The Pioneer Woman

by Ree Drummond

  “How are you doing today?” he’d ask. I’d resent that I had to expend the energy to answer.

  “Want me to hold the baby while you get up and get dressed?” he’d offer. I’d crumble that he didn’t like my robe.

  “Hey, Mama—wanna take the baby for a drive?” Not no, but hell no. We’ll die if we leave our cocoon. The rays from the sun will fry us and turn us to ashes. And I’d have to put on normal clothes. Forget it.

  I’d kicked into survival mode in the most literal sense of the word—not only was laundry out of the question, but so was dinner, casual conversation, or any social interaction at all. I had become a shell of a person—no more human than the stainless steel milk machines in dairy farms in Wisconsin, and half as interesting. Any identity I’d previously had as a wife, daughter, friend, or productive member of the human race had melted away the second my ducts filled with milk. My mom dropped by to help once or twice, but I couldn’t emotionally process her presence. I hid in my room with the door shut as she did the dishes and washed laundry without help or input from me. Marlboro Man’s mom came to help, too, but I couldn’t be myself around her and holed up in my room. I didn’t even care enough to pray for help. Not that it would have helped; stainless steel milk machines have no soul.

  BETSY CAME to visit two weeks after I returned from the hospital, though I wasn’t sure I cared. She picked up the house and kept laundry loads going and even held the baby for two-minute pockets in between her frequent feedings. With zero assistance or conversation from me, my kid sister cooked chicken noodle soup and tacos and our mother’s delectable lasagna. She even learned how to chase the stray cows that made their way into our yard. I waddled into the kitchen to get a drink of water one morning to find her waving a broom and running around the yard. Maybe she can just move in here and take my place, I fantasized. She’d like it out here. And she’s cute and fun and thin…she and Marlboro Man should get along just great.

  Deep in the throes of postpartum desperation, I wanted no part of any of it anymore. Not the cows, not the yard, not the laundry. Not even the cowboy that came along with it, the one working his fingers to the bone day in and day out as he tried to negotiate the ever-changing markets and figure out the best course of action to take for his ranch and new baby and wife, who’d spiraled from the young, full-of-life woman he’d married ten months earlier to someone who hardly existed anymore.

  Betsy, seventy-two hours into her visit, had picked up on all of this. She waited until Marlboro Man left to work cattle that morning before giving it to me straight.

  “You kinda look like crap,” she said, an ironically sweet tone in her voice.

  “Shut up!” I barked. “You try doing this sometime!”

  “I mean, I know it’s hard and all…,” she began.

  I held up my hand. “Don’t even say it,” I ordered. “You seriously have no idea.” My eyes welled up with tears.

  “Fine,” she said, folding a pair of jeans. “But you need to at least take a shower and put on some cute clothes. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Clothes will not make me feel better!” I yelled, cradling the baby close.

  “I promise, they will,” she argued. “I’m convinced you cannot be happy if you wear that robe any longer.”

  I defied her suggestions and stayed in bed, and Betsy made her way out to the kitchen and threw together some sandwiches. I ate them, but only to keep my milk production going.

  I ate four of her chocolate chip cookies for the same reason, then, still grimy and disheveled, climbed back into bed.

  Marlboro Man returned home late that afternoon and came into the bedroom, eating a chocolate chip cookie along the way. The baby and I had just woken up from a two-hour nap, and he plopped down on the bed next to us. Without speaking, he stroked her little head with his index finger. I watched him the entire time; his eyes never left her. The room was quiet; the whole house was, in fact. Betsy must have gone out to the laundry room to switch loads. Without thinking, my arm found its way over to him and draped across his back. It was the first time I’d so much as touched him since I’d come home from the hospital. He glanced at me, flashed a faint smile, and draped his arm over my middle…and, magically, blessedly, the three of us fell back asleep—Marlboro Man in his mud-stained clothes, me in my milk-stained pajamas, and our perfect little child resting peacefully between our bodies.

