 1997 Ford F-150 was packed to the brim with bikes, a bike trailer, snacks, and an impressive array of Tinker Toys to entertain our toddler.

    The drive was an odyssey.  Our toddler, never a fan of the car seat, took a mercifully short nap before waking up wriggling and fussing with all the determination of a 1.5-year-old.  Our F-150 has a cassette player, and my husband had recently acquired a collection of 1980s rock mixtapes:  Guns N’ Roses, Bon Jovi, and Candlebox are among the bands featured on the tapes.  As soon as our toddler woke, my husband tried to placate her by playing his favorite mixtape.  This only resulted in a competition between her and Bon Jovi to see who could be loudest in the truck.

    Meanwhile, our five-year-old son, whose curiosity knows no bounds, peppered us with questions: “How did Candlebox get its name?” “How do volcanoes work?” “Who decides where the roads go?” My husband and I took turns answering, sometimes explaining things to the best of our ability, sometimes consulting our phones, and sometimes just admitting we didn’t know.

    By the time we finally pulled into the gravel driveway of the cabin, supposedly a 4.5-hour drive on the map, but in reality just over six hours, we felt as though we’d completed a marathon.  The collective 2.5 hours of crying from the back seat had left us frazzled, but as we unpacked and cracked open a cold beer on the porch, the stress of the drive began to melt away.

    The cabin itself was a dream: spacious enough, rustic yet comfortable, and perched right on the edge of a sparkling lake.  Our friends, the couple who had invited us, greeted us with warm hospitality and laughter.  The next few days were a blur of simple joys.  Mornings were spent fishing.  Sometimes, it felt like the fish were practically leaping into our boat, much to the kids’ delight.  Cleaning the fish became an undertaking that also attracted the kids’ attention.  Afternoons brought leisurely walks, games of Uno, and stories shared over sparkling water and homemade margaritas. My son made new friends and played with them on the playground and the beach.

    The fish seemed to leap into the boat, these perch were caught during one excursion

    One afternoon, I brought the others on an adventure to a hidden waterfall deep in the woods.  The sound of rushing water and the cool mist on my face felt like a secret reward for those willing to walk and explore.  

    Beautiful waterfall found after a 3/4-mile hike along a railroad bed trail

    Back at the cabin, our hosts, avid foodies, introduced us to an array of specialty cheeses, and together we crafted homemade pizzas, each person adding their favorite toppings.  We contributed our own homemade bread and fresh garden salad, which met with enthusiastic approval.  One lunch, we had their specialty fish fry, complete with the best onion rings I’ve ever eaten.  Evenings were filled with laughter, good food, and the kind of conversations that only happen when you’re far from the distractions of daily life.

    As our friends wisely observed, “Three days together is perfect.  Any longer, and we’d start to drive each other crazy.”  By the third morning, my family was ready to return to our routines and check on our garden and animals back home.

    The drive home started off much smoother.  There’s something about the return leg of a trip that always feels faster.  Perhaps this is because the route is familiar and the promise of home is on the horizon.  Our son’s curiosity was undiminished, and we did our best to answer his questions about highway rules and road signs, grateful for the distraction.  Our toddler napped again but woke up grumpy and restless.  This time, her big brother did his best to entertain her, singing silly songs and passing a ball back and forth while I helped my husband navigate.

    We made it to our planned halfway stop for lunch, gas, and bathroom breaks, feeling triumphant.  But not long after we hit the road again, we noticed something odd.  The truck began to shake: subtly at first, but soon with increasing intensity.  At first, we tried to ignore it, distracted by a passing train and the donuts I’d picked up at the gas station.  But as the shaking worsened, concern grew.

    About an hour from home, we finally pulled over to investigate.  Sure enough, one of the tires had developed a bulge: a ticking time bomb if we had continued at highway speeds.  We found a nearby equipment yard with a large gravel lot and pulled in, grateful not to be stranded on the shoulder of a busy highway.

    My husband sprang into action.  He crawled under the truck to free the spare tire, which, to our dismay, was flat.  Undeterred, he grabbed our trusty air compressor and plugged it into the cigarette lighter, inflating the spare while our son watched with wide eyes.  Next, he retrieved the jack and tire iron from under the seat and began loosening the lug nuts.  The stubborn tire refused to budge, so he pulled out a sledgehammer from the cross bed truck toolbox:  a tool we’d always joked was “just in case.”  After one solid whack, the tire finally relented.

    Once the 12-volt air compressor had fully inflated the tire, it was fitted and secured in place.  We packed up our tools and climbed back into the truck, feeling a little more like a team of adventurers than a family on a road trip.  I complimented my husband for handling the hiccup with finesse.

