Frontier Follies

by Ree Drummond

  That got my attention. I did not relish the idea of telling Jamar he had to pack his bag and move because I wasn’t able to fit foster training in my schedule. (Egads.) Still, I kvetched and complained to Ladd about the fact that not only did I have to complete the training in thirty days, I now had no choice but to take the training in person, which is always my very last choice for anything since I don’t like to leave the house. My supportive husband had absolutely zero sympathy for me, considering he’d managed to knock out his training so dutifully three months earlier. He rejected my suggestion that I could just skirt the training requirement altogether by going to live somewhere else, leaving him to finish raising our boys and Jamar by himself. (I was 99.8 percent kidding.)

  Because Pawhuska is a smaller community, there wasn’t a local foster parent training course I could take in that time frame, so that left my driving to Tulsa for five all-day sessions—again, not ideal from a time and schedule standpoint. But then, a lifeline: the state agency coordinator informed me that if I wanted, I could take the training offered by the Osage Nation, the Native American tribe that’s headquartered in Pawhuska, and it would satisfy the requirement since they generally used the same curriculum. Still not relishing what lay ahead, I thanked her and told her I was very appreciative not to have to make the drive.

  When I called the Osage Nation to enroll, I was told there’d be other people in the class with me—a little bit of a tough pill for my introverted self to swallow. I’d expected this to be more of a one-on-one instruction, but now it appeared that I was going to have to share a class with other foster parents, take part in group activities, and share my thoughts, feelings, and experiences. Ladd chuckled when I told him this, knowing the private homebody he’s married to, and he promised to root for me from the ranch.

  On the first day of class, I met my fellow classmates: Herman, a Native American gentleman around my age, along with his mother and eighteen-year-old son. They had just begun fostering a family member’s child and were fulfilling their training requirement just as I was. Following introductions and administrative details, we sat down and started our coursework together.

  After the first day of class, I told Ladd about Herman, the man I’d just met. There was something about him that had made quite a first impression: He had such a strong but gentle presence, and he very openly shared his fears and vulnerabilities when it came to the fostering responsibility he’d taken on. Even though Herman lives a couple of towns over, Ladd was familiar with his name since Herman and many members of his family had been football players when Ladd played for the Pawhuska Huskies. During our class breaks, Herman and I would shoot the breeze about high school football, his favorite kind of pizza, the fact that we both needed to give up pop, and how both of our experiences were going with our respective foster kids.

  As it unfolded, the foster training material really started to open my eyes. It taught me the effects that childhood trauma can have on the heart and soul of a human being, and it gave me helpful tools with which to approach my and my family’s relationship with Jamar. But something else happened during training, and it was something I never could have predicted: I became fast friends with my classmate Herman. Along with learning the ins and outs of being a foster parent, I also started learning about Herman’s Osage culture, which is absolutely central to his life, and which drove his decision to step in and foster a child. In class he recited Osage prayers, explained the structure of an Osage family, taught us how to play Osage games, and shared his traditions and beliefs, always relating them to the lessons we were covering in our coursework.

  Without meaning to, I’d catch myself staring, positively transfixed by Herman, the person, the soul. Sometimes when he shared his stories and experiences, tears would well up in his eyes, which in turn made them well up in mine. Even though I was only there because I’d been a procrastinator, here I was, receiving a firsthand account of what it truly means to be Osage. I felt like the luckiest person alive, and to top it off, I’d made a new friend.

  The last day of class was bittersweet. Herman and I shared a hug and exchanged phone numbers. He told me I was family, and I could feel the tears starting to form. He invited me to sit on his family’s bench at the Osage dances—an incredible honor that I don’t take lightly. We’ve kept in touch ever since, and my heart lights up anytime a text appears on my phone with the name “Herman” at the top. He tells me that my family and I are in his daily prayers. I tell him that he and his family are in mine. I don’t remember a time (with the exception of ballet camp as a girl) when I developed such a deep friendship so quickly. It feels beautifully preordained!

  Yes, life is wild. A year and a half ago, I never could have predicted that there would soon be a fifth kid in our family . . . and I certainly didn’t think I needed another friend, let alone a kind, sweet man named Herman. But despite my tendency toward putting things off and my desire for things to stay the same, I learned a powerful lesson: Sometimes you only have to open the window a tiny bit to let the breeze blow through. Between Jamar and Herman, the events of the past year have been a crazy, holy wind!

  A Funny Thing Happened at My Cookbook Signing

  I’ve released six cookbooks (as well as children’s books and a love story!), and have had more than two hundred book signings. It’s a wonderful way to meet amazing people, and I’ve never had a bad experience . . . though there’ve been a small handful of interesting moments.

  For my most recent cookbook, I’d had three back-to-back signings over three nights. Typically during my signings, I stand at a high table as each person in line files through. We take a photo together first, then I sign their book and chat with them for a minute while the next person in line gets ready to come up. A great rhythm usually kicks in and takes over, and I often prompt each person in line with phrases like “Come on up!” and “Let’s take a picture together” as I welcome them forward and put my arm around them for the photo.

