beautiful photo by Bob, up by Kite Lake

My favorite part of having a dairy cow is what some folks say is the worst. The daily ball and chain. The day in, day out, heading down the hill to bring her in, wash her up, and sit beside her as you lean over to milk, warming your hands even on the coldest of mornings.

Swish-swish-swish-swish…

The rhythm of our day. A metronome pulsing in the background, mindlessly pacing us to keep up, keep on.

Something I could count on. Like the sunrise. Or the ticking of the clock.

For my child, chores have provided unspoken lessons of caring, of self discipline and responsibility, of humility. I don’t need to remind Forrest that the chickens are waiting to be let out in the morning or closed up at night. He has left the coop unlocked and knows the guilt and sadness of the resulting loss resulting from any one of the assorted predators that call the mountain home. He has let them free range on a day that was too quiet to keep off the coyote.

Remorse from his losses, affections from his nurturing, and pride as he comes in at night with pockets full of eggs, has taught him many of life’s most important lessons. Lessons learned better from his actions than from my words.

Like learning to take the eggs out of your pockets before you sit down.

yesterday... a frozen waterfall

Our second year on this mountain I kept a pig and goat. The goat was an unintentional pet. I have never minded butchering animals I have named, but I could not butcher the goat that went on walks (off leash and right in line) with me and my dogs. There I’d be, walking down the dirt road behind the ranch at the end of summer with three dogs and a goat behind me. Funniest thing was, no one noticed. No one ever stopped and said, “Is that a goat?” or something such as that. Nope. People really don’t know how to see clearly when they are so far out of their element, which folks often are up here. The pig, however, did not come for walks. He was for meat. I learned that the same effect altitude has on us (burning calories faster than one can consume, or so it seems), it has on pigs. This pig could not fatten up. He was at best, a lean porker.

All summer we tried to fatten him. We’d have the tourists in the cabins feed their food scraps to him. Thought that was a much better bet than leaving scraps in our trash area… which we were sure would attract a bear.

However, that is exactly what the pig did. Attract a bear. Mind you, it was a little bear and he was really not interested in eating the pig so much as eating the pig’s slop. But our intention here was to fatten a pig, not a bear, so his presence, although cute and hardly menacing, was counterproductive.

And it was no wild bear. It was tagged. The tell tale sign that this guy had already been picked up somewhere else for one can only assume a similar crime. Here in Colorado, bears get a second chance. Probably even a third. It’s part of our tourist revenue. They are cute. The tourists love them. In Colorado, the pioneer, homesteader, or family trying to live off their land and make a simple living hold less value than tourist attractions. Here, I have learned, the bear comes first. I was told (I kid you not) that if such a problem continues, I might have to get rid of my pig. On my ranch. Well, I would have liked to take on that battle, wouldn’t that be fun, and fight it I would have, as you can imagine. But the problem did not continue. The bear was removed, my pig still did not get fat, and we ended the season with very lean pork. And that goat followed me and my dogs on walks all winter. We finally gave him away in the spring to go harass some other unsuspecting family. (And you thought the bear was a problem?)

I still love my bears. Just not tagged ones that are dropped off near my pig pen. I leave you alone; you leave me alone. Which reminds me of another story about another bear… But I’ll save that for another day.

Forrest, at home working in the high country

Becoming lost is the luxury of relying on others.  One can only be lost if we are secretly counting on the option of someone else to rescue us. Some of us just temporarily lose our way.  And then find it, and make it home on our own.

Or maybe I’m just lucky.

The summer I arrived on this mountain, I was expected to know my way around a mountain I did not know, had never been on, and had no one to show me except where my horse and own desire would take me.

I suppose Bob was burned out on the trail ride thing by then. That’s what I was there for.

On one of the first days, just before noon when the sun had warmed the early May mountain sufficiently, Bob chose three ponies, saddled up, and showed Forrest and me a back route through trees and meadows about five miles long, twisting here and there through only a semblance of game trails, the rest an invisible line into the big unknown, our big back yard.  He called it a trail.  It was not.

Once. That’s how many times he showed me the route. After that I was on my own and expected to lead a string of dudes through a secret for which I only knew a few hints. He told me the horse would remember, and for the most part, he did.  I tested his skills plenty.  The first time was on that back “trail” a few weeks later. Through one open meadow where the trail faded to nothing, I chose not to listen to the horse but veered in a direction I thought looked right. The right way, however, was to the other right.

