I'm standing in the kitchen, throttling a mason jar filled with cream. For the first 30 seconds, it's easy. But after five minutes of shaking, I'm out of breath and exhausted.
I look down at my daughter, who asks, "Is it ready?" I wheeze, "Not. Yet."
At this, Emmeline mopes out of the room, and I want to call after her, "Some prairie girl you are."
We've been making our way through the "Little House on the Prairie" series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. The sparse, elegant prose and the magical tales of homesteading in wild America have cast a spell over us both. We got so into the series that we started making crafts straight from the books: jonnycakes for dinner, maple sugar for dessert. We made our own butter by shaking cream until my arms fell off.
Emmeline's eyes grew wide one day. "Hey I know!" she said, "Let's go shoot a bear!"