  After a while, this can start to seem a little repetitive:

  “Come on up, let’s take a picture together!”

  “Come on up, let’s take a picture together!”

  “Come on up, let’s take a picture together!”

  But for each person it’s their first experience in line, so it never bothers me, and it helps to make people more comfortable about walking up to my table.

  On this third night, a lone fella was next in line—his number was probably 225—and when it was his turn to come up I smiled and said my usual “Come on up!” He did exactly that, then, as I reached out my arm to welcome him, I said, unintentionally, “Let’s take a shower together!”

  He paused and stopped walking, clearly trying to process my suggestion.

  And because brain synapses are a living, breathing thing, this has happened to me more times than you’d think. One time I said, “Come on up, let’s say a prayer together!” The person actually said, “Okay . . .,” and bowed her head.

  To a grandma and granddaughter, I said, “Come on up, let’s take a bath together!”

  Sometimes I get very tired.

  * * *

  An unrequited high school crush of mine came to one of my book signings with his wife. I hadn’t seen him since high school, and he looked exactly the same. I was surprised to see him, and his wife was gorgeous. As we spoke and caught up on life since high school, I started sweating. Then I tried to mentally talk myself out of sweating, which made me sweat more. By the time my old crush and his wife said goodbye, I had sweat dripping down my forehead and sweat beads on my upper lip, and the back of my neck was drenched. As I watched the couple walk away, the next person in line asked me if I was okay and handed me a Kleenex out of her purse.

  I can’t imagine why he never dated me.

  * * *

  At my various book signings over the years, I have signed:

  Books

  Dinner plates

  Pie pans

  Arm casts

  Cowboy/cowgirl boots


  A wheelchair

  A purse

  Autograph books

  Cell phone cases

  Wooden spoons

  Caps

  Palms of hands

  A forehead

  A forearm

  I was once asked to sign a woman’s décolletage, but I politely declined. I told her I had way too much respect for Billy Idol to tread into his territory.

  (I was very honored to be asked, though!)

  * * *

  At one of my very first book signings, I was sitting at a standard-height table and speaking to people as I signed their books. A young couple approached the table and stood on either side of me.

  “We’re newlyweds,” the guy said, looking at his beautiful wife.

  “Oh, how sweet!” I smiled, opening the book and beginning to sign my name.

  “We absolutely love your recipes,” the young lady said. “We cook them together all the time.”

  I loved hearing this. “Thank you so much for telling me that,” I replied. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying them!”

  Just then, the young groom leaned in and lowered his head closer to my ear.

  “We like to cook them naked,” he said, without laughing or cracking a smile.

  He stood up and I realized that because I was sitting, I was about eye level with both of their nether regions. I had nowhere to run to and my cheeks felt flushed.

  “Oh . . . I’m so glad!” I replied, which was a really awkward thing to say. I handed them their signed book and they said goodbye, strolling away arm in arm.

  I’ll bet they made one of my recipes naked together that night. I’ve always wondered which one. (Probably something involving buns.)

  A Drummond Family Quiz

  (See answers.)

  What wildlife is not found on Drummond Ranch? Badger

  Bald eagle

  Wolf

  Mountain lion

  True or False: Bryce has been offered a football scholarship.

  How long is the gravel road between the main highway and the Drummond house? ½ mile

  1 mile

  5 miles

  50 miles

  Who is Alex engaged to? Mauricio

  Miguel

  Matteo

  Manuel

  What do the kids call Chuck? Gramps

  Pa-Pa

  Poppie

  Grumps

  Which of the following is not a Drummond dog? Walter

  Duke

  Lucy

  Ted

  What did Ree do with the (frozen) top layer of her wedding cake? Celebrated and ate it with Ladd on their one-year anniversary

  Gave it to the friend who caught her bridal bouquet

  Dropped it when she was leaving the wedding reception

  Ate it at home alone one day when she had morning sickness and couldn’t think of anything else to eat.

  Who is six foot one? Alex

  Paige

  Bryce

  Ladd

  If Ree and Ladd had had a fifth child and it was a boy, what name was at the top of Ladd’s list? Valentino

  Ashley

  Bull

  McKenna

  True or false: Ladd and his brother Tim call each other “Slim.”

  How many calves are born on Drummond Ranch every year? 500

  1,000

  5,000

  25,000

  True or False: Ree’s vehicle is a pickup.

  True or False: Ladd competes in rodeos.

  Approximately how many Food Network shows has Ree filmed to date? 50

  150

  300

  1,000

  True or False: Ree doesn’t know how to saddle a horse.