    The rest of the drive was uneventful, and as we pulled into our driveway, we were greeted by the familiar sights and sounds of home.  Our garden had flourished in our absence, my mushrooms had begun to fruit again, and our animals were eager for attention. As we settled back into our daily routines, I found myself replaying moments from our journey:  both the laughter and the chaos, the peaceful mornings on the lake, the delicious shared meals, and the seemingly effortless tire change on the roadside.  It struck me that these are the stories that become family legend, the ones our children will recount with wide-eyed wonder years from now.  In the end, it wasn’t the perfect itinerary or the smooth ride that made our trip memorable, but the shared challenges, the teamwork, and the joy we found in simply being together and with friends. Our road trip reminded me that adventure can be found in the most unexpected places, and that sometimes, a little trial is exactly what you need to bring a family closer together.

    If you enjoy content like this, subscribe below to join a circle of readers who understand the adventure of traveling with small children.

  • Generations on the Land: Reflections for June Dairy Month

    Generations on the Land: Reflections for June Dairy Month

    Growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin, my days were shaped by the rhythm of the cows and the turning of the seasons.  Each morning began before sunrise, the air crisp with the scent of damp earth as my family and I made our way to the barn.  The gentle lowing of the cows was our alarm clock, their needs dictating every hour.  Summers meant long days baling hay and tending fields; winters brought the challenge of breaking ice in water troughs and cleaning icy yards.  Even now, years after leaving the farm, that heritage remains woven into who I am.  The values of hard work, responsibility, and respect for the land and animals continue to guide me, especially as June Dairy Month arrives each year.

    June Dairy Month always brings a sense of pride and community across Wisconsin.  As families gather for breakfasts on the farm and other celebrations, I’m reminded of the camaraderie that comes from being part of such a vital tradition.  It’s a time to reflect on my roots, appreciate the dedication of today’s dairy farmers, and feel connected to the land and lifestyle that shaped my upbringing.

    As a child, I didn’t fully grasp the significance of June Dairy Month. I simply felt the special energy it brought:  early mornings in the barn, the mingled scents of fresh hay and silage, the gentle clatter of milk pails, and the creamy taste of fresh milk.  My parents stressed that cows don’t wait, and chores don’t take vacations.  I learned this during many summer afternoons as I missed parties and other gatherings to clean the cow yard.  The cows needed tending, indifferent to my disappointment and frustration.  In those moments, responsibility became more than a lesson, but a way of life.

    Looking back, I see how my family’s story is part of a much larger one.  Wisconsin’s identity as “America’s Dairyland” began with a dramatic transformation in the late-19th century, when wheat fields gave way to pastures and dairy barns.  Innovations like the refrigerated rail car and the Babcock butterfat tester, along with the support of the University of Wisconsin, helped turn the state into a national leader in milk and cheese production.  June Dairy Month, which began in 1937, celebrates the contributions of dairy farmers to our nutrition, agriculture, and economy.

    What stands out most from those years is the sense of community.  Our work mattered, not just to us, but to neighbors and friends who relied on us for fresh dairy, and to the local businesses that depended financially on our success.  June Dairy Month specifically meant hearty breakfasts on the farm, farm tours, and the joy of sharing what we produced.  These traditions instilled in me a deep appreciation for collaboration and generosity.

    Though I no longer live on a dairy farm, those values guide how I raise my own family.  We keep a small garden and some poultry, and I make sure my kids know where their food is sourced.  Every June, we attend the local Breakfast on the Farm, reconnecting with my roots and supporting our neighbors.  We make homemade ice cream and talk about the farmers who make it possible.  These experiences help my family feel connected not only to our food, but to the people who produce it.

    Today’s dairy farmers face unprecedented challenges: rising costs, unpredictable weather, ever-evolving pests and diseases, emotional strain, and the pressures of a global market, among many other worries.  The long hours and physical demands deter many from continuing the legacy.  And yet, every day, farmers rise before dawn, meeting each obstacle with grit and creativity.  Their perseverance sustains not only their families, but our communities and traditions. Recently, I attended a June Dairy Breakfast with my parents and children. The aroma of fresh pancakes mingled nicely with the scent of blooming lilacs, and my kids’ eyes lit up at the sights and sounds.  Watching my kids and my parents interacting together on the farm, I felt the invisible threads of community and legacy binding us together, a living tapestry woven from shared labor and respect.  The future of farming depends on all of us: supporting local farms, honoring the land, and teaching the next generation about where food is sourced.  In every glass of milk, every slice of cheese, and every community breakfast, the story of perseverance and pride continues.  It’s up to us to ensure this heritage thrives for generations to come.

    Do you celebrate June Dairy Month? Share your thoughts below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.

    Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/red-barn-235725/

    #JuneDairyMonth

  • The Endless Night

    The digital clock on my nightstand glows an accusatory 2:13 AM, its red numbers burning my retinas.  As I roll over for the thousandth time, the sheets tangle around my legs.  My bedroom, once a sanctuary, has become a prison cell.  The familiar outlines of furniture loom in the darkness, taking on sinister shapes in the shadows.  The green stars of a night light cast an eerie glow on the ceiling.  The curtains flutter slightly in the breeze from the fan.

    This is only my most recent visit to the space between consciousness and sleep.  Over the last year, my nightly dance with insomnia has left me both exhausted and wired.  My mind races, a carousel of worries and regrets that won’t stop spinning.  Will my mom ever feel better?  Are my kids going to grow up and be decent people?  Why did I say that silly thing earlier today?  Will anyone ever really want to be my friend?  I quickly calculate that if I fall asleep right now, I’d have exactly three hours of sleep.  Anxiety coils in my stomach, a physical presence that drives sleep even further away.

    I focus on my breathing.  In, and out.  In, and out.  My body starts to feel heavy, sinking into the mattress.  And yet there’s a restless energy thrumming through my veins, an incessant urge to move.  I throw off the covers and head to the bathroom, my bare feet padding silently on the faded teal carpet.  I focus on the floor pushing up on my feet, the smoothness of the water glass as I bring it to my lips, the car lights that shine through the picture window as they pass by.  The house creaks and settles around me.  I envy its ability to find peace in the night.

    Back in bed, I toss and turn.  My mind refuses to quiet; every position is uncomfortable.  My pillow is too flat, then too puffy.  The room is too warm, then too cold.  My hips hurt from lying in one position too long, and my arm falls asleep.  I can’t find that elusive perfect spot that will finally let me settle.

    As the night continues, my thoughts take a darker turn.  What if I never sleep again?  How does this affect my mood and stress tolerance during the day?  How can I be patient with my children or be productive at work if my physical needs are not being met? How is this shortening my lifespan?  The fear of sleeplessness becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, anxiety feeding insomnia feeding anxiety in an endless loop.  I feel myself spiraling, falling into a pit of despair as black as the night around me.  In a short while, my alarm will sound.  The weight of the coming day presses in, squeezing my chest and shortening my breath.  The thought of navigating work, social interactions, childcare, and basic tasks on another empty tank fills me with an indescribable weariness.

    The first hints of dawn begin to creep around the edges of my curtains.  Birds taunt me with their cheerful and energetic morning chorus.  The world is awake, moving forward, while I’m stuck in this limbo between night and day.  My thoughts, so sharp and insistent earlier, begin to blur.  My limbs feel heavy, and I finally surrender to exhaustion.

    All too soon, my alarm clock sounds.  I linger between sleep and wakefulness for a little while longer before rising to start my day.  I clear the crust from my eyes and stretch.  As I stumble to the bathroom, catching sight of my haggard reflection, I make a silent promise to myself.  Tonight, I’ll try something different.  Mindfulness, writing my thoughts and feelings, no coffee past noon.  Anything to break this cycle of sleepless nights.

    In the meantime, I brace myself for the day ahead.  Coffee will be my crutch, and sheer determination my fuel.  I’ll do what I can to show up as my best self today, and then I’ll try again tonight.  Because one of these nights, I will find my way back to the land of dreams and peace.

    I take a deep breath, and begin my day.

    Have you ever dealt with a bout of insomnia? How did you work through it? Share your thoughts below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.

    #insomnia

    Illustration by ands on Unsplash

  • Saturday Morning Family Breakfast: A Recipe for Togetherness

    It’s a bright morning, the kind of day that feels full of promise and potential.  My husband Mitchel and I are sitting in the living room with our two children, a toddler girl named Olivia and a 5-year-old boy named Andrew.  Sunlight casts a warm glow over the carpet where toys, books, and a blanket fort are staged.  The television is broadcasting Saturday morning cartoons, and we discuss our dreams from the night before.  The gurgling of the coffeepot can be heard from the kitchen and the smell of coffee wafts into the room.  The day stretches ahead invitingly with no work or school obligations pressing, a perfect opportunity for family bonding and completing homestead tasks.  The pace is unhurried and the mood is light as the cartoons end and I shepherd my family into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. 

    Weekend breakfasts are a big deal in our household, and I pride myself in making a meal you could order in a greasy spoon diner.  I open the refrigerator to discover leftover boiled potatoes, fresh eggs, and the pound of ground pork that defrosted from last night.  Based on the contents of the refrigerator, I decide that we will prepare hashbrowns, eggs, and sausage.  I have two sous chefs and an assistant who will help me prepare the food.

    I locate the box grater and ask Andrew to help grate potatoes.  He excitedly pushes a chair over to the counter where the potatoes, grater, and cutting board are staged.  As he begins to grate potatoes, I hear Olivia screeching in protest as she toddles over to the chair, climbs up, and uses all her strength to push Andrew off the chair.  Andrew grunts in frustration as he struggles to maintain his position, gripping both hands on the counter.  Sensing a conflict, I push a second chair over to the counter and place Olivia there.  Olivia then contents herself with eating cold potatoes while Andrew continues his task.