From the back of the trail line, where Forrest’s “job” was riding drag, which usually consisted of checking out saddles slipping and riders losing balance and dropping wallets, ball caps and sunglasses (what ARE you doing with your wallet out here anyway?), I heard his soft low voice say, “I think it’s the other way.”  Of course he was right. My horse confirmed.

Otherwise, Forrest didn’t speak much back there. For years.  He’d ride the trails, drag, sometimes covered in dust that the line of horses before him had kicked up, just sitting back there on his old mare looking around and munching away. He always seemed to be eating back there when I’d turn around to look.  Peanut M&Ms. And still he was the skinniest little fellow you ever did see. Some days he’d smile when we’d finally arrive back at the ranch, and his teeth were brown from trail dust.

Whatever the weather, the challenge of the trail, the challenge of the people he’d been watching in line before him. There he’d be, silent and cool beneath his hat, hunkered down and enduring the elements.  The cowboy way.  Keep your mouth shut and don’t whine.  No matter what.

And I tested this. I tested him.  Not intentionally, of course, but that’s how it ended up. 

Take the first time I took him on a pack trip.  He was seven. I was guiding a group of teen girls.  He was extra baggage that I would not, could not leave home without, but had trouble figuring out how to bring along.  So he rode along, a long and tiring day for anyone, let alone a little kid that wasn’t really allowed to say much because he knew his mama was too busy taking care of the other kids to pay much mind to him.

Take the time Bob had me guide a family adventure all day horse ride up and across the Divide on a trail I had not even been close to.  Bob asked me if I thought I could do it.  What was I going to say?  No?  I don’t think so.

But I’ll tell you what.  It’s big up there.  Big and wide and open and scary, if you let yourself get scared, which of course I could not do because I had guests I had to convince that I was not scared.  And that I knew my way.  I would get them through this, safe and sound, even in the hail. Yes, a hail storm hit us as we cleared tree line. As I recall, that was late July.

And as we were riding back down this side of the mountain, still in a place I had never been with a group of tourists sitting cold and miserable on their horses between me and my son, I saw him back there, slicker pulled up tight over his neck, eyes hidden behind the rim of his well worn cowboy hat.  He could have been crying for all I knew.  But I knew he wasn’t.  He was a tough little fellow.  He had a job to do, and wasn’t going to whine about a little hail in the high country.

Forrest was eight or nine.  Our route that day was mapped out on a napkin by Bob.  I still have that napkin.  A keepsake of sorts. One more thing I survived.  One more time I could have been lost but found my own way.  No thanks to that napkin.

first egg of the season

The $50 egg. Makes for an expensive breakfast.

Perhaps an exaggeration. Perhaps the first three will only pencil out to a total of $75. The cost of keeping the chickens through their third winter. They have not laid an egg since sometime in October, I suppose. They aren’t young hens any more. But they sure are hearty. A quality which also keeps them out of the stew pot.

It’s more than an egg. Think of all this simple object represents.

Life. The potential of new life. A chick in the making? Doubtful. Our rooster is not what you might call “efficient.” Our eggs are rarely fertile.

A homegrown breakfast with fresh bread. Now we’re talking.

And something more. Bigger. Stronger. The suggestion of spring. The reminder that already our days are longer. The light stronger. The shadows a little shorter.

Our world is white. And so it shall remain well into April. Within the next three months, the valley below us will be planting, Texas will be blooming, the coasts will be watching the greens come through their loamy soil. And eventually, we’ll finally be watching the snow recede. We’ll watch the snow gage reading up and down as the growing intensity of the sun plays with the burden and blessing of the heavy spring snow storms.

On one hand, spring is not close. We have months yet of winter in the high country. Of snow, of sub zero temperatures. Of snowshoes and snowmobiles and shoveling and bright white meadows and foothills.

On the other hand, it approaches. So soft and subtle and slow it comes. We see it only if we look. Of course I do. And am rewarded with new found warmth of the lingering sun. I have been through this before. I know what to look for. I look, and find. A simple reward of a swelling Aspen bud or patch of newly exposed soil on a south facing slope.

As simple as an egg. Simple pleasures. Subtle reminders.