  WHEN I woke up an hour later, something had changed. Maybe it was the sleep…maybe it was the tender moment with Marlboro Man…maybe it was my sister’s tough-love pep talk, or a combination of the three. I got out of bed quietly and made my way to the shower, where I washed and scrubbed and polished my body with every single bath product I could find. By the time I turned off the water, the bathroom smelled like lemongrass and lavender, wisteria and watermelon. The aromatherapy worked; while I didn’t exactly feel beautiful again, I felt less like Jabba the Hut. I peeked out of the bathroom and through the bedroom door; Marlboro Man and the baby were still sound asleep. So I kept going, brushing on translucent powder and a little bit of pink blush, and adding some putty-colored eye shadow and a good coat or two of mascara. With each stroke of the brush, each wave of the wand, I felt more and more like myself. A light smudge of grape-colored lip gloss sealed the deal.

  On a roll, I tiptoed into the bedroom and reached into the closet for my soft black maternity leggings, the ones that had been replaced by nasty plaid pajama bottoms fourteen days earlier. I ran my hands along the line of tops that hung on the rod, instinctively landing on a loose-fitting light blue top I’d been able to wear in the earlier months of pregnancy. It was pretty and light and feminine—a stark contrast to the dark green terry cloth robe that had been permanently affixed to my body in recent days. I sneaked back into the bathroom and changed into my new uniform, finishing it off with a pair of dangly mother-of-pearl earrings I’d picked up in a gift shop in Sydney, probably before I’d even conceived. Not wanting to turn on the noisy hair dryer, I scrunched my hair between my fingers to give it some body. Then I stood back and took a good, long look in the mirror.

  I recognized myself again. The pale, spiritless ghost had been replaced by a slightly tired and moderately puffy version of my former normal self. I was no beauty queen, not by a long shot…but I was me again. The shower had been, if not an exorcism, a baptism. I’d been reborn. I shuddered, imagining what Marlboro Man had thought every time he’d seen me shuffle around in my dingy white terry cloth slippers, my hair on top of my head in a neon green scrunchie. I brushed my teeth, shook my hair, and walked out of the bathroom…just as Marlboro Man was waking up.

  “Wow,” he said, pausing midstretch. “You look good, Mama.”

  I smiled.

  That night, Tim came over. Betsy made wings and brownies, and the five of us—Marlboro Man, Tim, Betsy, the baby, and I—sat and talked, laughed, and watched a John Wayne movie.

  I was exhausted and depleted. And it was one of the best nights of my life.

  I WOKE UP at nine the next morning, engorged but feeling alive. Almost as if she’d received some sort of office memo regarding the new optimism in the house, my new baby—wrinkled and skinny and helpless—had slept peacefully next to me all night, waking only twice to eat. I touched my finger to her tiny arm, still covered in soft translucent fuzz, and baby love washed over me in a rushing wave. Since the first night home from the hospital, desperation had moved in and rendered me incapable of savoring a single moment with her. Until now. I stared at her little ears, inhaled her indescribable scent, and placed my palm on her perfect head, closing my eyes and thanking God for such an undeserved gift. She was perfection.

  When we finally surfaced from the bedroom, Betsy was stirring a pot on the stove. Marlboro Man was gone for the day, driving with Tim to check on some wheat pasture in the southern part of the state. It was Betsy’s last day on the ranch; her summer school class would begin the following week, and she had to get back to the real world. And it was time. Her work he
re was done.

  “What’s that?” I asked, looking at the stove.

  “Cinnamon rolls,” she said, grabbing a packet of yeast from the pantry.

  My mouth watered on the spot. Our mom’s cinnamon rolls. They were beyond delicious, a fact confirmed not just by our immediate family, but also by the neighbors, church members, and friends who received them as Christmas gifts year after year during my childhood. It was a holiday ritual, one that lasted almost a full twenty-four hours. My mom would get out of bed early, scald milk, sugar, and oil in separate large pots, then use the mixture to make dough. The three of us would roll the dough into large rectangles, then douse them with obscene amounts of melted butter, cinnamon, and sugar before rolling them into logs and slicing them individually. Then, after baking, we’d drizzle a coffee-maple icing on the rolls and my mom would deliver them while they were still warm in the pan.

