If you were my family, or should I say my husband's family, you would be invited to a big family reunion this weekend. Ernie is from a huge family. His teeny, tiny, less than five foot tall mom gave birth to nine boys. Yes, you heard me right! Nine boys. No girls. Nine boys. They lived in northern Minnesota, out on a little farm, in a little house where she baked bread eight loaves at a time, which didn't last long I'm sure! Where they had no electricity until the 1950's. And where the boys would do things like tear down machine sheds for fun. But that's another story.
Many years ago, Ernie's dad and his brothers and sisters started getting together in the fall. Then Ernie and his brothers and their cousins generation starting attending, too. Now the oldest generation is just about gone, but the next two generations are attending. Each fall at the reunion, the spot and host are chosen for the next year. This year the destination is only a few miles southwest of where we live, out on Ernie's brother's small farm. His daughter is the hostess this year. Tammy is from the next generation, the same age as my oldest daughter, Kari. Tammy has been planning and scheming and working and cooking and busting her butt to plan a great time. I volunteered to bring cowboy beans.
So yesterday I hit HyVee and wiped them clean of beans. Lots of beans. Different kinds of beans. I'm now ready to open all these cans, fry up three pounds of bacon and three pounds of hamburger, cut up 3 onions and saute them, and mix it all together with catsup, vinegar, mustard, and brown sugar and dump it into a couple of crock pots to cook for the afternoon.
I'm wearing Capri's and a T-shirt. You'll thank me for that.