Nothing stays the same.

willow buds in winter

This year there is little ice.  The snow seems to spread directly on the river and creeks.  I question its ability to hold even me each time I cross but see the moose tracks before me and find comfort and wavering confidence.

This winter has an easier mood. A few days colder than any others just to keep the averages in line.  Otherwise, a little less snow, a little less wind, a little less chill.  Mild. Comfortable. Comforting.  My home feels like a content place.

Easier.  Winter is not half over here. We have much work to be done.  Our lives our bustling with the well anticipated and needed change.  Electricity in the air, charging us and our lives with excitement.  The exhilaration of change, now put into action.  We can enjoy our memories, but need not grasp for what is no longer there.  I do not cling to what I no longer am. Where and who and what am I now?

Now. A perfect moon low in the sky, its cool silver light reflecting off the white ground, reflecting off the heavy clouds, the echo of this watery light.  Each molecule of air seems to embrace the radiance. Our world glows.

Now the clouds are swathed in a silver and gold luminosity and the moon slowly settles behind the mountain.

In a matter of moments, I will notice each time I look up a little more clarity in the sky, a little less magic.  Day prepares to rise.

How many mornings have I seen the moon slip behind the mountain from the warmth of my home while in the dark crystalline world outside my window temperatures are so far below zero, far below anything elsewhere I have lived through?  So close, so thin are these walls and windows, so often I step out into it all.  My home is not a bunker in which I remain hiding, but a haven I return to, rest in, allow to be a part of the wintery world while smoke rolls from the stove pipe, down the valley, dissipating into nothingness.

How much wood have we burned to allow us the warmth to remain here?

How unnatural at times it seems when I remember the fresh green of garlic poking through rich black moist soil in perfect lines and patterns of deliberate life, and tilling beds in preparation for carefree sprinkling of carrot seeds, a simple random toss that produced sweetest rewards. These were other times, other mountains.

on the Rio Grande at Brewster Park

Down by the river I flow while the water stands solid beneath me. Here, we are supported. Still we stand on the white expanse and listen.  A murmur of life below. Is that Thalia I hear beneath the surface, tempting me to join her?

It has been years since I had a dog who can keep up with me. I am enjoying the more distant explores this year. But have I ever had one who can sit and listen, enjoy the moment and ask for nothing for now, only to soak it all in as this one does? What a wonderful companion I have.

I think of how many come here to fish in summer, standing in free flowing waters with their waiters and hip boots, tossing lines to dance on the water’s facade.  And how little “use” one has here for winter.  Peace and solitude hold only so much value.  We tend to choose more excitement, brighter lights, and louder noises.  (Perchance warmer places, too.) Stimulation provided for us, not created by mind and nature. Our senses left dormant where here they can breathe.

The banks and adjacent hillsides are littered with droppings and tracks of the moose that were scattered here yesterday, high tailing it for the trees, as a low flying helicopter broke the peace, hovering over the frozen river, scanning the hillsides, back and forth. From our kitchen window we watched a bull moose run through the deep snow on the north side and seek shelter in the trees, only to be chased back out again twenty minutes later as the helicopter changed its course.

We call it wildlife harassment.  I believe they call it “counting elk.”  Funny they wouldn’t think of the simpler method – asking those of us who live where the elk do for answers. Perhaps our answers are considered too simple.  I have found local views hold less value than facts and figures filed behind a big desk.  Living with the wild life, one sees and understands more than many a report will tell you.  But learning to look… I’ve been thinking of that often lately.  Our inability to see.  We see what we expect to be there. We find more comfort in the safety of seeing what we expect to see, not what is really there. It is a blindness we all must battle.  Seeing is not always easy.

Ah, but who am I to say?  I don’t see the elaborate reports.  I don’t look. A blindness for which I am at fault.  I only see the magnificence around me, and look at the finest of details.  I hope to miss nothing.  It all holds value.

We return home among longer shadows along the packed snowmobile track, the half moon rising in the ridiculously blue sky over the tops of the trees peppering the hillside.

Have you ever heard the shivering aspen with their intricate silver tips trembling naked in the frigid winter wind?

sundown at pole creek, photo by Bob

Darkness of the early morning

Stillness as the rest of my small world remains asleep

Contented breathing and the whisper of the wood stove

A space and place for my mind to wander

It takes off and I dash to keep up

Wild horses running on the plains of my imagination

Behind them dust settles

Silence returns

And words pour onto paper

Light slowly comes to the sky as I lift my focus from the screen of the computer.  A pale silvery grey showing me no further than the mountains that contain and protect me.