  They were the best cinnamon rolls in existence. Why hadn’t I made them yet?

  Later, when the dough was ready and Betsy and I rolled and drizzled, the baby napped blissfully in the bouncer seat on the floor. I thought about my mom, and the countless times we’d made cinnamon rolls together…and all the beautiful memories that were cemented in my mind wherein these beautiful, gooey cinnamon rolls were front and center. And when I sunk my fork into a finished roll and took my first bite, I could swear I heard the comforting voice of my mom, who, I realized, had drenched my childhood with more love and affection and fun than any child should have.

  I imagined her smile…and smiled, too.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  FAIR BLOWS THE WIND

  MARLBORO MAN and Tim had buckled down and been able to push through the acute financial danger of the previous fall. The markets were improving, and the light at the end of the tunnel was becoming brighter. Still, it was going to be an uphill climb. The debt on the ranch was a continual reminder that sitting back and resting easy was never going to be a way of life for us. Marlboro Man didn’t have a side profession he could use to supplement a ranching operation; he had to do it the old-fashioned way: through blood, sweat, and tears. And prayer.

  We’d permanently boarded up the large Indian house next to the little white house we called home. I couldn’t imagine anytime soon when we’d be able to bite off the financial commitment of remodeling and furnishing it, and we had to keep it sealed up to keep the critters away. In a way, the boarded-up house was a nice, daily reminder of what might be someday but also what didn’t really matter all that much. Our blueprints were rolled up and neatly tucked in a closet—right next to my wedding veil and wedding shoes and prepregnancy Anne Klein jeans, which weren’t really part of my life anymore.

  OUR BABY was two months old on that warm September evening when the skies turned a disturbing shade of pink. I knew the color well; it’s that of a sky whose oxygen is being sucked away by a distant, ominous force. I knew a storm was coming; I could smell it in the air. Marlboro Man was on a remote section of the ranch, helping Tim process steers. Much stronger now that the baby was sleeping through the night, I’d been catching up on laundry and housework all day. By late afternoon, I had a pot roast in the oven and the black clouds had started to move in.

  “I’ll be home in an hour,” Marlboro Man said, calling me from his mobile phone.

  “Is it raining there?” I asked. “It’s eerie here at our house.”

  “The lightning is striking out here,” he said. “It’s kind of exciting.” I laughed. Marlboro Man loved thunderstorms.

  I hung up and kept folding but noticed the breeze outside—which had been picking up all afternoon—had completely stopped blowing. The trees were still. The sky was frightening. I shivered, even though it wasn’t the least bit cold.

  I flipped on the TV and immediately saw a radar map with a nicely dressed weatherman standing in front. I was able to determine, from the shape of our county and my general knowledge of our whereabouts therein, that the area on the map that was receiving the most finger pointing and frantic discussion was the one surrounding our immediate area—a swath of dark red in the shape of a hook wrapped perfectly around our county. Yikes, I said to myself. That doesn’t look good.

  Sound asleep in her swing, the baby didn’t flinch when the phone rang a second time. It was Marlboro Man again.

  “You need to take the baby to the cellar in the brick house,” he said, a new urgency to his voice.

  “What?” I said, my heart pounding in my chest. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a tornado near Fairfax and it’s moving east-southeast,” he said quickly. “You need to head over there just in case.”

  “Just in case?” I scrambled around the room, looking for my shoes. “Wait—where do you fit into this scenario?”

  “Look, just get on over there!” he said. “It’ll take me twenty minutes to get there!” He wasn’t kidding. And Marlboro Man loved storms. This was serious. I threw on a pair of Marlboro Man’s mud boots. It was the closest thing I could find.

