A Gift of Love

Tanya let the dogs out yesterday for a run.  In appreciation they brought her a chicken.  A dead chicken.  A very very dead and sun-ripened chicken.  Since she seemed less appreciative of their gift than they had perhaps hoped, they kept it themselves and played keep-away at top speed through her flower beds.

I am always happier when Tanya lets the dogs out.  When I let them out and they break her flowers, it is my fault.  When she lets them out it is just the dogs being playful.

Khakasian Khlimate

The climate in Khakasia, from what I could gather off the internet is no different than home.  Continental, which is hot and dry in summer and cold and dry in winter.  Well, OK, dry was not a word applicable to this summer at home in dear old Saskatchewan but you get he picture.

Precip is a bit different in pattern as they get more in July through October than we do and much less in winter, though I only have one data source.  Once I get there I will have data from several villages where it is kept religiously but does not appear on official internet weather sites.

Mean Monthly Temperatures Khakasia and Saskatchewan

Mean monthly precipitation Khakasia and Saskatchewan

It would appear that the winters are even milder than Saskatchewan in some locations in Khakasia and summers slightly warmer.  These are 30 year averages.  Now when you get to Chita on the east side of Lake Baikal, there it gets COLD.  Summer temps same as Sask but winter temps are 10C colder on average.  Chita was where the Tsar banished the surviving Decembrists of 1825.  Lenin was also supposed to go there but was able to use his influence to get reassigned to Sushenskoye in Khakasia.

Beautiful Khakasia 2

Here are some landscape pictures of Khakasia which Tanya and I took back in early June of 2006.  It has everything - mountains, foothills, rugged hills and rocky outcroppings and flat land between the hills.  No great sweeps of flat land like the prairies, though. 

Horse bands likely belonging to native Khakasians

Herefords of Canadian breeding grazing early pasture

Cropping is 50:50 summerfallow to conserve moisture

with all the salinity problems to go with it

Flat plains always end at a ridge of hills, they don't go on forever

Small fields among trees and grass

Good grazing and rugged hills

Light soil, lots of sandy areas

Village outside Turim

Turim was a "company town" beside a huge copper mine.  When the mine gave out, so did the city.  It is pretty much deserted now.  You could buy a 5 floor block of flats for a dollar, I expect.

What if Edgar Allan Poe had used a computer? ...

Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary,
System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
Longing for the warmth of bedsheets, Still I sat there, doing spreadsheets:
Having reached the bottom line, I took a floppy from the drawer.
Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command
and waited for the disk to store, only this and nothing more.

Deep into the monitor peering, long I sat there wond'ring, fearing,
Doubting, while the disk kept churning, turning yet to churn some more.
"Save!" I said, "You cursed mother! Save my data from before!"
One thing did the phosphors answer, only this and nothing more,
Just, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

Was this some occult illusion? Some maniacal intrusion?
These were choices undesired, ones I'd never faced before.
Carefully, I weighed the choices as the disk made monstrous noises.
The cursor flashed, insistent, waiting, baiting me to type some more.
Clearly I must press a key, choosing one and nothing more,
From " Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

With my fingers pale and trembling, Slowly toward the keyboard bending,
Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored,
Praying for some guarantee Timidly I pressed a key.
But on the screen there still persisted, words appearing as before.
Ghastly grim they blinked and taunted, haunted, as my patience wore,
Saying, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

I tried to catch the chips off-guard - I pressed again, but twice as hard.
I pleaded with the cursed machine: I begged and cried and then I swore.
then I tried in desperation, sev'ral random combinations,
Still there came the incantation, just as senseless as before.
Cursor blinking, mocking, winking, flashing nonsense as before.
Reading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

There I sat, distraught, exhausted; by my own machine accosted
Getting up I turned away and paced across the office floor.
And then I saw dreadful sight: a lightning bolt cut through the night.
A gasp of horror overtook me, shook me to my very core.
The lightning zapped my previous data, lost and gone forevermore.
Not even, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

To this day I do not know The place to which lost data go.
What demonic nether world is wrought where data will be stored,
Beyond the reach of mortal souls, beyond the ether, in black holes?
But sure as there's C, Pascal, Lotus, Ashton-Tate and more,
You will one day be left to wander, lost on some Plutonian shore,
Pleading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

One day you’ll be left to wonder, data trying to restore,
“Will I see it nevermore?”

Author unknown.  I found this link and the version was better than the one I had, but I kept the last two lines from mine, as well.

Cranberry Stuffed Chicken Breast

Tanya watches cooking shows and this one yesterday caught her attention as simple and easy so nothing but she would try it today.  The measurements are not exact. Spoons should be taken as gobs more than leveled amounts.

Three large boneless skinless chicken breasts, sliced in almost half for stuffing and slightly pounded, she says.  Stuffing is three spoons of whole cranberries slightly crushed, two spoons of honey and a shot of cognac.  Roll them up, pin them together with toothpicks and coat in bread crumbs.  Brown them in a hot frying pan for a couple minutes a side and throw in the oven at 180C (350F) for 20 minutes.

The sauce is 1 cup crushed cranberries, four spoons of honey, two shots of cognac and a cup of water.  Boil for a minute or three, then add a spoon of starch to thicken, bring to a boil and remove from heat.  Pour the sauce over the chicken at serving.

It tasted delicious, nice and tart.

Of course, since she was cooking the main course, she wanted me to make dessert.  She loves fruit crisp pudding.  Well, mostly the crisp, which she calls casha or porridge.  So I made 1.5 times the fruit and double the topping.  She will eat the topping and some fruit and syrup.

Fall Flowers

The hot weather has cooled off and we have had some rain.  Tanya's flowers are struggling back.  Even her roses are blooming again.

Barking Up the Wrong Tree

I've heard the expression all my life, know what it means and where it came from but had never actually seen it until today.  Tanya let the dogs out for a run.  They headed to the marsh for some hunting and flushed a big yellow tomcat, likely a distant relative of Kuchma.  The cat made a run for it across Lucia's garden patch and up one of our three big walnut trees.  The dogs were very excited and pleased with themselves, jumping and barking around the tree.  Then we noticed Volk jumping and barking at the tree beside it.  No cat up that tree.  We looked.  Seems he had forgotten up which tree he chased the cat.  Dumb as a hammer, that boy.