What about the world beyond?  Somehow it no longer seems right to be stuck in a land where others cling to no more than memories and find that to be enough, yet my mind searches elsewhere for true meaning. Deeper waters beyond the shallow pool.

You will find it within, I have been told.  Limitless, bottomless; I fear I may drown.  Choppy waters that long for relief. We seek walls to contain us, boundaries to define us.

I find purpose in the connection between hands and land.

What more will bring us to the place where we belong?  It can be anywhere.  I can be here. Today.  Tomorrow perhaps somewhere new.

What lasting connection can there be without labor?  Shall we stake a claim and say we deserve and expect to be given and think it shall last?  Or do we build and toil and create, and grow with our creations?

the Rio Grande at the Ute Creek trailhead

Ultimately, I suppose it is the people who define a place more so than the elements we endure or the view we look at. It is because of our choices and circumstances that we are there. The land is not there for us; it is only what we make of it, or something we put up with.  And it will forget us when we are gone, if we are vain enough to think it cares that we are there. We hold onto the land, but the land does not hold us. Only in our heart, as so many like to say.

There is great consolation found in following one’s own tracks home at night after a day in town.  No other vehicles had been on the road.  Only the foot tracks of wild beasts marked the snow.  One wonders how far from wild we have become riding in the warm cab of the pick-up, the three of us and the dog spread out between, huddled as if in the closed comfort of a den. Music playing softly and the deep sea glow of the dashboard softly enlightening the contented faces of my husband and son. In there, then, for just that moment, there was no place I would rather be.

Mind you, the heater broke on the way down, right after the automatic window stopped working which was right after opening it three inches or so.  I was certain I would not be warm until deep under the blankets, spooned in bed beside my hubby. I was certain driving home would be a somewhat painful experience.  The temperatures would be in the teens.  I was dressed up, not in down and wool and thick warm layers as I usually do at home.  I even had my hair brushed back neatly, and the wind from that open window wasn’t doing me any wonders on one of the few times all year I was trying to look groomed.

Alas, at the end of the day as we piled back into the truck to head home in the dark, the heat worked, the window closed, and I was glad to be warm.

I remember as a child riding in the front of the station wagon between my parents, my head on my mother’s lap, looking up at my father as the same blue glow illuminated his face focused straight ahead into the darkness he was driving through, and soft words shared between my mother and him while my brothers and sister and family dog all slept in the back and backity-back of that wood paneled sedan.

Then as now I remember no comfort greater than that close and quiet peace of driving home at night through the winter woods with loved ones beside me.  Isn’t that odd?

looking up at Pole Mountain

The holiday rush begins.

Not quite here.  There are no stores, no restaurants, no coffee shops, no flashing lights luring you in to buy, buy, buy; no Santas on the corner ringing bells reminding you to share your wealth. There are no corners for that matter.  Here is a world of soft, curved unrefined lines. Nature, not neighbors, to compare with. No treats or temptations except for those we create with what we have. And as I see so often, we have so much.  Often, it seems, too much.  Will we ever learn to let go, curb our desire to feel we need more?

Bob brings home the mail from his weekly trip to town, stacks of shiny catalogues filled with suggestions to spend, spend, spend. We flip through to see if there is anything we can’t live without.  Nothing.  And into the fire they go.

The big forecasted storm once again turns into not much at all, just enough to freshen the mountain with a clean sheet of snow. Despite a road rough and unplowed, with a little help from chains or studded tires, a crew of 13 gathers in the early winter snow for this holiday.  It looks more like Christmas than Thanksgiving with the ski poles and down jackets, Elmer Fudd hats and heavy snow covered boots lined up at the door when we gather at the big cabin for meals. 

Yes, we do the traditional feast regardless of how untraditional I feel. Sister brings the turkey, brother the potatoes, brother’s wife the desserts, Mom the veggie sides.  I bake the rolls with the little nieces.  Traditional dinner rolls end up in shapes like cowboy boots, hearts, braids and dog biscuits.