  * * *

  Answers: 1: c; 2: True; 3: c; 4: a; 5: b; 6: d; 7: d; 8: b; 9: c; 10: True; 11: c; 12: True; 13: False; 14: c; 15: True

  * * *

  My Idea of a Good Time

  It’s nice to be the age I am, because even though I don’t necessarily have the same skin elasticity, waist size, or energy I had when I was younger, I’m more sure than ever of what I want, don’t want, like, dislike, long for, avoid, crave, can do without, and need. I wouldn’t trade the mind and perspective I have now for the teeny jeans I wore years ago—actually, I would if that were possible, but it isn’t, so I’m glad to have the mind as a consolation prize! Most valuably, I’ve found that when the choices I make for work or even recreation cause me to veer too far away from the things that satisfy my soul, I start to unravel, get knocked off balance, run out of steam, and hit a wall. When I think about things that feed me, it’s usually not a trip to a dream destination or some spiritually monumental experience that I seek. It’s often a food or a person or a feeling that makes me know I’m headed in the right direction. So on any given day, here are the things that make me tick.

  Wake up early. While 3:45 a.m. is a little too close to nighttime for me, I’m happiest when I get up between five and five-thirty in the morning, as long as I remember not to look in the mirror while I’m brushing my teeth, because it can be quite jarring. Not that I necessarily need to look glamorous for myself when I get up in the morning, but sometimes the deep crevices and matted nature of my hair make me seriously wonder what I dreamed about—not that I can remember my dreams since I sleep so deeply these days. And by the way, I snore now, which Ladd likes to tell me a couple of times a month. I deny it, of course, and he responds by telling me, “It’s cute,” which we all know is a lie.

  But morning! It’s my favorite. The promise of my super-tall, sweetened, creamy iced coffee . . . the knowledge that I’ll be there to watch the sun rise . . . the excitement of the dogs when I go out on the porch to greet them . . . time on the couch with my coffee and Psalms and a little quiet prayer time . . . and just knowing, even for the first hour or so, that I have a jump on the day and might have a fighting chance to get through my entire to-do list before nightfall (which I definitely won’t, by the way, but I don’t know this yet). It’s a uniquely delicious feeling. I like sleeping until seven every once in a while, like the third Sunday of the month or something. But any more often than that throws me off.

  Stay home all day. The idea of not having to get into my vehicle and leave our homestead during the course of a day is something that causes my insides to do cartwheels and jump for joy. That feeling is actually a kind of fuel for me, as it causes a giddiness that isn’t there on days when I have something I have to go do—whether it’s filming or getting a haircut or going to a meeting in town (or going out of town). I’ve figured out that I am very susceptible to interruptions in momentum, and when my momentum is disrupted, it requires a certain kind of energy to get it back. Imagine that my momentum is a pile of leaves, all raked together and tidy. A sudden breeze comes and blows the leaves all over the yard. Raking them back together is exhausting, and that’s how I feel when I have to head out among the English, to quote the movie Witness. I tell Ladd that if it weren’t for church and the occasional work obligation, it’s actually disturbing how many months on end I could stay home without batting an eye. (Who knew this gloat would actually be tested this year? Even though I hated the reasons, I felt fortunate that my inherent hermit tendencies helped me during quarantine.)

  Dogs everywhere. I simply must have dogs, on my porch and in my life. Right now I have six; I’d be happy with fifteen. They’re dopey and goofy and loving and affirming; they have the complete run of the ranch twenty-four hours a day . . . but somehow they’re never more excited than when I go outside and tell them it’s time to go for a walk. They act like they’ve been caged their whole life and their savior has just shown up—and I’m always like, “Dudes. You can go for a walk any ol’ time you want!” Then they look at me and do a massive head tilt, and I just crack up and feel whole again. Yes, I have to have dogs in my life. (Not in my bed, since Ladd isn’t that kind of guy. But it’s probably just as well.)

  Lots of solitude. I grew up believing I was an extrovert. I believed this because
people always told me I was. They said I was the life of the party and made people feel at ease, which I guess was true. But I’m so grateful I finally came to understand that what I actually am is an extroverted introvert, and the only reason I’ve ever been able to be the life of the party and make people feel at ease is that I’ve spent weeks beforehand not doing that. And when I look back at my younger years, though I remember plenty of fun times and parties with other humans, I also remember the times I reveled in sometimes staying home when my friends went out, and how much I loved holing up and watching Gilligan’s Island all by myself. I have a distinct memory of a group of my brother’s high school friends coming to the house one day when I was fourteen and asking me if I ever left the house, because they only ever saw me watching Gilligan’s Island. Even back then, I knew I needed to preserve my internal resources in order to thrive in social settings. I am absolutely that same person today.

  Sushi. I hardly ever have it. I pretty much always want it. About two or three times a year, I get sushi from a restaurant in Tulsa and take it home so I can chuckle at the irony of eating sushi on a cattle ranch. It is absolutely my idea of a good time, and here’s part of the reason why: I go bonkers with wasabi now, smearing it on each and every piece before dunking it in soy sauce, because redheads can handle spicy food more than the average person (see Ten More Interesting Things About Redheads). The heat from the wasabi clears my sinuses and triggers endorphins, which makes me feel happy from head to toe. Ergo, sushi makes me feel happy from head to toe. If I were putting together my perfect day, sushi would be a part of it.