  I hung up and grabbed a huge throw from the sofa. I had no idea why; I just knew I needed it. I also grabbed a pillow, three bottles of water, a flashlight, a handful of granola bars, and my baby…then opened the door and ran into the strange pink world, crossing the yard outside of our house and running up the porch steps of the yellow brick Indian house that, once upon a time, would have been our home. Tucking the bottles of water and blanket under my arm, I flung open the side door—the only entrance to the boarded-up building—then ran inside and slammed the door behind me. It was dark; there was no electricity. I used the flashlight to guide me to the door that led to the stairs of the basement, and without thinking, I descended into the dungeon. Not because I was deathly afraid of the tornado or because Marlboro Man had told me to…but because I was now a mother. It was the first time I’d ever experienced that level of protective instinct—the kind where no choice is involved. It was the only thing that allowed me to forget the fact that rattlesnakes had once built a nest down there.

  I parked myself on a bench against the basement wall, completely unsure of what was going to happen. The baby was awake now, so I nursed her as I sat in the quiet, dark basement, listening for any signs of destruction overhead. I thought about Marlboro Man. The cowboys. Neighboring ranchers. Our horses and cattle. My in-laws. Where are they, and are they safe? Will the storm get them before it gets me? Are houses and barns being leveled as I sit here, safe in this scary basement? What if the house blows off the foundation and sucks us into the sky? I wrapped the baby tightly in the soft throw I’d brought along…and buried my face in the top of her bald head, breathing in her beautiful scent. The wind was howling now. I could hear it.

  I sat there in the darkness—just a faint hint of early-evening sky visible through a rectangular basement window. Slowly rocking my child back and forth, I began to reflect on the months that had brought me here, the unbelievable experiences I’d had and transitions I’d made: From Los Angeles back to the middle of the country. From independent person fleeing a relationship to one madly in love with a cowboy. From autonomous human to wife…from wife to wife and mother…from vibrant, sexual being to baby-feeding machine…from depressed and desperate new mother to a slightly stronger and more fortified version of myself. From anxious, preoccupied daughter of now-divorced parents to an adult woman with her own family.

  It wasn’t about me anymore. I had a child. A husband who needed me to be there for him in the midst of what was turning out to be a terrible time to be making a living in agriculture. I didn’t have time to get mired in the angst of my own circumstances anymore. I didn’t have time for the past. My family—my new family—was all that mattered to me. My child. And always and forever, Marlboro Man.

  And then he appeared—walking down the basement steps in his Wranglers and rain-drenched boots. He stepped into the basement, a warm, gentle smile on his face. It was Marlboro Man. He was there.

  “Hey, Mama…,” he called. “It’s all fine.”
/>   The storm had passed us by, the funnel cloud dissipating before it could do any damage.

  “Hey, Daddy,” I answered. It was the first time I’d ever called him that.

  Looking on the ground at the water bottles and granola bars, he asked, “What’s all this for?”

  I shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how long I’d be down here.”

  He laughed. “You’re funny,” he said as he scooped our sleeping baby from my arms and threw the blanket over his shoulder. “Let’s go eat. I’m hungry.” We walked across the yard to our cozy little white house, where we ate pot roast with mashed potatoes and watched The Big Country with Gregory Peck…and spent the night listening to a blessed September thunderstorm send rain falling from the sky.

  THE NEXT morning, after the storm had passed and Marlboro Man had left with his horse, I sat and fed our baby on the rocking chair outside the front door. I watched the bountiful eastern sky change from black to cerulean to magenta to an impossible shade of reddish orange, and I breathed in the country air, relishing the new strength I’d felt building inside of me. I knew our problems weren’t over. Only one year into our marriage, we’d been through enough that I knew the storm from the night before was but one of many we would face together in the coming years. I knew the last of the struggles weren’t fully behind us.

  But still…I couldn’t shake the feeling.

  I could see it. I knew.

  The sun was getting ready to rise.

  Recipes

  Here are some of my favorite recipes from my past, from my present…and from my heart.

  PASTA PRIMAVERA