Traditions. There are a few traditions the three of us keep.  Very few.  But somehow they seem important.  Perhaps they are a semblance of order in an otherwise chaotic world.  Knowing what you’ll have for dinner just a few nights out of the year somehow brings us security.  We grasp for order to stabilize the uncertainty. Traditions provide.

What would really happen if we let go, if we walked away from all tradition and started each day fresh and new without ties, obligations, and assumptions?  Would we feel lost or free?  Would the world open up, or in that lack of order and recognition would we find nothing but bedlam and never soothe our soul with the comfort of family, friends, and yes, even food?

We make elaborate designs for the day yet the children and dogs remind us – laughter, pleasure, and play – these are easy to come by. No plot or preparation needed.  Just wake up and start the day. Forgot the fancy feasts and the best laid plans, and just begin building the snow fort or sledding down the hill.  How sweet these simple pleasures!

And so we spend our Thanksgiving together, with so many here in our otherwise quiet wintery world. Perhaps it is not much more than a shallow tradition seeped in abundance. But I ask myself if I would want to do without, and I’d rather keep this one – if only that it means family, friends and a regularity and date on which to base the rest of the year.

The thermometer reached 18 below zero.  Another storm cleared out. The sky ends up mid day a ridiculous shade of blue that matches one of the little girl’s jackets – store bought and brand new, you would say most unnatural.  But this is real.  Blinding. We strap on our snowshoes while the turkey is in the oven and escape and for a few moments only perhaps, each of us are a part of the mountain, together.

Bobbie Biscuits

Last week, our friend Bobbie passed on her recipe for successful fluffy, flaky, high rise biscuits.  We tried them right away (a great accompaniment to fried chicken) and had really good results.  They doubled in height when baking, had a lovely soft texture, and a nice, mild flavor.  High and mighty!  The odd ingredient here is the cream of tartar, which I have never used in making biscuits before.  Did not affect the taste in any negative way, but something sure worked well for getting these to rise.  (Val & Beka – if you give this recipe a try up here this summer, let me know how they work for you.)

I hope you try and enjoy.

Have a good weekend, friends.  Sure is nice having computers change the clocks for us automatically.  And yes, sure enough, it’s snowing here again…

Bobbie Biscuits

In a large bowl, combine:

            2 cups white flour

            1 cup whole wheat flour

            4 ½ teaspoons baking powder

            2 tablespoons sugar

            ½ teaspoon salt

            ¾ teaspoon cream of tartar

Cut in:

            ¾ cup butter or margarine

Then fold in:

            1 egg, beaten

            1 cup milk

Stir together gently until just combined, keeping mixing to a minimum.  With lots of flour on your hands and on the counter, knead together very lightly, and then pat down to a thickness of 1 inch.  Cut biscuits (I use the rim of a pint canning jar) and place on doubled baking sheet.  Bake at 450 degrees for 12 – 14 minutes.

I hope you try and enjoy.

Heavenly Fish

Start by mixing up the sauce in a small bowl:

            2 tablespoons lemon juice

            ½ cup parmesan cheese

            ¼ cup melted butter

            3 tablespoons mayo

            3 tablespoons chopped green onion

            Fresh ground pepper

Then cook the fish. Place fish fillets in a buttered baking dish, about 9 x 12”.

Squeeze the juice of one lemon over fish.

Broil 4-6 minutes or until no longer transparent.

Remove from heat.

Spread sauce mixture over fish.

Broil 2-3 minutes or until golden brown.

Heart shaped biscuits and steaming sausage gravy

A good, hearty Sunday morning breakfast, and one of the boys’ favorites. 

I’ve been on a mission to find the best recipe for homemade biscuits.  With all this flour, I refuse to resort to buying those that come in a can, though they are cheap and easy. 

In my quest for the perfect biscuit, I am up against a few added challenges due to the altitude and my preference for making breakfast on the old wood cook stove. After many attempts, none with the results I desired (though the boys have been enjoying my various and frequent tries), I turned to a fellow “high altitude” back country baker for her favorite biscuit recipe.  The results were the best yet.  The boys found them especially tasty.  So, following is a “guest post” recipe for biscuits, thanks to Valerie, followed by my old faithful simple recipe for sausage gravy.  I hope you try and enjoy.