    I proceed to my next job, preparing the seasoning for the pork sausage.  I slide past my son and daughter to gain access to the spice cabinet.  After spinning the lazy Susan a couple of times, I extract brown sugar, sage, paprika, salt, and pepper, then mix these spices in the proper ratio before adding the ground pork.  I squeeze the pork/spice mixture, trying to ignore the discomfort from cold exposure.  After the sausage is properly mixed, I divide it into 4 uneven balls:  a small one for Olivia, a medium one for Andrew, a large one for me, and an extra-large one for Mitchel.  Mitchel then stages two plates and two pieces of saran wrap, positioning the two plastic pieces between the plates.  He places the pork balls one by one between the two plastic pieces, using his weight to flatten the balls into sausage patties.

    While Mitchel is preparing the sausage patties, the cast iron skillet is preheating.  As the patties are formed, I place them into the skillet and hear the characteristic sizzle.  The kitchen begins to fill with the smell of rendering fat and toasting spices, blending well with the nutty coffee undertones.  After the sausage bottoms are properly browned, they release easily from the pan as I flip them.

    By this time, Andrew has grated most of the potatoes, and I place them into a bowl.  I also add dehydrated onion, celery, garlic, and green pepper, salt, and black pepper.  The sausage patties are removed from the pan and placed on a plate.  The rendered sausage fat is used to flavor and brown the grated potatoes.  In this way, nothing is wasted.

    As the hash browns cook in the pan, I remove the eggs from the refrigerator.  I crack the eggs, and Olivia insists on crushing the eggs to release the yolk and white.  Some eggshells inevitably find their way into the clear and marigold-colored mixture, but I do not mind expending extra effort to extract them.  I add a splash of milk, a few shakes of salt, and freshly cracked pepper.  I then pass the scrambling fork to Olivia.  She beams with pride as she blends the ingredients.  I am close by with a rag to wipe up spills.

    The smell of browned potatoes intermingles with the pork sausage, making my mouth water.  I flip the potatoes, remove a stainless-steel pan from my kitchen drawer, place it on the stove, and turn the dial to high heat.  The stove clicks to life, and blue flames emanate from the burner.  I point out the hot stove, then show Olivia and Andrew how a stainless-steel pan can be made non-stick by heating the pan hot enough for the water to dance rather than instantly evaporate.

    Once the pan is ready, I add oil, then ask Andrew to add the scrambled egg mixture.  Steam rises from the pan as the eggs rapidly cook.  I trust Andrew to stir the eggs until they are mostly cooked while remaining close by in case I am needed.  When the eggs are ready, they slide effortlessly from the pan onto a plate.  I remove the hashbrown skillet from the stove and place it in the middle of the table. 

    I thank my family for their help with preparing the meal.  Olivia has already climbed onto her dining chair booster seat in anticipation.  While I finish prepping, Mitchel places appropriate amounts of eggs, hashbrowns, and sausage on her plate, cuts the food, and allows her to eat.  She squeals in approval as she dives into the sausage, then asks for a cup of milk.  Andrew also starts with the sausage, then the eggs, then the hashbrowns. 

    Mitchel and I discuss our plans for the day as we savor our meal and our time together.  Andrew shares interesting facts about his newest fascination, the Titanic. The eggs are creamy and rich with a velvety texture.  The pork imparts an earthy, well-rounded taste that pairs well with the crispy exterior and juicy interior.  The hashbrowns offer a pleasant balance of saltiness and a satisfying crunch.  The trio together makes for an excellent meal, and a great way for me to bond with my family.

    After breakfast, I collect the dishes to wash.  Olivia and Andrew push chairs to the sink and play in the water while I wash the dishes.  As I dip my hands in the warm soapy water, I feel a deep sense of pride in their burgeoning skills.  Each small success, whether it’s a perfectly cracked egg or a well-seasoned hashbrown, sparks a gleam of confidence that I know will serve them far beyond the kitchen.

    The warmth of these moments lingers long after the plates are cleared and the dishes are washed.  We share stories, swap jokes, and sometimes, simply enjoy the quiet comfort of working side by side.  These are the moments when our bond grows stronger, forged in the gentle rhythm of morning routines and the shared satisfaction of a meal made together. I treasure these simple rituals, knowing they nourish more than just our bodies. They plant seeds of independence, resilience, and togetherness in my children and our family.  Years from now, I hope they will remember not just the taste of homemade sausage, but the feeling of belonging, capability, and love that filled our kitchen these mornings.  These memories, built one breakfast at a time, are the true sustenance of our family.

    Do you have a beloved tradition in your family? Share your experiences below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.