Biscuits and gravy with Val's biscuit recipe

Valerie’s Biscuits

In a large bowl, combine:

          2 cups flour

          4 teaspoons baking powder

          1 teaspoon salt

          2 tablespoons sugar

Cut in:

          1/2  cup Crisco

Add:

         1 large egg

         2/3 cups milk

Mix together just until blended. Do not over mix. On a heavily floured surface with well floured hands, pat out dough to about ½ – ¾ of an inch thickness.  Cut with the rim of a small canning jar (or heart shaped cookie cutter if you’re feeling so inclined), and place on a baking sheet fairly close together. Bake in a good, hot oven (if using a gas or electric oven with proper gages, preheat to 425 degrees) for 15-20 minutes.

(thank you, Val!)

yes, I'm a sucker...

Breakfast Sausage Gravy

This is good on fried eggs, hash browns, and even toast.

In a medium iron skillet, melt:

            1 tablespoon butter

Add, and cook until brown:

            1 pound bulk breakfast sausage (you can use crumbled bacon, or diced ham with good results as well)

Stir in:

          3 tablespoons flour

Slowly add, while stirring over medium/high heat:

            2 ½ cups milk

            1 chicken bouillon cube

Stir until boiling and thickened, then sprinkle liberally with:

            Fresh ground pepper

I know this photo is completely unrelated to the recipe, but we ate all the brownies before I thought to take a picture... so I thought I'd share this cutie with you instead.

Guest recipe post today!  And really from a guest. That is, a guest visiting up here at the ranch just last week.  Karen brought a plate of these brownies with her and kindly shared them with us.  Sorry, no picture, as we consumed them all quite rapidly.  But I requested the recipe so we (OK, I!) could make more.  Here’s Karen’s recipe. These are good.  I hope you try and enjoy.  I know I will.

Karen’s White Brownies

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/3 Cup butter
3/4 Cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 large egg
3 bars (6 oz) Nestle Toll House Premier White Baking Bars, chopped (Karen used white chocolate morsels, and I’d probably do the same – they were perfect)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Grease 9-inch square baking pan.

Combine flour, baking powder and salt in small bowl.   Beat butter, sugar and vanilla in small bowl until creamy.  Beat in egg.  Gradually beat in flour mixture.  Stir in baking bars.  Press into prepared pan.

Bake for 18-22 minutes or until golden brown.  Cool in pan on wire rack.

Chocolate Truffles under the bouquet

Uh oh.  Did you forget today was Valentine’s Day?  Forget to get or do something special for your sweetheart? 

Better get baking.

Here are two recipes that can save the day.  Chocolates.  Real quick and simple. 

Say, did anyone notice the bouquet?  No, that’s not a new one from today; it’s an old picture from December (see the post entitled Bouquet for more on that story).  However, as for gifts this Valentine’s Day, stay tuned for the next post…

In the meanwhile, happy Valentine’s Day to you all, and I hope you’ll try and enjoy these recipes.

Dark Chocolate Truffles

In a double boiler, combine:

            2 cups semi sweet or dark chocolate chips

            6 tablespoons butter

            1/3 cup heavy whipping cream

Cook over medium heat, stirring regularly, until all ingredients are melted together and smooth.

Remove from heat and stir in:

            1 teaspoon vanilla

Let cool until it begins to harden up.  This can take a few hours, even in the fridge.  But don’t let it harden completely…

Now you’ll want to form the “dough” into balls, each under an inch in diameter, by rolling in between your palms.  Drop each ball into a pan with about 2/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, roll the balls around until complete coated.

Fudge

Fudge

In a heavy pot over medium heat, combine:

            1 ½ cups sugar

            2/3 cup evaporated milk

            2 tablespoons butter

            ¼ teaspoon salt

Bring this mixture to a boil, stirring constantly, and keep at a full rolling boil for four minutes, continuing to stir constantly.

Then add:

            2 cups marshmallows (full sized marshmallows are difficult to measure so I press them down firmly in the measuring cup to make sure I have a good two cups)

Continue stirring over medium heat, and cook for another two minutes or until the marshmallows are mostly melted into the milk/sugar mixture.

Remove from heat and stir in:

            1 ½ cup chocolate chips

            1 teaspoon vanilla flavoring

Stir until smooth and completely combined, then pour into a small baking pan, 8” x 8” which has been lined with aluminum foil.  Smooth out and allow to cool completely, then cut into 1” squares.